I blink in disbelief. “You want me to be your fake fiancée?”
This gorgeous, powerful man wants me to pretend to be engaged to him, and in return I get to give him a blow job? Has he lost his mind? I should be paying him for both.
“There’s a meeting I want you to attend with me. You’ll need another dress, like this one.”
“Kidnapping is an expensive occupation.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my joke. “And shoes, a necklace, wear my ring.”
“Really expensive.” Is it my imagination or was there possessiveness of that last statement?
Wear his ring. My tummy squirms. I get to pretend to be his wife-to-be, fake that he chose me to spend his life with, that he loves me instead of my being a girl he felt duty bound to save when she got caught up with mafia business.
And I get to see him come. Feel him in my mouth. My lips tingle at the thought.
I wish this were real.
It isn’t about writing a great sex scene for my book, if it ever was. It’s not just fiction on my side. It’s…
My heart stops.
“Hey, it won’t be that bad.” Artem’s expression is instantly worried. “One night, kisa.”
That’s the problem. Emotion clogs my throat as the realisation washes over me. We’ve talked every morning for a year, and I was already a bit obsessed. Now I know him better…
This is a disaster.
I’m in love with this man.
I want forever. I’m helplessly in his thrall as I nod, forcing myself to swallow down the tears that threaten. I’ve had an evening of his undivided attention, and it’s as good—maybe better—than my wildest dreams. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, being with Artem.
“I’ll do it.”
He brightens, his grey eyes lighting up and a joyful smile spreading across his face. “I’ll get you a ring. All the rest, you order tomorrow.”
I nod. Maybe, just maybe, if I can be the best fake fiancée ever… I’m kidding myself, of course I am. But it’s such a good fiction. Better than any fantasy romance I’ve ever read. Far better than anything I’ve written.
“Come on then, let’s get to your lesson.”
“Yes, sir.”
He wraps his arm around my waist, and we fall into pace as he guides me back through the garden to the house. I’m almost disappointed to be going inside. It’s such a beautiful evening, and there’s an enchantment out here that I love. Like reality doesn’t exist. He’s not a mafia boss, I’m not a normal girl, we’re not captive and captor. We’ve been just: us.
But where I expect him to head for the door, once on the terrace he turns towards the pergola I had put up, with its white linen drapes.
“I thought…?”
He chuckles darkly. “You thought I was going to hide you away in my lair? No, you’re far too beautiful for that. I want the stars to see you and weep at your perfection.”
He thinks I’m beautiful? Or, no. That’s all pretend, right? If he’s giving me the full fake fiancée treatment, including a seduction leading to me swallowing his cock, telling me I’m attractive is part of the act?
My heart doesn’t know that. It sends out happy vibes along with blood, pumping around every channel inside me. He thinks I’m beautiful.
“Then why not in the garden?” I like the idea of falling to my knees on the grass, staining my dress. Maybe a stone would dig into my skin, make me bleed. The little pain and the scar would be something tangible to hold onto. Proof that this happened when I’m far away, living some drab safe life without him. A way of retaining the memory forever.
“Nope,” he replies implacably, towing me with him. As we pass the drapes, he snags the tie and the curtain falls across, screening most of the seating area.
He sprawls in the largest of the comfy outdoor sofa-type chairs I bought for this evening. “Because we’re going to be comfortable for this. I won’t hurry your lesson.”
Arms resting on the back, his spread legs make no secret of his erection. He’s a dark king, hair tousled, eyes glittering. Seeing him so powerful, dangerous, and calm makes my clit desperate to be touched. It’s just like when he walked in on me on his bed.
“What if someone sees from the house?” I glance towards the windows. Most of them are covered by the drapes he released, or are dark.
“Would you like someone to see you being a good girl for me?”
My heart leaps, and I… Maybe. Would I feel embarrassed, or proud?
Both. And turned on, I think.
“You better hope they don’t,” he continues in a gravelly tone, “because although you were made to be shown off, anyone else who sees your pussy won’t see the next sunrise.”
That warning shivers through me.
“Tell me what to do.” If it sounds like begging, then yeah. It probably is. Please, please let me get this right. Please let me be so good at this he’ll…
“I will.” He crooks his finger and saves me from completing that thought. “And you’ll obey.”
