Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One) by Eliza Lloyd Page A

comings and goings the rest of the day. He had wanted to finish their conversation from yesterday while he was calm and thinking more clearly.
    And, after dispensing the parental guidance for William, he wanted to discuss it with his wife, decide if he’d done the right thing. He had no doubt she’d squeezed in time to visit with their son and pronounced her own judgments.
    He missed her. She’d always been wise, and in spite of—or because of—her femininity, she was as strong a woman as he knew. She’d said once that he was the only person who could ever hurt her.
    And now he was. Or would be as soon as she found out.
    Eventually, he’d confess his failing. That conversation would be a further blow to his masculinity. Confessing his infidelity at the same time confessing his inability to have a reliable erection when thinking of sex with his wife.
    The door squeaked open and the masked whore strode in wearing leather as he’d requested. Even the mask was black leather. Shiny black strips were twined around her body. Her bare breasts were exposed and pressed into a pleasing, thrusting display. The bands around her upper arms were enticing.
    Perfect for what he had in mind.
    He’d hoped a mindless fuck would erase some of the guilt, though the one inevitably rose in equal proportions to the other.
    His chérie wasn’t a big talker. She asked very little and obeyed very much. Madame knew the value of her whores.
    He felt rough and aching. His shirt, he’d discarded as soon as he arrived. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace, her breasts squeezed into his chest. The smooth feel of her skin against his chest made a sharp contrast to the slick cool of the leather.
    “ Chérie , forgive me if I am rough. I will try not to hurt you tonight.”
    She stiffened, her fear palpable and sadly, addicting to a man who liked his sex dark and edgy.
    He did not want soft kisses. He did not come here for warmth or affection or adulation. He came because a whore would not question his need.
    With Clarissa, there would first be the whys . Then there would be her visceral reaction to his rejection of her. She could not love him that much.
    He clasped the whore’s hand and led her to the chair where he sat and ripped at the flap of his fall. She knew what he wanted and knelt before him, between his legs. Her fingers gripped his thighs and she bent forward, her mouth already open as she devoured the length of his cock.
    He surged backward, his hips bucking, filling her mouth with his straining member. The rasp of her teeth sent a singular shock until her tongue bathed his length, licking and torturing as she circled in long, delicious swipes.
    He stroked his hands down her back and then gripped both cheeks of her ass. With one hand he separated her, exposing the tempting crevice. His fingers slid downward. One finger worked at the rim. Her back arched, both taking more of him in her mouth and allowing his finger to slide inside.
    “Slowly, chérie . I’m not ready.” She sucked on him like a newborn calf at the teat.
    He reached toward the table beside him and plucked up the dildo, prepared with the scented oil. At her anus, he removed his finger and then probed with the thick phallus. His own cock bucked as she hummed and moaned, anticipating what he was about to do.
    He nearly closed his eyes at the astounding pleasure ripping through him. He stared as he pushed the indefatigable penis inside her, inching closer to filling her, his own prick nearly bursting as he watched.
    He gritted his teeth as the whore worked for his release—somehow his climax seemed tied to hers. While she sucked on him, her tight little anus gripped at the brass shaft stuffed inside her. Michael let her propel it outward and then he filled her again.
    When his balls drew up and the tingling in his thighs began, he started the rhythmic strokes that caused her to moan, and those very vibrations caressed every nerve ending of his