The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1), Iris Morland [best reads of all time TXT] 📗

I didn’t have a response to that. And I especially had no response when he pushed one finger, then another, inside me. My pussy contracted around them. When he leaned forward and began to lick the straining tip of my clit, I had to bite on my lip to keep from crying out.

He teased my clit with that devilish tongue. When he upped the pressure, I let out a little squeal.

“Too much?” he said.

I nodded. “It’s really sensitive.”

I’d had sex with guys who’d thought that mashing the clit with their thumb as hard as possible was the way to a woman’s heart. Maybe for some women—no shame—but definitely not for me. I preferred a lighter touch.

Olivier licked around my clit, and it was just enough yet not enough pressure that I squirmed. He pressed his fingers upward in that dangerous come-hither gesture that, combined with the clit action, was the perfect recipe to send me straight into orgasmic bliss.

Soon the only sounds in the room were his fingers moving faster, and the sound of my pussy nearly gushing as he played with me. He groaned when I bucked against his lips.

I could feel my orgasm starting in my toes. My eyes nearly rolled back in my head. “Olivier,” I gasped.

He didn’t let up. He licked a little faster and rubbed a little harder inside. My orgasm slammed into me so hard that it was a good thing I was lying down. I screeched like some crazed banshee. I bucked so hard that I nearly hit Olivier in the chin with my crotch.

Olivier just laughed and drew out my orgasm. I kept shuddering and shaking, my fingers digging into the comforter, my toes curling. When he was able to make me come a second time, I wanted to commission a statue in his honor.

“Oh my God,” I kept saying, aftershocks sparking through me. “Oh my God.”

Olivier crawled up the bed to lie beside me. He kissed me, his fingers still wet with my juices. It was so hot that I moaned into his mouth.

I reached down to rub his dick through his pants, but he gently pushed my hand aside. “Tonight was just for you.”

I was so drowsy from my double orgasms that I didn’t have the heart to protest. I yawned widely, blushing at how loud it was.

Olivier smoothed my hair from my forehead. “How are you feeling?”

I didn’t have the words to describe how I was feeling. It wasn’t just the physical pleasure. My heart was practically in my throat. I gazed up at him, dangerous words on my tongue. But I swallowed them.

Because at least we had this—this temporary, incendiary thing.

“I’m good,” I said hoarsely.

Olivier pulled me close, wrapping his arms around me. I buried my face in his chest. He stroked my back, whispering words in French, until my eyelids got heavy and I fell fast asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

I woke to the sound of rain. Yawning, I stretched my arm across the bed, only to find myself alone. Olivier must’ve returned to his room. Disappointment slashed through me, until a minute later the door unlocked and he came bearing coffee and pastries.

I might be able to resist an actual prince, but I couldn’t resist a handsome man bearing food. He smiled at me as he handed me a latte.

“I bought a few different pastries,” he said, “since I wasn’t sure which one you’d like.”

My eyes lit up as I looked at the array of food. I ended up choosing one that looked like a coffee cake but was denser and had sliced almonds scattered across the top. Olivier chose one that had strawberries and strudel as its topping.

After we finished eating, Olivier said, “How are you feeling?”

I almost blushed like a schoolgirl. The night before came roaring back, and I could almost feel the sensations he’d awakened in me again.

“Um, fine. You?”

He licked his thumb. “I woke up with a major case of blue balls. I had to go to my room and, ah, take care of it.”

“You could’ve woken me up, you know. I know a few good ways to cure that particular illness.”

He smiled. “It’s fine.” He wiped a crumb from my bottom lip, and I touched his thumb with my tongue. He inhaled.

“Why don’t you want to have sex with me?” At the moment, I was mostly just curious. Most guys wouldn’t have hesitated. Hell, most women wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d jump his bones right then and there if he wanted some good dicking.

“I want you. Don’t believe otherwise.” His eyes darkened, his thumb continuing to trace my lips. “I want to see these pretty lips wrapped around my cock. I want to fuck you until you scream my name, your pussy squeezing me like a vice.”

Well, okay then. If he didn’t want to turn me on again, he was doing a terrible job of it.

“Now I’m extra confused,” I said.

He drew his hand away. “If we were to date, it would change your life irrevocably. Although I can move about fairly freely here and in other countries, in Salasia, I’m never alone. The paparazzi follow me wherever I go, and they follow anyone associated with me. Especially any woman I’m dating.”

“I’m not scared of getting my picture taken.”

“It’s not the photos—which are invasive, and they’re always wanting to get a controversial shot. The split second you step out of a car and accidentally flash your panties? They’ll sell that image for millions, and it’ll be on the internet forever. The moment your skirt flies up? When you’re sunbathing topless somewhere private, but they camp out kilometers away with a long-lens camera and still manage to take photos?”

I held up at my hands. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

Olivier sighed. “And then what’s written about you in the papers.” His expression turned dark. “It’s vicious. Absolutely vicious. When I dated Aimée, she accidentally spilled some wine on her gown during some event.

“I