Chapter 12 Sophia
Sophia
He extricates his hands from my body and steps away from me, swivelling my chair around so I’m facing him. My dress is still rucked up around my middle, my thong askew and digging into my swollen flesh. God knows what my face looks like. My pupils are probably the size of saucers.
Just like his.
Because he may have roughed me up good and proper, but he too looks like he’s already gone a few rounds.
A few locks of his sleek brown hair hang loosely, sexily, over his eyes, which are, in a word, wild.
He’s breathing hard, and it would be remiss of me not to mention the actual, literal elephant in the room: that monster erection.
He glances down at the spoils of his handiwork between my legs and groans raggedly. I suppose this is a far better view than he had when he was touching me over my shoulders. ‘Undo my belt and unzip me. Carefully.’
‘Yes, Mr Kingsley.’ That boner of his probably feels like an unexploded grenade—lethal, and mere seconds away from unleashing havoc. I can’t wait to get my hands on it. It may have been inside my body last week, but I’m dying for an actual peek.
As directed, I unbuckle his belt and make easy work of his trouser fastenings without taking my eyes off him.
I’m hyper-aware of every perfect nuance of our current situation.
This beautiful, powerful man is paying me to suck him off in the icy splendour of his office.
I bet every woman outside of this door would kill to get her talons into Ethan Kingsley—even with his dubious personality.
And not only has he chosen me, but he’s paying through the nose for the privilege.
Oh, and he’s seconds away from detonating at the singular experience that is the Sophia Petrakis Blow Job. (I really should trademark it properly.)
I push up his shirttails, and there it is: a beast of a dick peeking out of the waistband of his black boxer briefs.
When I pull them away from his skin, the unruly beast rears up like a stallion, a perfect little pearl of precum beading at the tip.
I feel like I should shout woah! like I’m on Yellowstone (I do not.)
But it’s gorgeous. Oh, dear Lord above, is it gorgeous. Long, thick, and as sleek and powerful-looking as its owner. No wonder it got me from nought to sixty in about three seconds last week.
I shove his boxer briefs down to mid-thigh and wrap my fingers around it.
‘Listen very carefully,’ Ethan grits out, with the intensity I’d personally reserve for talking someone through how to defuse a bomb. ‘I want you to do everything I say.’
‘Really, I’ve got this,’ I say, but he shakes his head, annoyed.
‘No. I want this my way.’
I’m being dim. This isn’t about whether my technique is up to scratch. Of course it’s not. Blow jobs are the ABC of the Seraph service offering.
No, this is about control. It’s about Ethan being able to make a woman suck his dick in exactly the way he wants. It’s about him knowing he can call every single shot.
‘Whatever you want.’ I lick my lips, and he blows out a breath. His dick is so hot, so hard, in my hand.
‘Okay. Lean forward, but don’t put your mouth on me. Yet.’
I’m still sitting, Ethan standing between my legs. I do as he asks, leaning forward and opening my mouth when it’s just a couple of inches away from his lovely, weeping crown.
He shoves one hand through my hair, as if to hold me in place, and presses the thumb of his other hand into the centre of my lower lip.
I’ve been told by many men that I have a mouth made for fellatio, and the expression on Ethan’s face suggests he’s reached the same conclusion.
Honestly, the poor guy looks more stricken than aroused.
I sit there patiently, the picture of dishevelled, wanton possibility, gazing up at him. I can feel him pulsing in my grip, can feel just how badly he needs this release. What I don’t know is whether he’s trying to control me or himself.
Finally, he removes his thumb and uses the hand entangled in my hair to pull my face closer. ‘Lick it. Just the slit. Very, very softly.’
I do exactly as he asks, running my tongue up his slit and through the precum, and he emits an unholy groan.
‘Good. That’s perfect. Again.’
Obviously, I oblige, but I’m fascinated by his insistence on holding back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone edge themselves quite so spectacularly.
‘Now run your tongue around the tip. Not your lips—just your tongue.’
What’s actually on the tip of said tongue is the strong impulse to remind Ethan that no one likes a back-seat driver, especially when they’re giving head, but I refrain.
He’s not the only one with admirable self-control, it seems. If this guy wants to pay through the nose to micro-manage me and torture himself into the bargain, who am I to refuse?
(Also, it would be a lie to say I’m not totally loving the effect this is having on him. It’s a lot of fun, watching him gradually lose his mind through sheer pleasure.)
I stick out my tongue and run it delicately around his clean, delicious-tasting crown, keeping my mouth open and my lips away from his dick.
God forbid I should overstimulate him. With an effort, I tip my head up so I can check him out through my eyelashes.
He’s staring down at me with a level of admiration I’m not sure I’ve earned yet.
I wish I could take matters into my own hands.
By matters, I mainly mean his arse. And his stomach.
I’m bloody dying for a peek. This man has maintained Victorian levels of prudishness so far with regard to getting his kit off.
I want to dig my nails into his arse cheeks and squeeze as I demonstrate how well I can deep-throat him.
I want to shove up these pesky shirt tails and drag my hand over his stomach and enjoy all that hair and those abs.
He’s such a spoilsport.
