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He’s the reason why so many have stopped their own play to watch him fuck. He pulls out of the woman so that only his head remains inside her pussy before surging forward and making her shriek. The sharp sound of pure pleasure and feeling echoes in my ears and Dom Daddy reaches out to spank her ass. Her tits. He squeezes her nipples and her wails take on a keening quality.
He reaches around to place his index fingers at the corners of her mouth and holds her tight, like the bit in a bridle, as he slides in and out of her channel. Time slows around us and the seconds are measured in each harsh inhale from the man, each lusty sob from the woman he’s working over.
I can’t look away and I can’t make my mind work the way I need it to.
Gods, this ishot.
There is something in the way he moves, the way he tilts his hips and works her body, leaving no doubt as to his control. Over her and the situation.
The man is…something special, and I see it even with my irritation. He’s lean and muscled, with a thick dark goatee that lends the appearance of a bruiser, adds to the stage persona that I don’t think is a creation but his real self.
His bottle-green eyes are icy yet confident when he rakes them across the crowd.
He pisses me off.
Frustration tangles with desire inside of me.
Not for any particular reason other than the arrogance clinging to him as tightly as his sweat. He’s someone who has built up a reputation based on looks and ego. Sure, he’s got a big head on both counts.
He’s got raw sex appeal but nothing more.
Yup, an arrogant prick who knows he’s good with his body.
Fine he may be, but he’s the type of guy who’s soured me on male Doms in general.
Ink flashes on his back when he turns to give the audience a better view of his ass and the pussy he pounds into. My heart stops dead in my chest, breath catching and eyes going wide.
There are more tattoos. The stark black lines of the design cut across the muscles of his shoulders and his spine.
But it’s the same design as the one in my lighter.
Down to the last detail.
His tattoo is a phoenix burning, the same twin swords with the white rose pommels and the blue stylized flame.
Fuck me.
This man with the magic cock has something to do with my father’s murder.
The thumping of club music matches exactly the Dom’s tempo of his performance on stage, and as the girl screams, finishing all over his dick, I bolt toward the stage area. Ignoring the way Taney calls my name.
I’m stomping my way up the steps, hiding in the curtains near the edge of the stage as the rat bastard pulls out, evidence of the woman’s pleasure slathered all over the condom, and stalks away like he’s just won some prize. Leaving her alone and trembling.
The audience goes wild, but he ignores it as he makes his way offstage. He doesn’t see me there when I grab his elbow and yank him toward the open doorway behind the curtains, a small changing area for the girls to use whenever they need a break or some privacy.
“You.” His name isn’t important. The tattoo is, and his connection—whatever it is—to my father. “I need to talk to you.”
He stares down at me and, maintaining eye contact, reaches over to a side table to grab a towel, swiping it across his face. Turning so that his half-mast dick still wrapped in the condom bobs right in front of me. Like he wants me to gawk at it.
Stifling a growl, I grind my teeth and maintain my hold on his opposite arm. I force my gaze to his face and his emerald eyes, still glinting with the last hints of pleasure and a dark light that screams a challenge.
I wish I’d brought my badge.
I wish I had my gun.
My stomach does a lazy flop under the weight of his gaze.
“If you want a piece of me, then get in line, sweetheart.” He rakes his eyes over me once before he sniffs, dismissing me, lazy contempt written across his face.
