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Numbers start to fall out of my mouth faster than I thought I could speak. “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…”
And of course he doesn’t go easy on me, he speeds up, fucking me with his fingers so fast that I think I’m going to go blind with the pleasure. Every thrust pushes against my G-spot and my voice is desperate, pleading.
“Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve…”
Oh god oh god oh god I’m not sure how he can even understand the rest of the numbers, they’re more moans than words and I’m starting to crack, the pleasure leaking out, pulling me in as he holds me right at the edge, and then “fivefourthreetwoONE!” and everything explodes. I come, the orgasm ripping through me like a storm and leaving me spent and heaving against the wall, still pinned and spread open while the pleasure has its way with me. Matthew’s thumb brushes my clit, and I come again. The orgasm wracking my body so hard that if he let me go, I wouldn’t be standing.
Sharp, high notes of pleasure spiral through my stomach and up and out until it’s enveloping all of me, and I know that I’ve never had an orgasm like that before.
I come back to the world out of breath, noticing that it’s the only sound in the hallway. Matthew’s fingers are still inside me, unmoving, his hand like iron around my wrists. “I think time’s up,” he says, a wicked grin on his face. Gently, he removes his hand, casually bringing it to his mouth. I can see how his fingers are slick with my wetness, and the sound he makes while he tastes me has me wet all over again. “I wish we had more time,” he says, “I have so much more that I’d like to do. But,” he releases my hands and helps me back to a normal standing position, “a deal is a deal.”
There’s a small part of me that wants to ask for more, to say that we can have more time. But I know that if I say that he’ll ask for more from me. He’ll want me to obey him and pretend I’m a submissive little thing like those women at the reception, and I’m not. I am not.
Instead, we walk side-by-side back to the ballroom.
“So you got me to pretend to be a part of your world for fifteen minutes. What was the point?”
He looks over at me as we walk, and I can practically hear him thinking, deciding what to say. “Do you need there to be a point?”
“No, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean that you weren’t trying to make one.”
Matthew laughs, a brilliant sound that rings down the empty hall like sunshine. “You’re not wrong.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“If you think you can handle it.”
I roll my eyes. “What, you think that taking me and giving me an orgasm in a less-than-conventional way is going to change my mind and make me rethink who I am?”
He stops at the door to the ballroom, and the music spills out, partially covering his words and making it feel even more intimate as I lean in to hear him. “I’ve been a Dom a long time,” he says, “and I’m very good at it. When you’re a Dom, you practice reading people. You have to because noticing people’s cues, the smallest reactions, can make the difference between a scene being amazing or a disaster.”
“And if that doesn’t work, I’m sure you can just tell the woman how to feel and she’ll say, ‘yes, sir.’”
Matthew frowns, but he doesn’t reprimand me. “Because I’ve gotten so good at reading people, I can tell very quickly if someone is submissive. That includes whether or not they know they’re submissive.”
“I’m not,” I say, ignoring the pointed look he’s giving me and walking into the ballroom. I see Lily not far from the door, and her eyes are on both me and Matthew.
He calls out after me, “How would you know?”
“I thought that little experiment was trying to prove that. I didn’t walk out of that hallway begging you to take me, begging you to dominate me. That’s not what I want or need.”
He’s silent for a long moment, and then he walks towards me slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’ll make a bet with you.”
I snort. “The last time I gambled on my sex life I lost pretty badly, so no thanks.”
“You stay with me for three days. You be a submissive—my submissive—for three days, and I’ll prove to you that I’m right.” He continues on like I never spoke and I’m struggling not to roll my eyes.
“Do you always have to be right?”
“No,” he says, closing the remaining gap between us, “I don’t. But you are submissive.”
“I’m not.”
“Prove it.”
We stare at each other in silence for a moment before he breaks it. “Come stay with me, and if you’re right, if you’re not submissive and you have no desire to continue in this lifestyle, you’ll never have to see me again.”
