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“Because you fucked me and I liked it. And now I’m…I’m used and I didn’t do anything about it. I should have said no.”
My chest ached. She didn’t necessarily need me to fix this for her, she needed therapy. But right now the one thing I knew I could offer her was a positive experience right here and now.
“Let me take you somewhere tonight,” I said.
She leaned back and wiped her eyes. Delicately, with the pad of her finger so she didn’t smear her already running mascara.
“Where?”
I ran my fingertips down her forearms and cradled her palms. “I think maybe the root of your shame isn’t what you think it is. I…I think part of you would feel less guilty if you’d hated it.”
She chewed her lip. “Maybe you’re right. But why?”
Fuck, my chest hurt.
“Well, you told me that you feel like sex is something that’s done to you for my…benefit. Like you don’t have an right to enjoy it,” I said. “Maybe it would help you if you could see yourself. See how pretty you are when you’re enjoying yourself, that it’s a good thing.”
“I don’t think seeing how I look when I’m getting fucked is going to help,” she said tiredly.
I cleared my throat. Why was I getting emotional right now? I cleared it again and brushed her hair back. Cupping her chin.
“You’re not a side character,” I said softly. “You’re the real thing.”
Her brow quirked. “What does that mean?”
I shrugged once. “It means, you get to write the narrative. You get to pick whatever it is that you want the sex you have to be. It’s that simple.”
She stared at me and I wasn’t sure she understood. “How do you know all this stuff?” she whispered.
“Those beliefs are not particular to your upbringing,” I said. “They’re often passed down from father to son, from mother to daughter. It takes an incredibly strong person to break that cycle and pick what they want. Like, actually pick who they want to be.”
“You did,” she said. “You must have.”
“No,” I admitted. “I wasn’t the one…my brother shielded me from a lot of my father’s cruelty. He taught me about some basic concepts that I never heard my father even mention.”
“Like what?”
“Like consent,” I said. “Like respect.”
“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, shoving down all those complex emotions. “This isn’t about me, this is about you and what I can do to make you into the dirtiest little slut I can and make you proud of it.”
Her jaw dropped and she gave a little gasp. I couldn’t conceal my smirk and she flushed, climbing out of my lap and tugging her panties back up. I shifted lower in my seat so I could adjust my cock beneath my zipper.
She crossed her arms. “Alright, just how are you going to do that?”
“I’m taking you out for a real dinner,” I said. “I know you’re still hungry. Now, how comfortable are you taking your clothes off in public?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IRIS
An hour later, I found myself in a dimly lit room in nothing but my bra and panties. I’d never felt more vulnerable before in my life.
The table was rounded and fit into the corner of the tiny room. The walls were a thick velvet curtain that shielded us from the rest of the club. My heart was pounding, I had a glass of red wine in my hand, and I was almost naked in Duran Esposito’s lap.
Who was I?
