Page 6 of Filthy Mouth (Obsessive Age Gap #2)
Benedict
When I returned with a hot, wet towel and another bundle of cash, she was gone. I froze. Then I spun—once, twice—like she might materialise from behind the furniture. My cock swung, slapped against my thigh when I stopped, heart thudding with confusion.
“ Poppy,” I called, voice sharp. The name echoed off the walls.
No. That had been the perfect fucking blow job. Perfect.
“ Poppy!” I shouted, louder, angrier. Desperate.
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.
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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.
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“ 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.
“ How did you do it when I tried for over a year?” I asked, pulling away from her grinning face.
“ I took the time to get to know Lady Blythe. You ’ ve been sending her complimentary gifts,” she said with a smug look. “ She was prickly, but I wore her down by dangling the carrot.”
“ Yes. If they sell me that piece of land, then we can begin submissions for the project. I ’ ll pass your raise details to payroll.”
I sat down with a smile.
The first one in days.
Finally, a win.
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I lay on the couch, aimlessly flicking through the channels, but that wasn ’ t where my attention was. I dropped the remote and picked up my phone—nothing from the private investigator. Eric had looked at me as though I ’ d lost my marbles. Maybe I had—and this was an early onset of dementia.
I dialled Magnus. My last resort.
“ Hey, how ’ s married life?” I asked in a cheerful tone that was a blatant lie.
“ Excellent. The sex is just—”
“ Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off. “ I met someone. With the most perfect mouth. She gave me the best blow job of my life, and I can ’ t find her. She vanished at midnight.”
“ Wife number three?”
I tried to keep it together, but the days had turned into weeks.
“ Magnus, I think she stole my soul. Sucked it clean out of my balls. I need to find her. Can you think of anyone who could help? Maybe a hacker?”
“ And you thought you could come to me? Iris only explained what OnlyFans was a couple of months ago, yet you think I can locate a hacker for you?”
“ You ’ re a useless friend,” I grumbled, wondering if I should admit she was a prostitute—but that would leave me open to months, if not years, of ribbing.
“ So let me get this right. You found the perfect woman, who sucked the soul out of your balls… and you lost her?” he asked.
“ Yes! Don ’ t you listen? She left at the stroke of midnight, like fucking Cinderella. I need to find that filthy mouth,” I yelled, gripping my phone so hard my knuckles turned white.
She might be the one.
My last hope.
I waited for Magnus to say something.
“ Hello? Hello?”
Frowning, I checked my phone.
He ’ d hung up on me.
The same way I often did with him.
Fuck.
I lay back on the couch, tempted to slip my hand beneath my waistband, but I was made of sterner stuff than that. I ’ d have my wank in the shower, where I could imagine her on her knees, mouth open.
I tossed my phone onto the couch and went to take a shower.
Where are you, Poppy?
Or whatever your name is.
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I wasn ’ t in the mood for Sir Blythe and his games.
This was our fourth meeting, and I ’ d wined and dined him with no results.
At this point, I think he was just fucking with me.
Anger built inside me when I saw he ’ d brought his wife out for a free meal today.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself of what was at stake.
When I reached the table, they were arguing, but as soon as Sir Blythe ’ s eyes met mine, he nudged his wife.
As I sat down, the waiter brought me a menu.
“ Benedict, this is my daughter, Poppy, but she was just leaving.”
I glanced up from the unopened menu and saw the cock-sucking, filthy-mouthed prostitute sitting across from me. Those lips were pinker. Fuller. And smiling.
“ Hello, Daddy,” she said.
I began to choke, but she turned to her father.
“ I mean bye for now, Daddy.”
She stood up.
In a black pantsuit.
I was so disoriented I couldn ’ t tell if it was Ted Baker or Boss.
“ No. Why don ’ t you stay and have lunch with us?” I said, standing up, ready to chase her.
“ I ’ m sorry. I have a client to meet,” she said, glancing at her Fendi watch, toying with the thin gold band.
“ Client!” I practically squeaked the word.
“ Let her go. She needs to get back to work.”
“ Work,” I echoed like a damn parrot.
She slowly licked her lips.
“ Yes, a woman has to work in this economy. It was nice meeting you, Mr—”
“ Lancaster,” I said, realising she ’ d played me like a fucking fiddle.
She smirked. A devil in designer heels. Then turned and walked away. The click of her heels rang in my ears. I absently rubbed my chest while staring at her arse until Sir Blythe cleared his throat.
Right, the father was still here.
I could pump the fat bastard for information.
When I glanced around, a waiter appeared immediately.
“ A bottle of your best Glenfiddich,” I said, because Blythe wasn ’ t worth the Macallan.
Poppy fucking Blythe .
You ’ re on my radar now.