‘Now with your lips,’ he commands me, and I waste no time in wetting my lips and closing my mouth around him so I can suck, just a little.
The noise he makes has me wanting to go off-script.
Maybe I can take control, just a little, while making him think it’s his call?
If I act desperate enough for his dick, maybe he’ll allow me more of it.
Any guy who claims not to like cock worship is a bare-faced liar.
With my lips a plush seal around his crown, I lick him slowly, sensually.
I want this experience to be the height of decadence for him.
Of indulgence. I’m not sure he knows much about the concept.
I suspect Seraph is less about self-indulgence and ego and more about sheer maintenance, much like a PT or a daily supplement regime.
Pop some vitamins, work out, have an orgasm.
Rinse and repeat.
He’s shuddering against my hand and mouth, and the thought occurs to me that maybe he’s trying to hold off for the sake of his image.
Maybe he feels the need to last longer than thirty seconds on my first day.
Or maybe he’s trying to maximise his investment—but if that was the case, surely he’d have me naked in one of the many bedrooms in his hotel building a single block away?
God only knows.
I pop off for a sec and lower my lids to half-mast. ‘Please let me take you deeper,’ I beg in my throatiest, most porno voice. ‘I need you to fuck my mouth so badly.’
He gazes down at me, conflict written all over his gorgeous face.
I bet he’s thinking about puppy training.
If we give in straight away, we’ll create a monster.
Better to show them who’s boss. I need to flip the script, make him realise that control here should look like taking action, not holding back.
‘I want you to use me,’ I continue. ‘Please, Ethan. I want you to show me what it’s like when you do what you like with me.’
Really, I’m just messing with him. But it’s for his own good. He may think he’s already doing what he likes with me, but I can’t see there’s anything enjoyable about this for him. His balls must be fucking agony. No, he’s doing with me what he thinks he should.
He thinks he should hold back, show us both how disciplined he is, how in control of even the most intense situation he is, when really he should let rip.
Ideally, down my throat.
His fingers flex restlessly in my hair. He doesn’t answer with words but slides both hands forward so they’re gripping my jaw and thrusts, filling me up.
As a pro, I’ve anticipated this. I accommodate him as best I can, but bloody hell, is he big.
He tastes lovely, and I make a noise of appreciation that should also tell him I’m good.
When he hits the back of my throat and my lips meet my knuckles, I stiffen a little, and he moans, low and pained.
‘Fucking hell.’
I can’t speak, for obvious reasons, so I can’t tell him to fuck my mouth properly, but it seems his dick is able to advocate for itself, because as soon as he recovers he’s pushing out and slamming back in.
Finally. Finally I can show him what he’s capable of, why this deserves a trademark.
Ethan restrained and repressed was sexy; Ethan on the brink was hot; Ethan unleashed is dazzling. He’s all animalistic moans and feverish thrusts, his hands holding my jaw in place for dear life.
I take the initiative to give him every single part of the Sophia Petrakis experience, removing my hand from its grip to take him deeper, fondling his balls, grabbing that tight, toned arse (delicious) and scrabbling under his shirt to claw at his stomach, which is every bit as taut and alluring as I’ve suspected, and I want more. More of him. More of this.
He doesn’t last, of course. He can’t possibly.
He was about to blow his load before he let me anywhere near his dick.
I’m sucking and licking and groping and moaning, and it’s wet and messy and punishing and arousing as fuck.
Working on the basis that Ethan’s not about to dole out any more orgasms, I may have to get myself off in the loos after this.
I feel him swell up in my mouth and quickly wrap my fingers around his base again as I reach for his balls with my other hand.
In his far-gone state, he seems to have forgotten all about his desire to call the shots.
He’s basically given me free rein, and I’m damn well exploiting it in every way I can.
‘Fuck.’ He’s practically shouting now, his voice all strangled and sexy. I wriggle in my chair, but it has no impact with my legs spread like this. ‘Fuck. Jesus!’
And it’s with that glorious curse that the man who is his own worst enemy allows himself to finally, finally come.
He erupts into my mouth, rope after rope of hot, thick cum hitting the back of my throat.
I suck him through it, swallowing around him with difficulty as he’s coming down, a stunt that has him practically shooting through the ceiling.
When I’m content that he’s done, I slide off him and lick him clean, my head tilted to one side in a way I know gives him an excellent view of my tongue lapping at his dick.
He looks shell-shocked. Devastated. Completely and utterly wrecked. And, honestly, I feel pretty fucking smug. Horny, but smug.
I release him from my grip and tuck him back in in silence. I don’t want to burst his post-orgasmic bubble. But as I’m fastening his trousers, he wrenches himself away.
‘I’ll do it.’ He nods at me, and it’s way more dismissive than appreciative. Disgusted, even, though whether he’s more disgusted with me or with himself, I’m unclear. ‘Go clean yourself up and get back to work.’
Ahh. The textbook move. One step forward and two steps backwards. A moment of vulnerability, and now he’s building those walls again.
I allow myself to enjoy the fine sight of his backside as he strides back into his office and slams the interconnecting door behind him.
What a glorious, fucked-up arsehole.