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I turn her hand over and kiss her palm. She shivers delightfully. “Now you know the truth. So you can stop blaming yourself. The stage fright was probably compounded by the tension at home. And I think you’re well on your way to being rid of it.”
She blinks in surprise. “You do? How?”
I grin at her expression. “Let’s see. You scream at the top of your lungs when I fuck you, knowing very well my staff are just outside. You kiss me and ride my cock in my office, on top of the piano, or beside the pool knowing anyone walking past can hear or see us.”
She turns beetroot and I groan at how utterly breathtaking she looks, blushing in the sunlight. “But…that’s different.”
“Yes, it is. It’s far more intimate and yet you barely blink at it.”
“But it’s because I’m so…engrossed in it,” she mumbles against my chest.
“Or my little princess is a closet exhibitionist. Regardless, that’s the way it’ll be when you’re on stage. You’ll forget there’s an audience and immerse yourself in the love of your craft. When you’re that fully engaged, you won’t even need to think about who’s watching you.”
She absorbs my words for a minute. Then glances up me, all big eyes and fuckable mouth that make me so hard my dick can drill through diamonds.
“Does that mean you’ll allow me to go back to the studio? Maybe I can test the theory? See if there are any small parts I can try out for in Off-Broadway productions?”
My heart lurches at the tentative hope in her voice.
And I try.
I really try to be a reasonable human being. But that weak asshole doesn’t stand a chance against the ruthless, possessive bastard reigning supreme within me when it comes to this angel. It knocks any reasonableness clean out.
“No, angel. I’m not ready to share you with the world just yet. For now, you only dance for Daddy.”
8
Skye
Another week passes without news about my father. Jared refuses to let me have my phone back.
We row about it. He fucks me till I can barely walk.
And I…let him get away with that.
Why?
Because for the first time in my life I’m…happy. It’s weird and it’s wrong by all conventional standards but I’ve never felt like this. And Stockholm syndrome or not, I don’t want to it change. Not for a while, at least.
Jared gives me free rein of all five penthouse spaces, including his offices. But I find myself returning to the Balinese retreat.
The space calms and rejuvenates my soul. And that’s where he finds me on Friday afternoon, exactly two weeks after he had me captured and brought to him.
I was hot and sweaty after my class with Mrs. Olsteen and took a swim to cool off.
My hair and body are damp, but I’ve slipped my tutu back on because Jared loses his mind when he sees me in it. I’m using the massage table to complete my post-class stretches when he walks in.
His breath hisses out when he sees me. “Full split on the table, little girl. Now,” he growls.
My pussy is ready and throbbing even before I hop on and splay my legs wide open.
The hem of my tutu covers my ass and between my legs and he makes an impatient sound as he yanks it up to display my globes. Then he groans deep and long.
Cool air rushes between my thighs and I shiver, my nipples puckering into tight nubs.
“Jesus Christ. You were made for fucking, weren’t you?” His hips roll forward and I feel his hard length against my ass. “Every delicious inch of you.Mine.”
I hear the clack of his belt loosening and I whimper. Hunger rakes through me and I want to cry with how much I need him.
