Taking Chances (BYC #3)

33. Anne

33

ANNE

M y knees are already hurting, but it’s nothing compared to how the rest of me is feeling. I’m so wet it’s embarrassing, practically dripping on his hardwood floors. My nipples ache, desperate to be touched, to be kissed. My core pulses with need as I await his next move.

What I’m doing—crawling, obeying his orders, is the most degraded I’ve ever felt. It’s also the most freeing. Any embarrassment I had fled when he released me from my dress and spat on my breasts.

It’s so dirty. And so fucking hot.

The little pauses he makes, inspecting me as to figure out if I’m worth the effort, turn me on even more. My breath races, my pulse skyrocketing. His expression is flat, not giving anything away. The anticipation makes me want to jump out of my skin, but I kneel patiently, hoping to be rewarded for my obedience.

His tattoos taunt me, peeking from his plain white tee, while his dick looks painfully hard beneath the faded jeans. It’s a heady feeling, knowing I’m making him hard. One that makes me want to debase myself even more. To do anything, anything , he asks of me.

He approaches me from behind, kneeling down behind me. Another smack lands on both of my ass cheeks and I hiss in response. It stings like hell, but the fire somehow connects to my clit, making it ache even worse. I push my ass backward, hoping to get some friction before he delivers another smack.

“Stay still,” he says, his tone low and commanding. So I listen and stay still.

The sound of a zipper fills the room, and arousal overtakes me.

“I want you to fill my mouth,” I pant out, too desperate to be ashamed.

He grabs the back of my hair, wrapping it around his fist and lifting me in the process.

“Such a greedy little slut. You think you’re here to make demands?” He makes a point by roughly tugging on my nipple, eliciting a guttural moan. “You’re here for me to use, remember? Or do I need to help you remember?” The other nipple gets the same treatment.

I shake my head, but he pulls my hair firmer. “Say it.”

“I’m here for you to use me, Sir,” I practically whimper. “Please use me.”

I don’t get a warning before he shoves his cock deep inside of my pussy.

“Aaah,” I cry out. He’s so thick and hard, I feel every inch with how sensitive I am.

“Color,” he grits out.

“Green.”

He lets out a groan, pulling my hair even further back and starts pumping into me.

“Take it, take my fucking cock like the slut that you are.” He’s practically growling, his pace punishing.

His cock is too big to take like this, so every thrust has some pain mixed in with pleasure. But it fucking works, because — mixed with the sting of my scalp and his punishing words—it’s pushing me right toward the edge.

“Yes, yes! I want it!” I hear my voice echoing the room, but I’m not the one saying it. I’m somewhere else, in a universe where pain and pleasure are mixed into a substance more addictive than heroin and shot straight into my veins. My blood is fire, my body electricity, and as he brings his other hand to my front and harshly pinches my nipple, my blood reaches a boiling point, toppling over the edge.

Lights burst behind my eyes as the orgasm hits me wave after wave. My pussy pulses around his cock, eliciting a feral groan. Just as the final waves subside, he takes out his cock and warm liquid lands on the skin of my back and thighs.

The feel of his cum on my ass is so fucking erotic; I love it. After all the harsh words, his release is my reward. My praise. I know I pleased him. I know I served him right.

And that’s almost better than my own orgasm.

“Fuck.” His head falls to my shoulders.

A chuckle bubbles out of me when I realize I’m on all fours on a bedroom floor, covered in bodily fluids of a man I’m not even dating.

“Are you… OK?” he inquires, making me giggle.

“Yeah,” I respond, barely catching my breath. “I’m great. This was just… a lot.” His arms move in my peripheral vision, taking off his shirt, which he then uses to clean up the cum from my ass and back.

“Come here,” he says, picking me up as if I weigh nothing and carrying me to the comfortable bed.

He takes his jeans fully off and lies down next to me. Our legs intertwine as he lifts my chin and stares squarely into my eyes.

