Chapter 28 Dominic
Dominic
Now
I thread my fingers through Sloane’s curls and gather them into a makeshift ponytail that gives me a full view of her perfect lips wrapped around my dick.
She peeks up at me through her lashes and my grip tightens, the tips of my fingers digging into her scalp just enough to give her the bite of pain she seems to love.
Heat flares in her eyes and she moans her appreciation around me, the vibrations making my dick pulse as a bead of precum slips onto her busy tongue.
Sloane arches a sassy brow at me. I’m not going to last much longer, and after nearly a week of doing this—having each other whenever and wherever we can—she knows it.
And I’m starting to think making me come within minutes of pulling me into the wet heat of her mouth was her plan all along.
And it may be her way of getting back at me for yesterday, when I fucked her in the shower and ruined her twist out.
She was so mad she didn’t speak to me for the rest of the morning, and last night before we went to bed, she let me know in no uncertain terms that accepting the multiple orgasms I gave her after dinner did not mean I was forgiven.
So this is it: my punishment that’s not a punishment because I don’t give a fuck about coming embarrassingly fast when her throat is constricting around my shaft, mimicking the way her pussy clenches when she’s about to come, and driving me crazy.
“Fuck, angel,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “You’re going to make me come in your perfect mouth.”
I’m still fisting her curls in my hand, and my grip tightens when the first wave of pleasure crashes into me, sending ripples of liquid heat to the base of my spine.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest, matching the pulsing of my dick and the violent rush of heat threatening to explode out of me at any second.
I let out a ragged breath and give myself over to the sensation.
Sloane chooses that exact moment to slow down, and her eyes dance with mischief and magic as she comes to a complete stop, releasing me with a loud smack of her lips and a kiss to my tip.
She breaks my hold, and a victorious smile curves her lips as she stares at her handiwork.
My brutal erection, weeping precum and throbbing for the release she just denied me.
“Sloane…”
But I don’t know what else to say, because I have the strangest mix of pride and frustration swelling in my chest as I stare up at her. She just used one of my moves on me, and she looks so damn pleased with herself for doing it. She blinks at me innocently as she climbs off of the bed.
“Dom.”
I wrap my fingers around my dick and give it a rough stroke. Sloane tries to hide it, but watching me touch myself is turning her on, and I can’t help but wonder if the sight is enough to break her resolve.
“Are we even now, angel?”
“Not quite.”
“Tell me what I have to do to get back in your good graces.”
Touching myself doesn’t feel nearly as good as what she was doing to me moments ago, but I don’t stop, because Sloane can’t take her eyes off of me.
She’s biting her lip and tracking every stroke with her eyes and when I squeeze another bead of precum from my tip, she makes a breathy noise in the back of her throat.
I’ve almost got her, but then I fuck it all up by smiling at her reaction to me, and her gaze snaps to my face.
“Don’t come.”
My hand stills immediately. “What?”
“Don’t come. After what you did yesterday, you don’t deserve to.”
“It’s not like I did it on purpose!”
“Tell that to the curls you ruined.”
I sit up and reach for her, but she’s already backing toward the door. And by the time I untangle myself from the sheets, she’s already bolted. The sound of her laughter echoes through the hallway as she rushes down the stairs.
Despite my neglected dick and the need for release pounding in my blood, I can’t stop myself from smiling at the sound as I head to the bathroom to shower and get dressed for the day.
“That fucking woman.”
***
It’s close to two in the afternoon when I finally make it to La Grande Nuit.
I was supposed to be here sooner, but the meetings I had scheduled at Archway ran longer than usual, and then I got caught up in an emotionally exhausting conversation with my dad, who only ever calls to make me feel like a bad son for not visiting him in the assisted living home I pay for.
Agitation simmers in my veins as I rush into the lobby, praying that being dumb enough to take that call hasn’t made me miss the chance to see Sloane at work.
