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When she reaches me, Gloria sits back on her heels. The defiance is gone from her eyes, and in its place is a burning, desperate hunger that startles me out of my concentration again.
“Can I?” she asks, reaching for my zipper. Her voice is tremulous, as if she’s terrified I’ll say no. “Haven’t I earned it? Please, Colt.”
For a second, I imagine those dizzying pink lips puckered in a kiss on my pierced tip, stretched around my girth while mascara tracks down her cheeks.
“No,” I say, jerking myself back from the fantasy. “Now stand up.”
She swallows hard, then rises hesitantly, her eyes downcast. I grip her chin gently and pull it up, until she’s forced to meet my eye.
“Stand like a queen before me,” I order. “Always.”
Her sapphire gaze searches mine, as if she’s looking for something.
“When you crawl for me, you do it willingly, as a queen,” I say. “Not as a whore. I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself that again. Understood?”
Her eyes go shiny with tears for the time it takes her to blink a few times and draw a shaky breath. I wait, and when they’re gone, she nods.
“Good,” I say, releasing her chin. “You’re not a whore, no matter what you’ve done, no matter what anyone says. You’re a queen, and you always have been. Don’t ever let anyone take that away from you—even me. Especially me.”
“Maybe I want to be a whore,” she says, her chin lifting, a little of her spark returning. “Can I be your whore?”
My cock throbs at her words, and I want to throw her up against the wall and fuck her like the whore she wants to be treated as. But this is not the time, tempting as it is. I can only hope I don’t hate myself later for giving up this chance, the one that’s played out in my fantasy a million times.
The reality of her is not so simple, though. The reality is delicate, and I know it’s not about her playing me right now. It’s about proving to her that I can’t be played, that I won’t treat her the way she thinks she wants when I know it’s not what she needs. If I fucked her like a whore, I’d be confirming that I’m exactly what she wants me to be, another one of the jerks who have treated her that way for far too fucking long.
“No,” I say. “You can pretend, but you can’t be something you’re not. And you’re no one’s whore, Gloria Walton.”
“What if I don’t feel like a queen anymore?” she asks.
“Then I’ll still get down on my knees and worship you like the queen I know you are, until you never forget it again.”
Her eyes widen, her gaze holding mine with some unspoken message.
“Unless I’ve done that before,” I say, raising a brow.
She swallows and looks away.
I sink to my knees on the floor of the shower. “Open your pussy for me.”
Her belly trembles as her fingers slowly whisper over her skin. They falter at the swell of her mound. “Colt?”
“Show me what’s mine,” I order.
She dips two fingers lower, spreading her lips so I can see the little silver ring in her clit. My cock throbs, and I inhale slowly, my mouth filling with saliva at the scent of her warm cunt so close I can almost taste it.
“Show me how you touch yourself,” I growl. “Finger that pierced clit the way you do when you think about me.”
She lets out a little whimper, and a visible tremor goes through her thighs. Her other hand reaches up, gripping the shower head, and her eyes fall closed. Her finger tugs the ring up, the tip sweeping back and forth over the slick red bud of her clit.
“Tell me who this belongs to,” I order.
“You,” she gasps instantly. “It’s yours, Colt.”
“Who do you think about when you finger that sweet little cunt?” I ask, palming my aching erection. “Who do you picture sliding his cock inside it and making you moan?”
“You,” she says again. “Only ever you.”
“Not Royal?”
