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I blanch. “That’s not how this works. You said we’d stick to my plan.”
“And if you can provide me with an adequate incentive, we will.” He smirks. “What did you say the other night? This isn’t kindergarten, Etta.”
My stomach drops out. “Don’t say that.”
Roman’s eyes flash back and forth between mine and he must realize I’m serious, because for once, he drops it without question. He takes a step toward me instead, backing me in against the table. “Come on, good girl. I know you’re a good debater.”
I laugh lightly. I am, in fact. Structured debates were one of the few times I was ever able to argue to my heart’s content without the fear of coming off rude, or the judgement of being beholden to my own anger. In a way, it’s a bit like this. Hiding behind practice, to act out the fantasy of what I want.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Roman doesn’t want a debate. He wants me to convince him.
With a boldness I didn’t know I was capable of—at least, not without more prompting—I reach forward and trail my fingers along the edge of his belt until I reach the buckle. Leaning forward to brush my mouth against his collar bone, I undo the belt and unbutton his pants.
“I thought you said no kissing,” Roman rasps.
“This doesn’t count.”
I slip my hand into his pants and I’m momentarily shocked as my fingers brush smooth skin. Roman is neither a boxers nor a briefs guy, apparently, and I hate how that both fits perfectly, and somehow changes every interaction I’ve ever had with him.
My fingers stroke up and down his length, teasing, my thumb rolling over the head. I gently explore while I graze my mouth over the exposed skin of his neck just above the collar of his shirt. I’m almost glad it’s the highest point I could reach. He’d have to bend down for our lips to connect, saving me from myself.
“You have eight minutes,” he says roughly. “Unless you want to practice with a real audience.”
My stomach lurches. I’m pretty sure he’s joking. I don’tthinkhe wants that—but then again, it’s hard to tell sometimes. Better just to get a move on.
I sink to my knees in front of him. It’s just like last night, in my kitchen, but this time I’m in control. I’m choosing to do this, rather than Roman leading me through the motions.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he says sharply, trying to tug me back up.
“You just said I had to convince you.”
It’s a twisted little game we’ve started, battling for control, and I’m not sure how it happened or when it started. If it was in the library when we decided to do this, or that day on the steps outside the auction, or upstairs at my parents’ party. Or maybe it was years ago, in cemeteries, or outside our headmaster’s office.
I know I’m already at a disadvantage in our game. Know that Roman wants to own me and thinks he already does, and that in a way he’s a little bit right. Yet, as I look up at him through my lashes and lean forward to run my tongue up his cock. As I wrap my hand around the base and suck the head into my mouth, swirling my tongue with each long, teasing strokes, I feel like I might be closing the distance on his lead.
I smile around his tip, enjoying this power I have over him, and speed up my pace taking more and more into my mouth with each motion.
“Fuck.” Roman makes a strangled sound and digs his fingers into my hair. “You don’t know me as well as you seem to think you do, good girl.”
My eyes narrow. I don’t know what that means because he’s clearly enjoying this. His nails scrape my scalp, half holding me there, half petting me. Like a caress against the top of my head as he moves me back and forth over his length.
My clit throbs as he speeds his pace, fucking my mouth, deeper and deeper until he hits the back of my throat, I blink against the burn in my eyes and mascara tears pour down my face.
Finally, his hips jerk and then he’s erupting down my throat in long, hot bursts and I swallow instinctively.
“Good girl,” Roman breathes, face almost pained as he gently wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs.
I tense, my brain warring with the way my body hums when he calls me that: “good” uttered in this entirely new context. Not like I’m “good” but I’m good for him. I’ve pleased him.
I smile and move to stand, licking my lips, but Roman’s hand shoots out to stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I thought there was a class coming in,” I gasp.
“There is. You’ve still got about fifteen-seconds and I remain unconvinced. Better make it quick.”
I gape at him. What the hell? “What else did you want me to do?”
He shakes his head at me, mischief in his eyes. “You should have used that time to make yourself come, good girl. I’m not the one who needs reminding who they belong to.”
