Chapter 362- Lick It
Her panties were warm and her throat was dry and a man who had fallen from the sky was standing beside her chair asking what he got in exchange for information and she was sitting here with her hands flat on the table trying to decide if this constituted a threat she needed to respond to.
’He is strong. Very strong.’
The cold part of her, still running assessments behind the heat. ’If he can break through concrete and not take a scratch, my options for physical response are limited. I can reach the fork in 0.4 seconds. I can reach the knife block behind the counter in 2.1 seconds. Neither of those is going to—’
She stopped.
’He stepped off a tower.’
’A fork is not going to—’
She pressed her lips together.
He chuckled.
Low, unhurried, the sound landing from directly above her because he was standing and she was seated and the distance between them had not increased in the last two minutes.
"Is it because you’re a well-trained agent," he said, "that you hide your expressions that well?"
Her jaw locked.
"Because I can smell your body from here." His voice was conversational. Warm, almost. "And your panties are wet."
The heat in her face was instantaneous — not a flush, a ’flood’, moving from her cheeks down her throat and between her breasts like someone had poured something warm directly into her chest. Her internal voice produced a sound that had no letters.
’He can—’
’From there—’
’He can SMELL—’
"Mind your business." The words came out sharp and automatic, field-tested delivery, the voice she had used in rooms where tone was the only armor available. "I don’t know what you think you’re—"
He moved.
He stepped forward.
Not lunging — ’stepping’, the same unhurried motion as everything else he did, closing the distance between standing-beside-her and standing-directly-in-front-of-her, and the towel came with him held in one hand and what was not covered by the towel came with him too.
The heat of him arrived before he stopped moving.
The blunt, heavy head of his cock pressed against her cheek.
Warm. Impossibly warm — warmer than skin had any right to be, the dense flushed weight of it pushing her cheek sideways, the firm pressure of it absolutely unmistakable, and the smell arrived at the same moment, skin and heat and something underneath that was not cologne and was not anything she had a file entry for but that her hindbrain had a ’very clear opinion about.’
Jennifer went absolutely still.
Her eyes closed.
She could feel the pressure of it against her cheekbone. The weight. The pulse.
Her panties were — she was not going to think about her panties.
’He put his—’
’In my bakery.’
’Against my—’
’WHAT IS THE MEANING—’
"What is the meaning of this." She opened her eyes. Her voice was flat and steady and her body was doing something completely different from her voice. "Remove it."
"You know what I need." His voice from above her, unhurried, warm. "You already know."
She turned her face enough to look up at him — which meant looking up from an angle that put her eye level exactly where it was, which she acknowledged and filed and was furious about — and said, very quietly:
"Do that again and I will kill you."
His mouth curved.
"Suck it."
Her jaw tightened so hard she felt it in her molars. The word had landed in a place she hadn’t expected a word to land and the heat that followed it was ’embarrassing’, was physiologically involuntary, was the specific betrayal of a body that her training had promised her she had control over.
’I have control over this.’
’I have nineteen years of—’
"You want to save your son," he said. "Don’t you."
The fury that moved through her was clean and white and entirely genuine.
"You bastard."
But even as the word left her mouth the cold part of her was already running the calculation she hadn’t wanted to run. ’He is strong. Unnaturally strong. Uninjured. Possibly not human. He knows things about Gareth that he should not know.’
’If he decided to stop being cooperative about her son’s safety—’
’He could.’
’He could just leave. Or worse.’
’And I do not know what worse looks like for something that steps off towers.’
She bit her lip.
The calculation ran to its conclusion.
She hated the conclusion.
Her hands moved to the towel.
Not fast — nothing performed, nothing that could be read as anything other than what it was, which was a woman making a decision and executing it with the same clean efficiency she brought to everything.
Her fingers found the fabric.
She tugged it down.
The towel fell.
And what was below it — ’already hard, already flushed, the thick shaft standing with the blood-dark crimson of the head tight and glistening, the fat veins running the length of him visible, his balls hanging heavy and full below, rounded with the weight of what they were carrying’ — landed in her vision with the impact of something that had been half-prepared for and was still not manageable.
Her warm breath hit the head.
She saw it react — the subtle tightening, the small pulse of blood rushing to the surface where her breath touched — and her own body answered it, a deep, involuntary clench between her thighs that she refused to acknowledge.
She looked up at him.
Her eyes were direct. Her voice, when it came, was the quietest it had been all morning.
"You better not mess this up." She held his gaze. "Or I will kill you."
He chuckled.
She licked the head.
What happened next happened at the periphery of her awareness because the main event was happening in her mouth.
She didn’t see him pick up her phone. Didn’t see his thumb moving across the screen with one hand while the other settled into her hair — not gripping, just ’resting’, a warm heavy presence at the back of her skull that was somehow worse than a grip because a grip she knew how to resist.
She was focused on managing the problem in front of her.
Cucumber. Her mind provided this assessment flatly, professionally, the way her mind had always given her the most useful available information regardless of whether she wanted it. ’He is cucumber-sized and this is a logistical challenge.’
She parted her lips further.
Her tongue ran along the underside, feeling the ridge of each vein, the dense weight of him on her tongue, the heat radiating off the skin — and she felt him exhale above her, a small, honest sound, the first sound he’d made that wasn’t entirely controlled.
She noted this. Filed it.
His hand pressed slightly.
She let him slide forward — felt the thick head push past her lips, filling her mouth, her cheeks bulging with the girth of it — and her jaw stretched, wider than comfortable, her tongue working automatically to manage the intrusion. One inch. Two. Her saliva ran. Three. Four.
A cough hit the back of her throat and she swallowed it down, her eyes watering at the edges, the reflex running against nineteen years of composure.
Five inches. The head found the back of her mouth.
She breathed through her nose.
His hand pressed.
’He is not going to—’
He did.
The thick head breached her throat.
Her eyes rolled — not with pleasure, with the pure involuntary overwhelm of a body meeting something it had never been asked to accommodate — tears running freely now from the corners, her jaw locked open, her nose pressing into the dark hair at his pelvis, her chin making contact with the warm weight of his balls.
The bakery smelled like butter and cardamom and him.
She could feel his pulse.
’In her throat.’
Above her, entirely calm, Raven set her phone down on the sofa.
He had typed four words to Gareth’s number. Something with a smirk, brief and sufficient, handled while she was occupied with handling him.
His hand settled properly into her hair.
"There." His voice was warm and final, the voice of a man arriving somewhere he had intended to arrive. "That’s your place from now on, Jennifer."
Her tear-bright eyes looked up at him from the end of his cock.
Her internal voice — smaller now, thinned by the stretch of her jaw and the weight at the back of her throat and the heat still pooling stubbornly between her thighs — produced one last assessment.
’I am going to kill him.’
A pause.
’I am doing this for my son.’