Page 8 of Filthy Mouth (Obsessive Age Gap #2)
Benedict
I checked the bar before walking around, but he wasn't there.
Arsehole.
The bar was crowded, so I ordered two rounds before I messaged him.
Me: This is what I get after being there for you every step of the way. Dickhead.
It wasn't so bad—if he didn't come, it meant all four drinks were mine, but my phone vibrated.
Magnus: It’s Daddy Dickhead to you. I’m on my way. I had a quick tryst with Iris in the office and might've got carried away. You know how it is .
Me: Who the fuck calls it a tryst? Buy your own drink when you get here .
I lifted my drink, closed my eyes, and took a long sip, savouring the first taste before I downed the rest.
Poppy Sarah Blythe—The Winborne heiress.
Daughter of Iona Winborne and Sir Isaac Blythe.
Not a prostitute, but the owner of Iona Designs.
Twenty-five years old, and the owner of the mouth I ’ m infatuated with.
Once my PI knew her name, he dug deep and earned his fee. I may have knuckled down on him and threatened his manhood. I didn't have all the information, but the basics painted a promising picture. She was nothing like either of my ex-wives.
I lifted the second glass and watched the people around me. Many looked like they’d come straight from work. There were a few couples, and the majority of them looked happy.
My dirty Cinderella didn't need a Prince Charming in her life, but perhaps she had a taste for villains.
By the time Magnus came, I was on my fourth drink.
“You drank these in the last fifteen minutes?” he quizzed me like a disappointed mother.
“Yes, Mummy. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No, I don't. You're a grown ass man. But I do enjoy judging you.”
I gave him both fingers, but he chuckled and went to the bar.
He was always cheerful—a changed man since Iris.
I wanted a slice of happiness more desperately than I could admit out loud—not a cheating wife or one who wanted me for my wallet. Someone I could commit to and receive the same level of commitment from. Years of keeping an emotional distance from women clearly wasn ’ t the way forward.
I was lost in thought when I noticed Magnus standing there, watching me. My back went up the moment I saw his brain churning, forming a conclusion.
“ I ’ m here for you, Benedict. Tell me everything,” he said quietly, placing the bottle on the table.
My shoulders sagged, and I told him everything. The alcohol loosened my tongue, but as he sat there—nodding, pouring our drinks, listening to every word—I remembered why we were still friends after all these years.
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“ So you want me to call Iona Designs and request a private consultation at your house… under my name?” Ella said, glancing up from her notepad.
I nodded, keeping my expression blank.
“ And it has to be the owner,” she continued, her eyes flicking back to the pad. “ Miss Poppy Blythe. Who just so happens to share a surname with Sir Isaac Blythe.”
“ Perhaps I was too hasty with that four per cent raise,” I drawled.
“ No backsies,” she snorted. “ Fine. But when this shit ends up in court, I ’ m not taking the stand for you.”
“ What happened to the sweet assistant I hired eleven years ago?” I asked as she stood, pad in hand.
“ I met you.”
I grinned as she turned and marched out of the office.
Ella always got the job done.
It took nine days to devise my wicked plan. If it worked, it ’ d be better than acquiring the land her father kept dangling in front of me.
The greedy fuck wanted way more than it was worth.
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I stood in front of the mirror like a goddamn idiot, two shirts hanging beside me like they held the power to decide whether I came tonight or not.
Black or charcoal.
The black one was silk—subtle sheen, cut to precision. It screamed sin. The kind of shirt a man wore to fuck someone ’ s future into his mattress.
The charcoal? Brushed cotton. Softer. Smoother. Less likely to terrify her on arrival.
I looked at them both, then at my reflection, then back to the shirts.
Shit, I was spiralling.
I rubbed my hands down my jaw, freshly shaved, skin still warm from the steamy shower I ’ d taken. Hair blown out, the ends falling over my collar just right. Wash, condition, towel-dry with a silk blend—never cotton. Blow-dry on medium with the diffuser, two drops of oil to finish.
My mother used to say vanity was a woman ’ s sin. I ’ d proved it was a man ’ s, too.
I turned, looking at my bedroom like it had become a stage. Sheets crisp. Scented candles lit. The fragrance of expensive restraint wafted through the air—bergamot and black amber.
Every part of me honed for control.
Except her.
That fucking mouth.
She ’ d called me Daddy with her lips wrapped around my cock, and I hadn ’ t stopped thinking about her since.
And now she was coming to my house for a consultation at seven sharp.
I laughed to myself, low and mean.
I was going to break every rule I ’ d ever set with this woman.
Back at the mirror, I tugged on the black shirt. It clung to my arms just enough, highlighting the line of my chest. Power. I rolled the cuffs and left the top two buttons undone.
Let her look.
Let her remember what I tasted like.
And when she finally understood what kind of room I wanted her to design—when I told her what I needed—it wouldn ’ t be her ideas I cared about.
It would be how long I could hold off before bending her over the nearest surface and fucking that filthy little mouth again.
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The doorbell chimed. I drew a deep breath.
It was showtime.