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“I'm not begging, I'm telling you. You will behave, or I will punish you enough for you to regret causing me trouble. And believe me, it's not fun when those around you suffer because of you.”
“I'll be good, daddy,” I assure him, reaching for his collar and adjusting his tie.
When that term leaves my lips, I notice his jaw muscles twitching nervously. Surely he remembered the moment he made me call him that, but only when no one else was listening. He must also remember the aftermath, which wasn't exactly pleasant.
I smooth out the corners of his collar and the edges of his jacket. When my hand runs along his tie, Manasseh grabs my wrist and stops me. He probably remembers what I did to him in the bathroom and doesn't want history to repeat itself.
“No!” he urges through gritted teeth.
“What? Isn't this what you wanted from me? I'm the slutty woman dressed expensively, who accompanies you during the day, and at night, opens her legs for you and lets you stick your dick into every place it can fit. All for you. I wear heels for you, even if I have a lingering ankle pain,” I lift one of my legs and lean against him, caressing his chest.
Manasseh grabs my hand, then presses it against his crotch with caution, making sure no one sees us, feeling his erection grow in his pants even before I touch it.
“Calm down!” With his free hand, he grabs me by the back of my neck and shakes me lightly. “Don't annoy me, unless you want to scratch that itch for me. Otherwise, I might just take you to the bathroom and fuck you until you can't walk in those heels anymore.” He glances at my sandals, and I look at the bulge in his pants, forcing its way.
His palm stings, and I don't even realize when I started breathing so fast.
“Get your hand off me!” I wrench away and take a step back.
“Then don't taunt the bull if you can't ride it properly, or I'll give you real reasons to complain! Those cute shoes of yours will be your last concern, because I'll give you something to remember until you can't even sit, let alone walk.”
“Go to hell!” I curse, and he wets his lips one after the other.
“You first,” he looks around, ensuring there is no unwanted attention on us, and takes a cigarette from his pack.
“I'm not going. I don't even know what I'm doing here in the first place!” I gesture with irritation, and when I take another step back, Manasseh grabs my arms and presses me against his chest, narrowly avoiding colliding with a waiter carrying a tray full of drinks.
I feel him breathe heavily, and how he rests his chin on the top of my head for a moment, because even with heels, I'm still much shorter than him. When I raise my gaze, I catch his gray eyes fixing on me, and a shiver runs under my skin when our gazes meet through the cigarette smoke.
“Come on,” he takes a drag from the cigarette filter and exhales the remaining smoke through his nostrils. “We've delayed this enough. Thank you,” he mutters ironically.
“You're welcome,” I let myself be led by him.
“You've done it now,” he looks at me threateningly, and I shrug, feeling guilty.
Cary Arms & Spa is quite popular among the wealthy. The resort is surrounded by greenery and has a stone pier that extends into the English Channel. The table reserved for Manasseh and his business partner is in the area called the Captain's Table, the largest and most special table, facing the sea. As we step into the reserved area, two men and a beautiful woman are already seated at the table, and they don't bother to stand up.
“If it isn't the Morning Star himself. How's life treating you, champ?” the grizzled man raises his glass, and Manasseh shakes their hands in turn.
“I'm doing better than ever,” he looks at me, and as we sit down at the table, he leans closer to my ear and whispers, “Play the fool!”
“And you must be Rebecca, his fiancée,” the younger man, who resembles the older one, takes a sip from his strong drink, and I can see the woman who introduced herself as the businessman's wife playfully lifting the hem of his pants with the tip of her shoe.
“Who's Rebecca?” I blink slightly, and the people at the table look confused, some at each other.
“Not that fool,” Masse whispers to me again, and I press my breasts against his arm and laugh like a fool.
“My fiancé calls me 'Becca' so often that I forget my full name,” I dig my nails into Manasseh's bulging bicep, and he stares at my lips, painted with red lipstick.
“I looked for you during the match, but I couldn't find you,” the other man, much younger and resembling the older one, sips from his glass of spirits, and I can see the woman who introduced herself as the businessman's wife playfully lifting the hem of his pants with the tip of her shoe.
“I had another match to take care of beforehand,” Manasseh references what happened in the bathroom, and my stomach clenches painfully. “Then I hurried home with my beautiful fiancée, where we had a few more rounds.”
The men laugh heartily, and I want to smack Manasseh.
“And did you win?
“I win every time,” Manasseh's arrogance knows no bounds.