“I’m sorry if it was too much,” he says.

“It wasn’t…” I start to respond, but he continues speaking.

“You were so fucking beautiful, on your knees for me. Such a good girl for listening to every command.” His eyes drip sincerity, but I’m not used to getting compliments, so I lower my gaze, pretending to study his ink. He doesn’t force my gaze back, which I’m grateful for. “You were absolutely perfect, Firecracker. Your pussy made me come so fucking hard, but I could have come just by watching you obey me so beautifully.” I inhale deeply, his words seeping into the bottom of my belly. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Every sentence is like a magic incantation, healing a small part of me. A part of me that believed I needed to be different to be worshipped. I needed to be skinnier, more feminine, less quirky. And he worships me just as I am. Worships me by debasing me, by pushing me to my limits. And when he turns me into a pile of flesh and needs, he still worships me, showing me I’m beautiful even in my basest form.

I know it’s only sexual. I know it’s not love or anything close to it. But it heals me in a way no loving relationship did before.

He caresses my back and shoulders, continuing to praise me and my belly fills with air, my skin tingling. The sting I felt on my scalp, my knees, and my ass is nowhere to be found, pushed aside by the feeling of elation. I probably fall asleep, because the next thing I feel is his lips brushing my forehead.

The kiss snaps me awake. “I should take a shower. I’m disgusting.”

“You’re a horrible listener.” He chuckles. “I spent the last half hour telling you you’re the exact opposite of disgusting.”

I smack his chest playfully, though the feel of it only makes me horny again. Getting up, I grab a sheet to cover myself and head to the bathroom. I have no idea where my clothes are and if they’re even wearable anymore.

“You’re driving me home,” I yell from the bathroom, and he responds with a low chuckle.

“Of course. You need help in there?”

“No, thank you. But leave me some clothes.”

What we just did was horribly intimate, but still, showering is a vulnerable act. One that I’m not ready to share.

After finishing the shower, I grab the clean t-shirt and shorts he left on his bed. Luckily, he’s not in the room, so I can dress myself in peace.

I find him in the kitchen wearing another pair of jeans, barefoot and shirtless. He’s popping the dishes into the dishwasher.

Oh, my freaking God. Could he be any hotter?

I clear my throat to get my bearings. “What are you doing?”

“I’m washing the new dishes so I can fill the cabinets.”

“It really looks amazing.”

He flashes me a blinding smile. Now that I can fully focus on it, I’m in awe with what he did with it. The butcherblock countertops are expansive, the undermounted sink huge, while the appliances seem top of the art. “It’s like a chef’s dream.”

“Too bad there are no chefs here,” he jokes. “Speaking of—you must be starving.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I haven’t eaten before coming here—oh, lunch! I brought lunch!” He stares at me, his eyes wrinkled with laughter. “Lunch that you so rudely distracted me from.”

He huffs out a laugh before starting the dishwasher. Grabbing a dish towel and a spray cleaner, he cleans the dining table, which I’m eternally grateful for, and I take out the boxes from bags I brought.

“I made the muffins, but the chicken burrito wraps are bought.”

“Doubt they can taste as good as the muffins.” He winks, making me blush.

We dig in, and though the wraps are cold and soggy, they feel like the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

I want to thank him again for the money he donated, but he obviously isn’t comfortable talking about that. So we eat in pleasant silence, the sound of us chewing mixing with the sound of the dishwasher.

After we finish, I clear out the table just as the dishwasher marks the end of the program. I open it, grabbing a clean dishrag and get to work.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his deep voice raspy.

“Helping.” I shoot him a sweet smile, knowing he’ll protest this.

“You should be resting. You need aftercare, not… this.” He gestures to the general kitchen area.

“Aftercare should be comfortable, shouldn’t it?” I lean my hip on the counter.

“Sure…”

“And do you think I would be comfortable lying in bed while I know you have a ton of chores to do? Chores I distracted you from.” I cross my arms in front of my chest.