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I want her on her knees begging.
Shit. I can give in so easily, but the point is I didn’t, and I think it’s because she’s so complex. I never expected that.
At the club when she morphed into that X-rated vixen, I wanted to drag her close and fuck her senseless. But I also wanted to cover her up and gouge out the eyes of any asshole who looked at her, cut their hands off for jerking off to fantasies about touching her.
Then when she took me in her mouth…
My cock jerks and I grasp it, the squeeze of my hand almost torture, a slight touch of relief because I’m going to fucking rub one out. My hand isn’t her sweet, hot mouth. It isn’t the slide of her tongue or the stretch of her lips. And when I rub over the head with my finger, it’s nothing like hitting the back of her throat.
She was fucking amazing. Experienced, even though I refuse to think about with whom. She’s definitely done it before, and I hate knowing it. But when she got into it, it became instinctual…primal.
I want to come down her throat at least three times a day.
I work my cock and shift my thoughts from imagining her lips clamped around it.
When I met her, she was a child, ready to bloom. For her to go from that annoying girl to this exquisite woman is hot as fuck. Yet I can’t stop thinking about Trenton getting there first because she wasn’t ready. She was still a kid and I’m going to finish that sick fuck for that.
He tainted her with his own twisted kinks.
Just for that he should have his dick cut off.
I don’t like her. But maybe the tangle of what she did to me in the club…what she’s done to me ever since I took her away in my car and saved her from being snatched outside Seven7Seven…enhances the lust. There are so many layers to our connection and her associating me with her sexual awakening. The dirtiness of wrong, need, resentment and hatred all increase her pleasure and enhance her role as a sub.
Her natural role.
I knew her complicated feelings for me would make her putty…putty I can use.
But what I never factored in was how complicated my own feelings would become. My violent reaction to her. I can use it,shift things, but the intense, insatiable need for her is beyond anything I’ve ever felt. I work my hand hard on my cock. Everything plaguing my mind and soul builds my pleasure, and it’s all Ivy shaped and scented.
My balls start to tighten, fire rages through me, and I come, shuddering and biting down on my groan. The orgasm rocks me, unraveling me thread by thread.
Holy shit. And that was just from memories of her mouth sucking me off. I already know her mouth is better than my hand. But her pussy? I need that.
“Idiot,” I mutter as I finish my shower.
How the hell did I let this happen?
Outsmarting emotion.
I never had a fucking chance with her.
After dragging myself out of the shower and dressing in jeans and a sweater, I collapse in a chair in my study, trying to focus. But it’s hard. Because Ivy is still in the way of my ability to think and plan. She creeps in at the edges like ink bleeding through pages.
Somehow, I’m finally able to get done with my work, and then I get to my messages. I pour a drink, not caring that it’s closer to breakfast than not. I don’t need a lot of sleep. It’s an old habit, self-preservation from growing up, from life on the streets. Even a cushy prison isn’t without issues in the middle of the night when everyone should be sleeping. I like working late at night or early in the mornings. I can think. Get things done. Prepare for the day ahead.
My personal inbox is stuffed with invites to all sorts of clubs. The mainstream world thinks this is all on the edges, a sex club or two to titillate senses, but there are so many, different types to serve different appetites, and they all reached out after my outburst and announcement earlier.
Three mention the girl.
One of the messages is from Henderson. I can tell, even though it’s from an unknown address. The sender congratulates me on my sub and tells me to reach out for recommendations.
My phone beeps with a text. One of many, along with missed calls. A quick scroll reveals a group of texts that are the same. Invites to clubs.
I decline everything then mark down the three emails who mentioned Ivy, from clubs and societies who like girls sweet like my little Pollyanna.
She’s magic but so complex. The latter is something I keep circling back to. Ivy isn’t innocuous like white, refined sugar. She’s like dark muscovado. Rum-soaked syrup and exotic fruits. Natural but darkly addictive. Complex-sweet with a tart and surprising bite.
I know.
