Hostile Takeover, Hill, W [recommended books to read .TXT] 📗

on her heels, her hands on his knees, but Ben noticed her attention was no longer on her gift. She was in the position she’d been in that first day, climbing over his legs to retrieve his pen, then sitting up between his knees just like this. Her gaze passed with a far more blatant appraisal over his erection before those mink lashes lifted. “Something I can do for you, Mr. O’Callahan?”

“I think so.” Setting aside the model, he put his hand on her face, touching her mouth, imagining it about to be stretched by his cock, her lips swollen and glistening while her pussy worked itself into the same state, readying itself for him. “You make me come fast enough, you might just get a spanking before you go into work.”

That was the only incentive she needed. Opening his jeans, she leaned forward, her lips already parted. Ben closed his hand on her shoulder as she teased his head with her tongue, tracing the broad head all the way around, and then doing a little nip-suck maneuver on the top like an ice cream cone, teasing the slit. Jesus…

She played with him like that for a good few moments until he’d had enough of it and moved his hand to her hair, tightening there. “Take me all the way in, brat. Deep throat.”

Those sweet lips stretching, that slick, hot throat, so like her cunt, sucking him, tongue playing the throbbing veins on the underside like a damn violin. He thrust up into her mouth, and she made a noise at the stress, but it was a noise of pleasure. She liked it rough, his slave. She wanted icing on his cock, wanted to lick it off. He’d maybe give her that later, but right now he just wanted her sucking on him like this. Then he wanted to fuck her on the kitchen table, feel that wet pussy, that tight ass. Every morning for the rest of his life.

Her head was moving over him, her fingers digging into his thighs. Those pretty fingers, all that beautiful blonde hair, the delectable ass that he’d watched crawl away from him. God, it tempted him to command her to move around naked and on all fours in their home full time wearing his collar and those cuffs. In that position, he could see the pink lips of her cunt and rosebud of her ass, all of her so accessible and fuckable.

She brought both hands into it now, gripping him, sliding up, using his pre-cum to slick him up. She was devouring him, making animal noises in her throat. She knew how to give head like a pro, but it was all for him, her Master.

“Get up here.” A lifetime of fucking women’s asses, but now, he wanted her face-to-face. Wanted to be deep in her pussy, wanted to be staring into her eyes. It took her breath away, he could tell, the way he lifted her straight up off the floor, biceps flexing, to set her on his lap, make her straddle his cock. It took some angling, because of his size, but then he had her locked on, working her down that well-greased pole. Her mouth was slick from it, and he brought her to his lips, suckling and biting on it, tasting himself and her.

She moaned as he got her settled all the way on, and then he started moving. “Hang on, baby,” he muttered. “I just want to fuck you this morning. Use you hard.”

In answer to that, she coiled her arms around his shoulders. “Yeeeessss…” It drove him crazy, because she kept breathing little things like that, things that made him harder, needier, where Master and slave meant nothing, unless Master also meant slave. He was all hers. Always yours. He knew it for sure when he came, exploding inside of her like a heat missile. Not from the grip of her cunt, the press of her nipples, the slap of her ass against his legs, but from the words she whispered in his ear right before he released.

“I love you, Master. Love you…always…forever.”

About the Author

I’ve always avoided interviews of favorite personalities because so often the person doesn’t measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. Their politics are distasteful, or they’re shallow and self-absorbed, a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. From then on, though I may appreciate their craft, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, when I’m asked to provide personal info for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think: “Okay, my next words may forever change the way someone views my stories.” Why does a reader want to know about me? It’s the story that’s important.

So here it is. I’ve been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I’m a Type A, OCD phobic paranoiac who worries I’ll never live up to expectations. I don’t like talking on the phone, I dread social commitments. Living in monastic solitude with my husband and animals, books and writing, is my idea of paradise. I love chocolate, but with that irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I keep it to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I’m told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never-ending “to do” list to snatch a few minutes to write.

Despite all these mediocre and typical qualities, for some miraculous reason, these wonderful characters well up out of my soul with stories to tell. When I find that precious “stillness”, which calms all the competing voices in my head, I can step into their lives, hear what they are saying, what they’re feeling, and put it down on paper. It’s a magic beyond description, akin to believing my husband loves me, winning the trust of an abused animal, making a true connection with someone or knowing I’ve given a reader something special