When I left the house this morning, she said she’d only be in the hotel long enough to drop off some materials that got delivered to her office yesterday, but I’m hoping I can convince her to stay a little longer, because a stolen moment in a remote corner would work wonders for my mood.
“Excuse me! You’re Nic Alexander, right?”
I spin around and see a tall, curvy woman with smooth brown skin, dimples, and red hair that’s cut closer to her scalp than mine is, approaching me. She looks familiar, and it takes me a second to realize she’s one of Sloane’s senior designers. I think her name is Sasha.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Great.” She thrusts the boxes she’s been holding into my hands. “Mal asked me to bring these by for Sloane because she’s out sick today.”
I look at the box of cabinet pulls I watched Sloane rush order from her tablet two days ago while I massaged her feet on the couch and try to hide my surprise.
This isn’t the first time she’s sent someone else to bring my team a product they had to rush in.
And there’s nothing weird about her utilizing her team members to run errands when she doesn’t have time, but it is weird for them to think she’s sick when I know for a fact that she isn’t.
She was perfectly fine when I left the house this morning, her cheeks still flushed with pride at sending me to work with blue balls. She even kissed me goodbye and teased me about still being hard. I smacked her on the ass and told her I would see her later, and she hummed her agreement.
So what changed?
I take the boxes from Sasha’s outstretched hands. “Thanks for bringing these in.”
“No worries.”
Then she turns to leave, and I have to balance the boxes in one hand just to pull my phone out of my pocket and text Sloane.
Dominic: Playing hooky without me, angel?
Once the text goes through, I catch the elevator up to the eighth floor where my team is. Andre is working with another guy to grout some tile in the bathroom of a smaller suite.
“Hey,” I call from outside the door. “I have to go handle a personal issue. You guys good?”
Andre answers without even looking at me. “Yeah, don’t worry about us.”
“Cool. Text me if you need something.” I set the boxes on the floor. “We just got these in, can you make sure they get installed today?”
“Yeah, we’ll handle it after we finish this up.”
With that sorted, I head back out. By the time I get to my car, Sloane still hasn’t texted me back. Part of me wants to call Mal and see if she knows what’s going on, but I know she’ll just drop everything to head over there to try and fix whatever the problem is.
And that’s not what I want.
If something’s wrong with my angel, I want to be the one to help her through it, to pull her into my arms and wipe her tears away while she just feels.
Because even if I am a bastard like my father, and all signs continue to point toward that fact the longer I spend in Sloane’s bed without letting her know the truth about us, I know I can do this.
I can be the man Sloane needs me to be. I can make her life easier, better, fuller in all the ways she lost when Eric died.
The ride back to her place stretches into an eternity, and the quiet in the car is exacerbated by the silence on my phone.
The longer it goes on, the more worried I get.
I pick it up again, looking specifically at the date, because I know Sloane gets sad like I do when any date having to do with Eric comes around.
But it’s September twenty-third, and the date doesn’t ring any bells for me.
I close the calendar, annoyed that it hasn’t offered any additional information, and my home screen is still glaringly absent of any notifications from the only person I want to hear from right now.
I swipe past a text from Kristen, a missed call from Chris, and an email from Seb.
Getting back to any of them, especially Kristen, is low on my list of priorities as I turn onto Sloane’s street.
When I pull into the driveway, her car is still parked in the same space.
Even though I want to get to her as soon as possible, I still take the time to pull into the garage and use the key she gave me to open the back door.
Everything in the house is quiet as I move through the mudroom and kick off my shoes, but I know she’s here somewhere.
“Sloane!” I call out, moving through the kitchen, where I see that her purse is still on the counter beside her phone, open laptop, and a pile of paperwork. Almost like she started working and then stopped abruptly.
Maybe she did get sick.
I drop my keys on the island and start toward the stairs but stop short when I see a tangle of wild curls peeking out from underneath a blanket on the couch. She’s curled up in the corner, practically in the fetal position, with tears streaking down her face.
“Angel.”