Page 10 of Filthy Mouth

I dropped the towel and cash onto the table and stalked through the apartment—bathroom, spare room, study, even behind the goddamn curtains. Nothing.

Back in the living room, I stopped in front of the table. Her pile of money was gone.

A cold wave washed through me.

Those lips. Those tight lips wrapped around my cock. That throat—God, that fucking throat—swallowing me down like she’d been made for it. The way her hazel eyes looked up while her tongue lapped my precum—the soft kiss of her mouth on my balls.

My cock twitched, rising again like it was mourning her loss.

I glanced at the time. Five minutes past midnight.

She couldn’t have gotten far.

I bolted for the door, yanked it open—only to remember I was still half naked, shirt hanging open, cock hard and coated with Poppy’s throat.

“Fuck.”

I stepped back inside, then stepped out again. Didn’t care anymore. I searched the corridor, leaned over the railing, and stood on the damn bench to scan for fleeing cars.

Nothing. No flash of brown-red hair. No sharp stilettos tapping in retreat. Just silence.

And loss.

Now I knew how Prince Charming felt when he was left holding a glass slipper.

Except mine wasn’t glass. It was a hot, wet mouth that I didn’t get a taste of.

There was only one filthy mouth my cock wanted to fuck.

And I’d find it because nothing less would do.

??????

There was no joy left in my life. Logic told me she was a prostitute, but if Magnus could have a sugar baby and work out, perhaps I could help her out of her current career choice. A twenty-year age gap was nothing these days. Wouldn’t she want one client instead of droves?

My stomach lurched at the thought. But then I pictured her sweet smile and the way she called me Daddy.

Yes. If Magnus could do it, so could I—and probably better.

I continued trawling through the high-end escort sites with renewed vigour.

My cock deserved the best.

??????

“You might want to give me a raise,” Ella said as she walked into my office.

“I already pay you too much,” I quipped, holding my hand out for my coffee.

“Uff, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” she said, laying a bundle of documentation and a few letters on my desk.

I glared as I snatched the coffee from her hand.

“I got you a meeting with Sir Isaac Blythe,” she squealed.

“Hot damn,” I gasped.

I put the coffee down and jumped up to hug her.