tion id="u0803cca4-873c-5f7f-920b-b7dd242fc406">
THE DEEP END
A. M. Hartnett
Copyright
Mischief
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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Copyright © A. M. Hartnett 2014
A. M. Hartnett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007587834
Version: 2014-07-17
Table of Contents
‘I’m not used to a woman who takes charge,’ said the man from Philadelphia as he dragged her thong down to her ankles. He raised a brow as she parted her legs. ‘Is this your thing?’
Grace smirked down at him and leaned back. ‘I’m just efficient. We’ve got about a half an hour left before the meeting.’
‘So that gives us, what, fifteen minutes each?’
‘Assuming you’re as good as you claim to be. If you’re really good, you’ll get some extra time for yourself.’
The first thing she had noticed during the meeting yesterday afternoon was that this man talked too much. Her boss, Hugh Caroway, had barely contained his annoyance as again and again the man interjected.
He was supposed to be the one who went home with her the previous night. She liked his green eyes and wide mouth, and found his faint country-boy drawl charming. He was her bonus after a month’s worth of fifteen-hour days and the conversation had flowed freely between them as they joined the others for dinner, but drinks had been on the Taureau-Werner dime. Grace could have sworn Prohibition was still in effect in Pennsylvania, the way the whole visiting team from Breton-Craig drank, and by eleven o’clock her man was completely useless for anything more than a nauseous cab ride back to his hotel.
It’s a good thing I’m forgiving, she thought and looked down her body to where he knelt between her legs. She bit down on her lip and held her breath as he parted the slick folds of her pussy. He spoke again, too low for her to catch his words, and stroked his thumb across her swollen clit.
‘Tick-tock,’ she whispered and cupped the back of his head.
Thank God for her boss’s long liquid lunches. While Hugh Caroway was off comparing dick sizes with the heavies at Breton-Craig, she’d taken advantage of the impenetrable solitude of his office to make up for lost time.
Luckily for Grace, his wagging tongue was good for more than just being a pain in her boss’s ass in the boardroom. It was always a gamble when she came across a man who was insistent about going down. She found that those keeners were at one end of the spectrum or the other: true masters with their tongues, or sloppy messes who needed her to point her clit out to them.
She curled her toes and grasped the cushion under her head. This one definitely fell into the former category with the way he stroked his tongue across the underside of her hard nub. She preferred a more aggressive tongue, complete with rough hands holding her open and a little finger play at her bum, but for a bit of mid-morning cunnilingus he was just perfect.
Grace shook free of her shoes and propped the balls of her feet up against his shoulders. He glanced at her and she bit down on her smile. His suit was expensive, but she knew he wouldn’t say anything if he wanted to continue. She reached down with one hand and quickly flicked the buttons from her neck to her navel.
He lifted his head and rubbed his face into her thigh, concealing his grin. ‘Show me those great tits. Play with them while I play with you.’