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The Parisian loft was all shadows and silk, but Emilie Graham de Vanily commanded the light. At twenty-two, she was a vision in a sheer black chemise, her curves a map Gabriel Agreste was desperate to chart. He knelt on the plush rug, designer trousers straining at his cock, his usually sharp eyes glazed with submission.
“Look at me, *mon trésor*,” Emilie purred, her voice a velvet whip. She circled him, the click of her stilettos on hardwood marking time. “All that arrogance, that brilliant mind… reduced to waiting for my permission.” She stopped before him, lifting his chin with a single, manicured finger. “Your mouth looks lonely.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched. “Please, Emilie.”
“Please, what?” She traced his lips, feeling them part instinctively. “Use your words. Tell me what this pretty mouth is for.”
“To serve you,” he rasped, the admission sending a jolt to his already-throbbing dick.
“*Exactement*.” With a fluid motion, she hooked her thumbs into the lace of her panties, sliding them down her thighs. The scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filled the space between them. She presented her pussy to him—a slick, pink fold he’d fantasized about for weeks. “Clean me up. Every drop. And don’t you dare use your hands.”
Gabriel leaned forward, his tongue finding her swollen clit with a desperate groan. He lapped at her juices, the taste exploding on his tongue like forbidden wine.