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“Fuck yeah, Lola,” he says, thrusting in, the hand that was on my tit moving down until a thick finger settles on my clit. I mewl at the feeling, moving to try and get more from him, but he’s controlling this, his arm beneath my ass, keeping my hips braced on the wall.
“Stay still and I’ll make you come, okay, sweet girl?” I moan, moan because I want that. I want him, and the idea of this man calling himselfmy fucking Daddy, rubbing a thumb on my swollen, abused clit, and pumping into me has me creeping to the invisible edge I’d do anything to crest.
So I do as I’m told.
I stop moving my hips, stop trying to take control, to be the one who does it all.
I let Lola go and let this man take care of me, even if it’s just for this moment while he fills me with immense pleasure.
“That’s it, Lola, give it to me. Come for Daddy,” he says as his thumb digs hard and rolls. And that’s all it takes.
My head flies back, hitting the wall as I moan out, my orgasm making the noise in my ears quiet, ringing silence as my voice cuts out. Pleasure racks me in trembling waves as Ben continues to pump into me, groaning and growling words I can’t make out, his thumb carrying out the orgasm of a lifetime.
Except it's not.
It’s not the orgasm of a lifetime because I felt that same intensity last night.
And as Ben pumps into me, biting my neck hard when he comes, causing my body to shudder with another, smaller orgasm, I wonder if it would be like that a third time.
* * *
When we come down from our high, my mind comes back to me, my legs start to unwrap from his hips, and he slowly lowers me until my sneakers hit the floor.
And then he does the unexpected.
“Stay there,” he says, kissing me softly on the lips, a contrast to what just happened. I listen, not because I want to listen to Benjamin Coleman, but because my legs are shaking and I need to lean on the cool, painted concrete until they steady.
I hear water running, and then he’s back from the small bathroom, a wet washcloth in hand. It’s warm as he runs it between my legs, and I hiss in a breath as it grazes my still swollen clit. He smiles that shit-eating grin at me, and even though he’s annoying and kind of an ass, I smile back.
“Sore?”
“Not yet.” He shakes his head at my taunt, tossing the wet washcloth to the ground.
“You can’t resist, can you?” he asks, and I just smile. He’s right. I can’t. “Hands on my shoulders, baby,” he says as he bends forward, grabbing my shorts. He urges me to lift one foot, then the other, putting my shorts on and then sliding them up my body, kissing the spot right above my shorts and under my belly button with a reverence I don’t expect.
It scrambles my mind.
This man scrambles my mind.
He stands and then kisses me again, soft and sweet like we do this often—argue, then fuck, then leave each other for the day, calm and ready to take on whatever life throws at us. He pulls me close and presses another kiss to my forehead.
“Now go bake your cookies, sweet girl. Go make the men of the boardwalk’s mouths water, but know that I’m the only one who’s tasting you tonight.” I can almost hear the record scratch, except my own music is still blaring.
“Excuse me?” I ask, trying to pull back to look at him, his smile in place.
“After you close, come to the shop. You’ll sit in my booth until we close, then you’ll be sleeping in my bed.”
“Excuse me?” I repeat again. There’s no way I’m hearing this correctly.
“Your music is loud, babe, but you’re not deaf.” He leans forward and nips my ear. A shiver runs down my spine, and he smiles.Such an ass.
“I’m not sleeping in your bed.” I move to get away from him, and he lets me. I stand a few feet away, hands on my hips. When I see my mixer is still going, creaming butter and sugar to oblivion, I walk over and flick the switch. The small change in noise level helps my brain to function, so I move to turn down my music, too.
Once that’s off, the quiet is near deafening as I repeat myself. “I’m not sleeping in your bed, Ben.”
“Fine, I’ll sleep in yours then.”
“Ben!”
