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“If we do this, that’s you agreeing to listen to me, to do whatever I say.”
I pause, thinking about his words.
Thinking about what they mean.
Letting go of control, the thing I’ve been fighting my whole life to have.
Control of my sister.
Control of my dad’s addiction.
Control of the family’s reputation.
Now, control of my own future.
And honestly?
The thought of handing over that control to this man, of being free of it and the expectations and the need to be on top of everything?
Fuck.
I like it a lot.
It sounds . . . freeing.
So I nod.
And when he continues to stare at me, I speak.
“Okay, Ben. Yeah. Yes.” A deep groan falls from his lips, but then he’s gone, rolling and moving until he’s sitting with his back to the headboard, legs wide.
“Ben—”
“Kneel right here, sweet girl,” he says, motioning between his legs. “I’ve been thinking about this fucking moment for months. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” I pull my lip in between my teeth, gnawing at it with nerves. “Now, Lola.”
This is the moment.
Something tells me this will decide everything.
So I do it.
I move, kneeling between his legs, sitting on my feet and placing my hands on my knees, waiting for the next instruction.
I know I did well when Ben growls deep with satisfaction.
“Like that, baby. You listening to me. Like that a fuck of a lot.” His hand moves, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, trailing down my neck before grabbing the hem of the tee. “This. I like the look of you in my tee but want to see you even more. Take it off.”
Anxiety blooms in my belly, but he’s seen me before. Seen my body. Fuck, he’s seen me come. I sigh, crossing my arms in front of me and pulling the shirt over my head, before tossing it to the side.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before big hands trace my curves. Full hips, a smaller waist that could do with fewer taste tests, then up my ribcage, tickling the sensitive nerves there before cupping my breasts.
I hold my breath, old insecurities rising because while I might have thick hips and curves, I’ve never had the tits to back it up.
But I should have known this man would know somehow and still work to make me love it.
His hands move, palms covering my breasts and rubbing, my nipples hard, and the friction feels delicious.
“Like these,” he says, moving his hands back, each hand catching a nipple between thumb and forefinger and pinching just a hair past comfortable.
