His Love - Cassandra Dee Page 0,11

love it so much. The first time the billionaire tasted me, I burst on his mouth, juices flying everywhere, drenching him.

But Luke wasn’t turned off at all. Because after I was done, he lifted his head, making me gasp. Oh my god, my nectar coated the bottom of his mouth and chin as they glistened in the low lights. But the alpha didn’t care at all. He merely growled before dipping his head and going for another deep lick at my snatch, getting a second juicy taste.

“Goodness,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me get you a towel because I didn’t mean to ….” My voice trailed off, embarrassed.

“Didn’t mean to come so hard?” he growled, blue eyes gleaming. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know I’ve done my job well if a woman gushes like that. You’re a sprayer.”

I gasped.

“A sprayer?” was my shocked whisper. “What’s that?”

He chuckled deeply before grinning again.

“Baby, some women come so hard they squirt their juices. It’s beautiful when it happens, arcing through the air in a rainbow. But some girls,” he added with a lewd grin, “are sprayers. When you come, it’s not a single arc. It’s a shower of womanly nectar.”

I blushed, heart beating fast as my pulse raced. But I love it. I absolutely love it. It’s shocking, and absolutely crazy. Because what innocent virgin does this? What sweet princess comes like this, drenching a man’s face in a flow of honey?

But I couldn’t get enough because the next day, when Luke invited me to his apartment, of course I said yes. It’s wrong. He’s the man who controls my future, the one who literally handles my scholarship and signs my small paycheck. So what am I doing, sneaking off to his apartment?

But when he let me in, all my doubts dropped away. Because the man was so gorgeous, imposing and huge in that black suit, and I went soft inside all over again. Those blue eyes sparkled, his grin knowing.

But instead of ravishing me in the doorway, Mr. Lyons actually behaved normally, giving me a tour of his palatial apartment.

“And here,” he rumbled casually, “is bedroom number three.”

I peered inside, eyes wide. Just like numbers one and two, there was a huge king-size, perfectly made up with a dozen throw pillows, plush pile carpeting, and an accompanying en suite.

“Mr. Lyons,” I said breathlessly. “Why do you have so many bedrooms? Is there someone else living here?”

The dark man smiled at me, that lazy blue gaze trailing over my curves.

“No, it’s just me and my housekeeper,” he said. “And Conchita doesn’t live here. She just comes in the mornings to clean and cook.”

I nodded. That made sense because he was a single guy who worked all day. How dirty could the apartment get? But the billionaire still hadn’t answered my question.

“Mr. Lyons,” I tried again. “Why do you have so many bedrooms? How many are there total? I’ve seen three, but are there more?”

That white grin flashed again.

“In fact, there are,” he rumbled. “Here’s number four,” he said, throwing another door open, “And here’s number five,” he said, letting a door to the left swing open. “You can never have enough.”

I goggled because sure enough, just like numbers one through three, bedrooms four and five were immaculately appointed with the same king-size mattress and corresponding en suites. Entire families could live in each room, they were that spacious.

I turned slowly to him.

“You’re so lucky,” I murmured. “Back in Kansas, my mom and I shared an apartment smaller than one of these bedrooms.”

The big man’s eyes flared.

“Well you’re not in Kansas anymore, baby girl. This is New York City, and anything goes.”

I nodded. Anything goes clearly included five bedrooms for a single guy. Why didn’t he convert one of them into a sitting room, or a den? Or I thought guys always had a private man cave in the basement where they drank beer and watched sports. But maybe the billionaire had another apartment where he did that stuff. Again, anything was possible when it came to Mr. Lyons.

Smiling once more, I turned to him.

“What else do you have up your sleeve?” I asked playfully. “Any more hidden studios, or walls that roll away to reveal practice spaces?”

He pretended to think.

“Well, I do have an ice skating rink,” he said drolly. “Along with complimentary skates and a Zamboni to clean the ice.”

I giggled, eyes wide. Seriously? Oh my god, that was a luxury beyond my wildest imagination. A private ice skating rink?

But the