"Yes," I choked out through sobs, my face pressed against the cold wood.
"Then let's see."
He dropped to his knees behind me with a heavy thud. The sound of high-end silk shredding filled the room as he used his teeth and fingers to rip my stockings and lace away from my a** and p**sy, leaving me completely exposed to the cold air of the dining room. I gasped, my fingers digging into the mahogany table, as he roughly spread my cheeks.
His tongue was a hot, wet contrast to the clinical chill of the room. He started at my cl*t, swirling with a rhythmic, bruising pressure that made my toes curl against the carpet. I had to let out a moan—not because of pleasure, but because he demanded a reaction. He trailed his tongue downward, tracing every inch of my labia, before moving all the way up
