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“Brat.”
I position my cock at her slit, running the tip over the wetness of just before slamming into her. Hard. Rough. I pound down into her heat, the tight walls that grip me like she wants to milk me. Her moans make my cock ache for release, and I say fuck it to control.
I want to be so deep I don’t know where she begins and I end. And fuck, that sweet cunt contracts around me as she writhes, her juices flowing over me. I don’t stop, just keep going, thrust after thrust like every movement continues to blur the lines that separate us.
When she comes again, a cry rips the air. Her orgasm is so intense, her pussy clamps so fucking hard on me that I come, too. The erotic flame ignites in my core, exploding out to every cell. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even think.
When the tremors that rock us both finally stop, I untie her. She falls into my arms like a spent rag doll. I lift her into my arms and carry her into her bedroom where I clean her up. I’ve been a real dick about aftercare. But it’s the right thing to do. Showing her a modicum of respect and concern.
Jesus, the shit I do with Ivy…
She curls up next to me on the bed when I’mfinished with her, wrapped in a throw blanket, looking worn out as fuck, and a little like she’s still floating with that dreamy expression on her face.
When my phone pings with a text, I look at it and frown. I answer with one word.
Yes.
“Pollyanna?”
“Master?”
I swallow the smile that word brings. “Tomorrow we’re going to the club. I’ve been asked to do a rope demo. You’re my sub for it.”
I rarely do these. Although I get asked a lot. But this is Broken Angel. I’d normally get a seasoned sub, someone who knows exactly what to do, someone I’ve worked with in rope play before, and there are a number of women I can call on who’d fall over themselves to do it.
But Ivy’s the obvious choice.
For the job.
Thing is, I know that if the job didn’t exist, I’d do it with her, anyway.
The realization hits me in the chest like a lead brick.
And my priorities shift the slightest bit.
That’s when I know I’m well and truly fucked.
TWENTY-NINE
ivy
That night,Mercer makes dinner. It’s late, but I don’t mind. It’s time I get to spend with him, and like the most addictive drug, I can’t get enough of him.
When we go into the kitchen, the edges of my brain and senses are a little fuzzy, like I’m wrapped up in the erotic essence of him.
There are so many things I want to say, things I want to ask. I haven’t thought of checking my phone beyond a call yesterday to Elise. She’s busy, happy, and tired. She says she’s improving daily. When she hung up, the empty space inside my heart felt a little deeper, and Mercer makes that worse and better, all at the same time.
He pulls a chicken out of the refrigerator—ethically sourced, field-raised, or something like that—and proceeds to work like some kind of mad scientist as he makes a quick brine.
It’s like watching a master at work. I get the feeling he’s a master at everything he does, but the measuring of exact amounts he puts into the mixture, the ease of his movements along with his level of concentration make me think of his drug-dealing days.
What had he said? He made his own concoctions. Drugs for recreation without the big-ticket classifications like the stuff in Jaxson’s drawer.
And I remember some stuff thrown out by Mom, disregarded by the cops as though it was nothing. They took what they needed to press charges.
My latent guilt twists sharp.
After the chicken is put back into the fridge in a bag of marinade, salt, and sugar, Mercer takes me upstairs. Runs a bath, strips me down, and gets out my body wash.
