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She glances down at her breasts, looks back up at me biting her lip. Her eyes shine with the tears, but it’s more than that.
I see certainty in those eyes.
She knows what I want to do right now.
She knows that every second I’m struggling between two forces—the dominating beast inside of me and the silver haired civilized gentleman in the suit.
“We need to finish up in here,” she murmurs, turning away from me.
That ass.
She’s begging to be filled with my seed if she’s going to walk around with an ass like that.
“Liam,” she says, not looking at me, her voice sharp.
“Lola,” I echo.
“We need to finish up here.”
“You’re lucky you’re a virgin and I want your first time to be special,” I snap, cock throbbing like it’s heading toward a crescendo. “Otherwise I’d bend you over the bar and take you raw right now. I wouldn’t touch you at all first. I’d just slide up inside of you and fuck you until you creamed for me, making yourself even wetter than you already are.”
Her whole body is shaking now. She lets out a musical moaning note, as if by accident, as if she was trying to hold it back.
“Come on,” I chuckle a moment later. “It’s time to get to work.”
“You’re a meanie,” she giggles.
“Like you’re complaining.”
Chapter Nine
Lola
I sit on the comfortable bed, the room flooded with heat against the cold of the evening outside. The windows are pitch-dark except for a glint of the stars reflecting against the glass.
I’ve got thick socks on my feet, plush and pink, a pair my aunt got me a couple of years ago. I wriggle my toes, savoring the warmth.
I turn back to my laptop, to the word document.
My eyes scan over the lyrics to ‘Stolen by your Love’, a song I’m currently working on. It’s a little cheesy, but sometimes a little cheesiness is what the heart needs.
Anyway, it is Valentine’s weekend, so if I was ever going to let the soft gooey side of myself out, there’s no better time.
I started the song a week ago. The tune came to me first, soft and slow at first, and then picking up until it became something aggressive and punky. I imagine myself rocking out in front of a roaring crowd, strumming my guitar, leaping around the stage.
But then the crowd shifts and they start to boo. High school bullies appear, pointing, laughing. People start to chant cruel names at me.
I run off the stage, the music cutting short, my throat closing up.
I sigh and try to focus.
Ever since we got back from the club, my body has been alight with the memory of what we did on the stairs. My core aches and my clit throbs. Deep inside feels needy, like my womb wants me to be filled with his massive manhood. My nipples tingle like they’re getting ready for breast milk.
Kayley is home now, here for dinner before meeting up with her boyfriend again later. I don’t know how long she’ll be out tonight. I don’t know if she’s even coming back for sure.
I cried against him. I choked and I gasped and I slobbered.
And he still wants me.
How is this not a dream?
I type, I cried and I raged/ and he broke off my chains and/I soak all the pain /in hope and champagne …
I study the words, singing them under my breath. This will be part of the aggressive section, the words coming fast and frenetic and full of lively energy. The champagne line isn’t strictly true, but then it’s not like pop songs are held to stringent fact-checking requirements or anything.
Outside the doorway, the floorboards creak. I smile when I hear the pattern.
It’s Hunter’s calm loping gait. He’s constantly strolling around the house, sniffing, patrolling, making sure that everything is as it should be.
I let myself imagine what it would be like to live here, forever feeling safe.
But this is just Valentine’s weekend.
That’s it.
And he took all the blame, I type. He drove me insane/but again and again/he pretends he can be tamed.
I bite down briefly. He pretends he can be tamed. Is that Liam?
Maybe he’s making me believe that underneath that suit of armor, beneath the shadowed silver of his jaw, there’s a man down there who truly wants me forever.
Maybe this is all some twisted trick.
I can’t let myself think that.
It’s too painful.
A notification pings at the bottom right. A Facebook message.
I sigh, not in the mood to talk to the performance-art people about a project right now. But at the same time, we did agree to always be active in the chat just in case any changes were required. It’s only a small project. That doesn’t mean I want to flunk it, though. I move the cursor over to the notification and click on it.
My browser opens onto the messaging app. It’s not the performance-art chat.
