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Chapter 9
DARREN
Past
Ilook over at Bridget and consider flipping her back onto her stomach. I liked how she looked with her ass rounding the edge of the bed. There’s still so much I can do to her in that position.
But the food’s probably waiting by the front door.
After tossing the condom and pulling up my pants, I plant kisses from her belly to her mouth. Her words—may I come, sir—still ring deliciously in my ears. Sitting her up, I pull her bra and top down her arms.
“You want your clothes back or something else to wear?” I ask, picking her jeans and panties off the floor.
She looks at the clothes I lay upon the bed. “I’ll take something else.”
From my dresser, I pull out a pair of black silk pajamas. They’ll be too large on her since they’re mine, but the bottoms are drawstring. Or she could just wear the top.
“You don’t mind?” she asks after I hand her the pajamas. “These feel really nice.”
“Put them on,” I reply, wanting to see her in my pajamas for some reason.
After buttoning on the top and slipping on the bottoms, she fiddles with the loose drawstrings. I step in and yank the drawstrings tight before tying them. She looks good in my pajamas.
“These are nice,” she said, feeling the sleeve. “You might not get them back.”
I cup her jaw and grin. “I’ll have fun trying.”
Her lips part in an irresistible manner. I close them with mine, savoring how soft and responsive they are. There’ll be time for more later.
“You said you were hungry,” I say, releasing her before I walk out of the bedroom.
“Actually, I didn’t,” she responds. “You asked me if I was, then said you could have food brought up to your place before I could really answer.”
I pause. Is that right? Probably. Women don’t usually dispute my game plan.
“So you’re not hungry?” I ask.
“I’ll eat,” she replies.
Opening the front door, I find a cart waiting. I wheel it in to the dining table. Removing the lids, I see that the chef sent up lobster pot stickers with ginger-scallion sauce, Kobe beef sliders with black truffles, and a forbidden rice pudding with mango.
Eying the food, Bridget sits down next to the head of the table. “Now I’m hungry.”
“Dig in,” I tell her and pop the cork of a bottle of zinfandel that came with the food. I pour two glasses.
“Oh, I don’t drink,” she reminds me.
“This is nothing like baijiu. It’s fruity.”
She hesitates.
“What are you afraid of?” I ask. “That you’ll get drunk, and I’ll take advantage of you?”
“Maybe I’m worried you might pull some of that BDSM on me.”
I could point out that I already have, but instead I reassure her, “I don’t play with intoxicated subs.”
“That’s responsible of you.”