It’s instinctive to take a step forward. He’s taking control and there’s this look on his face saying if I don’t, someone is going to be punished.
My mouth waters. “Yes, sir.”
“Mmm.” He purrs with satisfaction at my calling him that and our eyes meet. “Get a cushion.”
“What?” I don’t move. That’s not what I was thinking. I want a little discomfort. Perhaps his cock in my throat making me gag.
“Get. A. Cushion.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “I just want to be taught—”
“Now, or you’ll be getting my palm on your backside, not my cock in your mouth,” he snarls.
I scramble to comply because although that threat thrills me, and the way he’s so strong and dangerous is part of what makes him compelling, I do actually want to give him a blow job.
I’m desperate. When I’ve fetched a cushion from another of the chairs, I stand before him. The ferocious, dark look on his handsome face makes me squeeze my thighs together. How did I get so lucky to have him watching me like that, his gaze like the midday summer sun. Almost too hot.
“What should I do now, sir?”
He spreads his legs and eases lower in his seat with a cocky gesture that shouldn’t be attractive, yet is. On him, it really is.
“There, kisa.” He points between his feet. “Kneel there and suck your fiancé’s cock.”
I hold in my whimper as I get to my knees. My fiancé. I know we’re pretending, I heard what Artem said. But some screwed-up part of my brain thinks that if I can give him an orgasm as good as the one he gave me, maybe he’ll fall in love too?
My breath shudders out as I lean into him, my hands on his strong lower thighs. The muscles are taut, like he’s holding himself back.
“Belt first.”
My hands tremble as I reach out. It’s fine leather, black, warm and supple as I tug it out. He doesn’t help, idly trailing his fingers down my arm.
“That’s it. Go on,” he murmurs as I slide the leather apart.
I move onto his flies, my fingers brushing down his erection. My heart hammers. The sound of the zip is loud as the gun from days ago. Then his boxers, they’re soft black fabric, and slide over his skin. And I gasp, I really do, as his cock is revealed.
It’s huge. Long and thick and even as part of my brain is insisting I’d never get all that to fit anywhere in me—my mouth, my pussy, I don’t think I could even grip it properly—anticipation flows through me.
And probably it’s the wrong thing, but I’ve lost my mind. I need the hot proof of his desire blocking out everything else. I lean over him and rub my face onto him, cat-like. His length is hot and silky smooth. I know the hint is in the phrase “hard on”, but I can’t believe how like stone he is. Sun-warmed, velvet stone. His erection smells deliciously musky. Sandalwood and sweat and pure masculinity. His groan rumbles into me and my pussy is flooded. I’m so wet it’s seeping out and dripping down my thigh.
“Oh kisa.” His hands shift to the back of my head, combing his fingers into my hair, smoothing it from where it was obscuring my face.
Then he tightens his hand, tugging. I whimper. The pressure is just right, like those times that I’ve pulled my own hair to experience it because I was convinced no one would ever do it for me. Except this is better.
“You look so pretty. Your hair is lovely, but I want to see you take my dick.”
Eagerly, I part my lips and kiss the heated length of him.
“You wanted to be told what to do?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Use your mouth. Your tongue.”
I begin to lap. Open-mouthed licks that make him slick. Then kisses, working my way up to the curved top, beaded with moisture. It’s salty and I love it because I think—yeah I’ve read smutty books—that it means he wants me. He’s hot and reassuringly solid in my mouth as I slip my lips over the head of his cock and test how far into my mouth I can get him.
“Cover your teeth with your lips,” he says in a low purr. “Let me see them stretched like your little pussy would be.”
I do as he directs, and push more firmly onto the back of my throat.
“That’s right. Beautiful.”
The praise lights me up as much as the feeling of his smooth length. I wrap my fingers around the substantial base of his cock, stroking up his shaft as I try to get him deeper.
And again.
Again. This time I gag, but I don’t stop. I repeat, altering the angle.
He groans and oh god that sound is so hot I’m ash. I’m a shell of a girl as I keep working, greedily trying to get more of him. Like I’d consume him if I could.
The power in this is heady. My teeth are right there, and he’s not in control of this, his eyes going hazy. He might be instructing me, but I’m doing this to him. It’s a gift and this big, scary man is moaning with pleasure that I’m giving.
I’m vaguely aware the reason for this was to experience giving a blow job. I should be cataloguing his reactions, thinking about how I’d describe this in neat little sentences and paragraphs.
