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That sounds so incredibly sad, even to me.
Another man has walked over to us. I’ve tuned them all out, letting thoughts of hate and excuses for what I’ve been craving, needing, and desiring overtake me. Voices around me are muted by my mind and by the low-key, sensual music playing in the background.
Mercer has a drink in his hand, and as he talks, he moveshis hand to the top of my breasts, a move so breathtakingly casual for a moment, I reel.
He does it like we do it all the time. Like we fit.
All these other men and women eye him up and then look at me. The women do it covertly, like they shouldn’t, and a thrill hits me.
They’re subs, and they’re breaking rules by looking, but he’s so pretty, he’s a rule worth breaking. Then there are the ones who look at me. They leer like they know exactly what they’d do to me if they got a chance. And they do it overtly.
They’re Doms and Dommes and they all look at me like I’m a slab of meat.
I’d kill them all if I could.
A slight pressure on my right breast makes me turn. Mercer turns at the same time. His eyes are dark fire, and that throb in my clit spreads everywhere.
Oh, Christ, I want him. It doesn’t need to make sense, and I can’t fully comprehend it, but I do.
My breath is torn from me as I try to inhale.
I like it when he looks at me.
The others in here do it like they’re predators and I’m a raw steak. Mercer does it like I’m the finest, most decadent dessert.
I feel a sliver of control in my reach, my anger and discomfort slipping. The discomfort is still there, but now there’s a buzz to it, like he’s bound me, making me his and?—
“She looks like a good slut, a real cum bucket under all the prissy layers.”
Just like that, a voice I don’t know, rough and with a Queens accent, shoves me back down into the murk.
Mercer looks at me, raises a brow, then he eases me closer against the solid strength and the heat of him. And he fixes a glare on the round man wearing a suit that looks right off the rack. Bargain basement-style.
“She might be a fucking toy,” Mercer says, voice smooth and mild, the sting of the words burning my suddenly clammy skin. “But she’smyfucking toy.Mylittle slave. And if anyone speaks about her like that, it’ll be me. So, Boyle, you have a choice. Take your eyes off her now or I will bury a knife into each one of your eye sockets.” Then he leans closer with a malicious smirk. “Go find your own toy.”
“C’mon, Mercer, you can’t fuckin’ expect me to not want. Look at it.”
The word slams into me.
It.
“Watch your fucking mouth or I’ll end your career. And then I’ll end you.”
Sweat pops out on the man’s jowly face.
The guy swallows then nods.
I know I should have my eyes down, not staring up at the tall buildings like a bumpkin, but I can’t help it. I’ve never had anyone speak about me like this. Mercer can be cruel, crude, threatening, but he’s not like this disgusting pig of a man. The look in this guy’s eyes when he saw me… I think he wants a woman to abuse. There are fantasies online I saw about that, even rape fantasies, but the woman always had the control, apparently.
It wouldn’t surprise me if this guy had those fantasies, but would strip the woman of all control before executing them. He looked at me like he wanted to take…and hurt.
And Mercer?—
How is he different?
“You can let others know not to talk about my Pollyanna that way. She’s new to this, perfect, and mine. And I treat my toys with exquisite care. In every aspect.”
The man named Boyle splutters apologies to Mercer and then ducks out a door.
