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I pull his hand out of my skirt, reach around to zip it, and quickly collect my things. I can’t get out of this room fast enough.
Yet another reason I despise morning meetings, undergrads flood the campus. I rush as quickly as I can to my car, the windows already frosted from sitting for an hour.
How the hell did this become my life? I’m thinking about one man while another’s fingers are inside me? Even though Axl and I aren’t best friends by any means, I could still use a friend to talk to, even if there’s no way in hell I could tell him what just happened.
As soon as I’m in my car, and heat is set to full blast, I text him.
Can’t wait to see you, too.
Free this weekend?
beth
?. . .?
January 26th
Since Axl has to work this weekend, I slip into my comfiest oversized shirt and panties, curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, and take the night off. Bras can go fuck themselves; I’d sit here topless if it wasn’t fucking freezing out. I need a laugh, so I put on a romantic comedy movie, and sink into the cushions with my fluffy blanket, devouring a pint of ice cream.
Just as the couple is about to break up—and inevitably get back together—there’s a knock at my door. I pause the movie to listen, ensuring I’m not imagining it, or that it’s not just my neighbour getting railed. A second knock raps at my door. With a groan, I get up, removing my warm, cosy blanket from my legs, and wrapping it around my shoulders to answer the door.
Was Axl able to come after all?
I rush to the front door and check the peephole, deflated to find Troy adjusting the sleeves of his button up shirt. I haven’t seen him since the meeting and as much as I love the idea oftrying a new position—or a scene from a book I’m reading—I just wish it was…Axl.
Letting out a long breath, I take a moment before painting on a smile and opening the door. “Troy.”
“Hey, Bethy,” he purrs, helping himself inside without an invitation. My jaw tics at his cutesy name for me. Couldn’t he at least give me some cute pet name, if we’re doing that? Fuck, I’d even take ‘sweetheart’ or ‘boss lady’ at this point.
Ok, I need to lay off the romcoms.
With my luck he wants to try watersports. In which case, I’m out. To each their own, but it’s a hard pass for me. Considering he won’t let me peg him, or try anything I want to, it’s becoming a bit… monotonous.
The routine begins. Troy opens my fridge, scoffs that I only have wine and hard seltzers, closes said fridge, and rounds the kitchen island to start whatever scene he wants to set.
“I don’t appreciate my calls going unanswered,” he says with a cluck of his tongue.
I have no missed calls. No texts. He’s wanting to play out some sort of role, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. Maybe an office scene? I offer, “Next time, an email will suffice.”
“On your knees. If you want to come, you’ll have to do it yourself.” He taps his foot on my wood laminate flooring.
As hot as that suggestion is, I glance down and realise he still has snow boots on. Eyes fixated on them, I ask, “Should I grab my vibrator or…?”
When he doesn’t answer, my eyes meet his and he smirks. “They’re ribbed… for her pleasure.”
I stifle a laugh but a small smirk escapes anyway. My options are limited: fuck a man’s shoe, or kick him out—which is basically kink-shaming him. Neither seem like a wise option at this point. “Can I at least grab a sanitation wipe before grinding my pussy on those?”
“On your knees, sweetheart.”
Alright, clit gods, it was a joke when I said sweetheart would be better.
This could be fun… Maybe?
I’ve read this scene in books, but it’s typically a mafia prince, and sexy as fuck. I absolutely devour those books. This feels… out of place. But, if he’s going to try to be a Dom, I can pretend to be submissive. One night of upping our already weird power dynamic should be fine.
I toss my blanket aside, fall to my knees, and sit back on my heels. My palms face up on my thighs, I keep my head lowered, but so help me if he calls me a good girl…
“Such an obedient good girl for me.”