But I have no words. I’m about as articulate as the cushion smooshed under my knees. I’m a creature of wet heat and nerve endings that are trilling with delight. Apparently, there is a direct line between my cheeks and my clit, because when he strokes his knuckles along the hairline of my face, sweeping tendrils of hair away and tucking them behind my ear, the pleasure is like the buzz of that vibrator I bought.
Being with him heightens every sense. I’m hyperaware of the earthy, sweet and salt taste of his cock, of the scent of the night air. The sounds of birds calling to each other as they settle into their nests and Artem’s breathing, faster now than when we started. The lights I hung earlier cast his face into shadows, emphasising the square line of his jaw and his defined cheekbones. I have both hands stroking up and down the half of his length I can’t get into my mouth over, and nothing has ever felt as vital under my touch.
His hand tightens in my hair. At first I think he means to hold me back—which isn’t happening let me tell you. A girl like me only gets one chance to do this, and I’m gonna milk it—ah, pun unintentional—for all it’s worth. Then my brain goes to encouragement, thinking that he’ll force me down onto his erection. Then he thrusts up, into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat.
“I’m close, kisa,” he grinds out. “Where do you want it? Tell me before I fill up your mouth.”
Yes. The satisfaction in me that he is going to come surpasses anything I’ve done before. Good grades, book sales, nice reviews, that time I was first at sports day. Even Artem’s treasured tips while I was at the coffee shop. That’s all nothing compared to him giving me his orgasm. Coming for me because of my touch.
The options whip around me. I could pull away and ask him to come on my breasts, or my face. And yeah, that would be hot, but I ignore his question.
I want to swallow it all and my mouth is too gloriously full of his cock to tell him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and his hips jerk upwards. It’s only then I recognise how he’s held himself back. He has let me figure this out, with only slight guidance from him. But as I watch him, his forehead creased as though almost in pain, he gives in and thrusts, holding my head.
His come fills my mouth as his cock jerks. His shudders are whole body, making him vibrate. And suddenly, although his hand is still around my neck, I’m the one who is mighty. This brutal kingpin is shaking beneath me, from what I did to him. Another spurt, and another, and I imagine how those pulses must feel as he empties. He’s a brief taste of salt and sour as I pull back and swallow. Red and still seeping come, slick from where I’ve been swallowing him down, I can barely believe so much of that delicious cock went into me.
I want it again.
Who needs coffee and balanced meals? All I want is Artem’s come. Three times a day, please. Yum. I sink my lips over his head again, and he grunts. He could wake me—
“Get up here.” He tugs on my hair but his other hand grabs into my armpit, pulling me off his cock with a wet pop.
I protest, but barely get a word out before I’m on his lap, knees either side of his, and he’s kissing me.
“You were perfect for me,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “So clever, so quick to learn. The best blow job I’ve ever had, kisa. Did you enjoy it too?”
I did, but I’m a writer, alright? Not one of those smart people who can say the right thing at the right time and make everyone laugh. I can’t figure out words on the fly and say them aloud, so I just nod.
That was everything I’d dreamed of and more. I have an imagination, but reality with Artem is even better. His cock is trapped between my stomach and his, still a hot, hard length that makes my pussy clench. Empty, so empty.
“Tell me, are you wet?”
I nod again, words choked in my throat.
“Speak to me, or I’ll find out in my own way.” Then his hand drags up my skirt and is between my legs. I cry out as he cups my open, soaked folds, just brushing my aching clit.
“You loved sucking my cock, didn’t you?” The pride and satisfaction in his voice reverberates across my skin. “I knew it.”
He slides into my folds and strokes. I cry out and bury my head in the warm cotton of his shirt as he sinks two fingers into me, and his thumb swirls over my clit. The pleasure spins from where he touches, sending a jolt through me.
“That’s it,” he whispers in my ear. “Come for me. I’m going to make you feel so good.”
I give myself over to him, and I’m so worked up it’s moments before I’m cresting. Coming with bone-shaking intensity, helpless to do anything but accept what he’s giving.
An orgasm.
Then another, built slower this time, when he won’t let me off his lap. Then a third before he’s satisfied.
But not his heart.
That black credit card he gave me won’t buy me what I want most: for this to be real.
