Forty-Three

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I hadn't considered myself  being lunch, but Chris is.

I'm against the wall, caught between a wall of screens and a grimly determined man on his knees. A man whose tongue is on my clit with his fingers curling inside my pussy. I'd lost my ability to scream half an hour ago, and all I have to offer him are pleas of mercy—pleasure.

Sweat clings to my skin and my hair sticks to my neck and back. My pants, still partially clinging to my right leg, are a crumpled mess under his knees. In my ears, my heartbeat thuds heavily.

Charlie's surgery is underway. He's under anesthesia and a powerful paralytic. For this surgery to be a success, he must be completely still. Any movement could dislodge a clamp, offset the saws and drills, and ultimately destroy tissue or create irreparable damage.

I should be thinking about him. I should be standing at the window, comparing what Iris sees to what I see. I should be supportive, as I promised. Instead, I'm at Chris' mercy, sinking my fingers into his hair and shoulder as I rock my pussy against his mouth.

I'm close. So fucking close to falling apart for the second time. I want it. I want him.

His tongue is a dangerous weapon whenever it's used, but especially like this. They'll be bruises on my thighs and hips from his grip. I'm glad they'll fade within an hour or two.

It's firm against my clit, circling at a measured pace. My hips move in rhythm, hoping to get closer, but he pulls away until I growl in frustration. I have no room to argue—he did tell me not to move.

Let him do the work. Let him make me come. But he should know I make my own rules.

The gentle suction roughens as do his fingers, and I gasp, clinging to him as my vision flickers and my eyes roll back in my head. Fuck. How is he so good at this?

My head thuds to the wall and I call his name. It's a low raspy thing, drawn raw with my voice. I'm shaking all over. Teeth chattering, I come for him a second time.

I orgasm twice more before he finally releases me. As his eyes meet mine, I dash away, yanking my underwear and pants over my legs. He watches, eyes hooded with a smirk on his face.

"What are you doing?"

I motion to the feast set on the white, oval-shaped table separating us. It, like Charlie's bed, floats on electric blue light. Scores of food sit on warming trays, steam wafting off of them.

My stomach growls in protest, hoping I opt to sit down and pile my plate high with beef, chicken and veggies. And dessert... a white chocolate cheesecake topped with a blueberry compote. What do I have to do to get a peaceful meal around here?

"Our lunch is getting cold."

Pointedly, he glances at the warming trays with a raised eyebrow. "The dishes are steaming."

"For now," I argue, gathering my pants together to button, zip, and re-belt.

"Take off your pants, Blue." He commands me. "Underwear, too. You won't be needing them anyway."

"I—I should eat." Stammering, I play chicken with him, casually moving to the other side of the table as he rounds it. He's right on my heels—a man on a mission. Before the augmentation, he probably would have caught me, but it's more difficult now.

He may be stronger, but I am faster. Catching me won't be easy. He'll need to set a trap and I can sense the wheels in his head turning. If I'm not careful, the only eating happening in this room will be him eating me.

"You can eat food and I can eat you."

I gulp. "You've eaten enough."

"Isn't that the same thing I said to you this morning? Yet, I distinctly remember you sucking me harder."

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