Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12) by Chloe Cox

Author:Chloe Cox [Cox, Chloe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-05-12T16:00:00+00:00

19

The movie was empty-headed fluff. Cole didn’t care about it, even a little bit. The point was seeing your friends, being social. Roasting them for their terrible taste in movies. Even so, he might have skipped it entirely if it wasn’t for the armful of sub he got to enjoy the whole time.

They were in the back of the room by themselves, and Bette was in that robe, and nothing else. Cole hadn’t planned to torment her all night, but he was flexible, and she was damn delicious. There was something about teasing Bette all the way up to the line where she almost couldn’t take it, where she almost moaned out loud or begged, that brought a smile to his face. Maybe he was a little bit of a sadist.

He had her pinned in his lap, one arm wrapped around her, holding where he wanted her. His other hand was free to roam, and Cole allowed himself to have a little bit of fun. He liked watching her eyes glaze over as he toyed with her nipples, liked seeing the flush spread across her cheeks as he let his hand rest on her hot, swollen pussy.

His cock fucking ached for her.

And he had to wonder whether it even mattered that he didn’t know a damn thing about her. Or her about him, for that matter. Cole had known everything there was to know about his ex-wife, and she’d still turned out to be someone he didn’t know at all. Meanwhile, Bette’s submission was so raw it went beyond honesty.

Cole suppressed a growl in his throat, and slipped his free hand between Bette’s thighs, pushing them apart as she lay across his lap. Her chest shuddered with a ragged breath as he slid his finger between her labia, checking to see how wet she was.

Soaking.

His Dom instincts told Cole to let up on the torment as the movie came to an end. Something about the way Bette tensed in his arms, about the way she clenched her jaw, her eyes watching the screen. The movie was a formulaic rom com, the kind where people ignored red flags and made big romantic gestures that were borderline-stalking. Cole didn’t care about it.

He did care about the effect it had on Bette.

The lights came on, and Bette unconsciously hugged herself, her arms coming across her chest. Cole frowned. With his free hand—his tormenting hand—he uncrossed her arms, and shifted her until he could tilt her face towards his.

Distress.

“Stay with me,” he said simply.

Silently, Bette nodded. She did it, too. Kept looking at him, looking to him, while Cole waved off the other club members. Soon it was just the two of them, alone in the makeshift home theater, the low lights reflecting in Bette Liffey’s eyes.

She was near tears.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “How do you always do that?”

“Dom,” he said. “Tell me.”

“I really do hate rom coms,” she said, and looked down for the first time. “I know it’s stupid, but

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