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The doors on the far side of the courtyard opened. Benson dipped his mouth to her ear. “Are you going to be my good little whore?”
Mal took a shaking breath. “Yes, Sir.”
* * *
Benson walked Mal into the center of the courtyard as Mikel came into view.
Benson had put up a little sign in the Den to ensure that someone actually came out through this door. He’d thought about orchestrating the whole thing—pre-selecting the “buyers.” But that was a different sort of scene. That was “sharing.”
If Benson had organized it, Mikel was probably one of the Doms he would have asked. Or maybe he would have told Mikel to fuck off. Benson had yet to shake the image of Mal lying in that chair, legs spread while Mikel cropped her thighs.
Benson’s therapist would point out that he’d focused a lot of attention on Mal’s inner thighs. An attempt to override the memory of Mikel touching her.
But his therapist wasn’t here, and Benson had no right to be possessive over Mal. He’d learned not to be possessive the same way he’d learned to avoid her. Ever since they’d announced this godforsaken game—even while he insisted he’d never play—Benson had been struggling.
“Ah, this is lovely, isn’t it?” Mikel walked over, smiling genially.
“If you want to touch her, it will cost you.” Benson had a bad feeling he sounded like a D-grade movie pimp.
“How may I touch her?”
“Any way you want, if the price is right.”
Mal made a breathy little sound. He tightened his hold on the back of her neck and pushed her forward a step towards Mikel.
He should follow through with some more pimp-eqsue dialog, but he didn’t have it in him.
“How much for me to taste that lovely pussy?”
Mal made a happy little sound. Benson grunted.
“Problem?” Mikel arched a brow.
“Pleasure wasn’t one of our checklist items.”
“Ah. She’s on orgasm restriction?”
“No,” Benson admitted. “I’m just not touching her clit or fucking her pussy.”
“I try and respect boundaries—”
Benson snorted. “That’s bullshit.”
“—so how much to fuck her mouth?”
Benson’s teeth hurt from clenching his jaw. It took longer than it should have for him to get a word out. “Five.”
Mikel nodded and turned back to the Den.
“Is he giving you actual money?” Mal asked.
Benson had no idea, but didn’t tell her that. Instead, he led her over to the gym mat he’d hauled in to the nameless courtyard. “On your knees.”
Mal dropped to her knees, swiveling to look up at him.
“Where are you?” Say yellow. Say red.
“Green, Sir.”
