Two Years Later
"Don't you dare look at me like that, Kingston Monroe!" I cry, circling around the island to avoid him.
"Like what?" he grins, backtracking to try to catch up to me.
"Like that!" I cry, pointing at him. "I don't have time for whatever you're trying to do."
"I just want to kiss you before you go."
"You're a dirty liar." He does not want to kiss me. He wants to get me naked and make me late to the studio. Again. I have an album to record, but ever since I told him to put a baby in me, he's been on a mission. My vagina is broken.
This isn't a complaint, just a statement of fact.
"Baby." He pouts at me. "Have I ever lied to you?"
"Yes."
"Name one time."
"Okay, fine," I mumble, not able to actually think of one. He's annoyingly honest about everything. I never have to worry about what he's doing because he doesn't hide anything from me, ever. "Maybe you don't lie. You just leave out important details."
"Like what?"
I stop to come up with a time he actually did that—they usually involve my father and his terrible plans, somehow—only to realize that he's almost within arm's reach now. I squeak and dart around the side of the island, trying to put more distance between us…but it's already too late.
Damn him for being a professional athlete.
He's on me in a blink. His arms wrap around my waist as he hauls me up, setting me on the cold marble of the island like I weigh nothing, which is so inaccurate I could scream. But I don't. Not when he's already got his hands hooked in my waistband, yanking my leggings and panties down.
"Kingston!" I shriek.
He ignores me, slotting himself between my knees and pinning me there. His mouth lands on my thigh, then my hip, and then—oh god—his tongue is on me, warm and insistent and so greedy it's almost a crime.
My fingers find his hair, and I tug, mostly to inconvenience him, but also because he's a man on a mission, and nothing is hotter than Kingston when he refuses to be denied.
"I knew it," I gasp, unable to keep my hips from arching into the perfect heat of his mouth. "I knew you were going to do this!"
"Mmm," he moans, barely lifting his face. "I'm kissing you, princess. Isn't that what I promised I'd do?" He punctuates the question with a slow, deadly swirl of his tongue, and my brain shorts out, every rational thought replaced by trembling, white-hot need.
I try to protest. "I'm late. I have to—"
He cuts me off by sucking hard. "You'll be even later," he growls, "but you'll come first."
I punch his shoulder, but it has the effect of a feather on a grizzly bear. He pulls my ass to the edge of the island, spreading me with his hands. His stubble scrapes my thighs, and everything in me wants to yell at him but also beg for more.
"Jesus, Kingston," I whimper. "I'm already sore from last night."
He just laughs against my pussy, the vibration making me clutch the marble for dear life. "Just relax. I'm helping," he says, sounding truly pleased with himself. "Doesn't this pretty little thing feel better already, baby?"
Yes, actually. But I'm not telling him that.
He doesn't need an answer anyway. He's already licking me again, two fingers curling inside me in a way that has my whole body trembling.
He doesn't stop until I'm a shaking, limp puddle, his name ringing out around us. When he finally lifts his head, he looks annoyingly proud of himself, but aftershocks still pulse through my whole body, making my toes curl and my heart stutter, so I don't even yell at him.
He kisses the inside of my knee like he's branding me again, then stands, licking his lips. "See?" he says, his big hands cradling my face. "You love my kisses."
"You're the worst," I mutter, but it comes out breathy and soft.