Chapter 28 Amber
Amber
I’ve been searching for a hobby, something other than wracking my brain about what could possibly come to pass between us. Worrying about the future has never stopped it, so I know better than to spend too much time trying to figure out what our dynamic is.
Shopping has been fun and therapeutic, but I think I met my quota of useless things when I bought a glass teapot with gorgeous flower enamels.
Cal said he hadn’t realized I liked tea, and I told him I hate it.
But the teapot was pretty. I’ve filled every corner of his house with things that make me happy…
flowers and figurines, cozy blankets, and ambient lighting.
Not having to work to live and live to work has been transformative. I’ve also expanded my wardrobe significantly… though it’s mostly a variety of costumes that fill my side of the closet.
I considered scrapbooking, but I have no mementos to preserve.
He banned me from cooking when I burnt my wrist on the oven, and he played nurse to me, cleaning and wrapping the shiny red welt.
I found coloring to offer my brain too much time to think freely, which is the exact opposite of why I need a hobby.
I started yoga and bought all the workout clothes to prove it, but sixty minutes a day is such a small space of time when Cal is busy trying to work.
No matter what hobby I try, nothing ever trumps sex. It’s like there’s an override switch buried inside of me, and when Cal fucks me just right, everything resets. I can be in the throes of panic, in the abyss of my mind, and he pulls me out every time…
I’ve woken from nightmares more than a few times to find him kissing my lips, soothing me while his cock makes itself at home inside of me.
And it works every time, because even though it may be the most dangerous position to be in with a murderer, I also never feel as safe as I do when I’m in his arms and he’s in me.
And sometimes, it’s just in good fun. I’ve played the part of his little doll, and it’s my favorite role to go back to.
But sometimes, I like to pretend other things.
Today, I’m pretending to be a cop. The blue dress is like a second skin, and I left it unzipped between my breasts to expose a decent amount of cleavage.
As much as we’ve fucked, I’ve never gotten dressed up on my own to seduce him.
It’s fucking terrifying. My heart beats out of my chest as if he’ll judge me for this.
I don’t know why he would judge me for this when he hasn’t judged me for changing his washer and dryer tune to Happy Birthday, but it doesn’t calm my nerves.
I wait until I hear the door shut and am sure that Dex has gone before I call for him.
“Cal?”
“Everything okay?” He calls. “Tell me you’re not steam cleaning the floor again? I have the hardest time getting the bed out the door.”
He opens the door and looks around, surprised when he doesn’t see me.
I attack while his guard is down, springing toward him and pressing my mouth to his. I don't wait for the surprise to fade before I seek his tongue out with my own, commanding it to move for me, to kiss me.
And there's no hesitation when I do. The minute our tongues touch, whatever resistance he was clinging to shatters.
His hand fists against my scalp, pulling strands of hair through his fingers so that it's clear I'm not getting away from him.
He groans, a needy sound that makes me feel strangely powerful and spurs me to push him further, to see how far he will bend for me.
I spin him round and walk him backward to the bed until he stops, the backs of his knees against the mattress. One hard shove of my hand is enough to push him back, where he lies on the mattress and looks up at me, bewildered but also clearly fucking turned on.
“I never thought I’d find an officer sexy, but fuck…” Cal’s voice is full of wonder as I laugh. “Power looks good on you, little doll.”
I straddle his lap, unable to get close enough to him as I hold his chin in my hands, keeping him hostage to my domineering kiss.
Judging from the bulge in his pants, I'm certain he doesn't mind.
I let go of his face but don't stop kissing him.
I can't stop.
He's breathing for me at this point, as I don't think about what I'm doing, acting on instinct alone.
I fumble with the first button, but without tearing free, I can't see what I'm doing, so I grip the fabric of his shirt in either hand and wrench it apart with all the strength I can muster.
It's more than I expected, sending buttons popping and fabric shredding as his shirt falls away from him.
I'm rewarded by the warmth of his hot skin against mine, my nipples constricting beneath the spandex as we devour one another, until I press myself against him hard.
He doesn't try to overpower me or take back control, happy to surrender it to me as I grip his hair and tug, forcing him to arch his back, baring his throat to me. When I glance down, I don't know what I expect to see. But the look in his eye is desperate, so incredibly needy as his lips tremble.
I think he's working on a plea for mercy, but I won’t be granting it.
My core is warm against his skin. Can he feel how wet I am, how fucking erotic this is for me?
I've never liked being in control, but having him helpless beneath me, his eyes absolutely begging me to put him out of his misery, makes me feel slippery... powerful.
Is this the high men feel when they take from women just because they can?
Am I as bad as the rest of them for getting off on his powerlessness? Maybe.
But I can't be bothered to care about it.
A glance at him shows me his eyes are hooded, focused wholly on the pleasure he knows will come soon, so I yank his boxers and pants down his legs, letting his cock free. It slaps against my stomach, making him moan, and I feel just a little bit of the wetness from his precum.
His eyes roll back when my hand closes around him. He's too girthy to be able to close my fingers all the way, so I squeeze tighter, trying to leave no part of him untouched. It earns me a buck of his hips, but it doesn't get me any closer to fully enveloping him.
“Fuck, little doll.” He moans, his ass falling against the bed when I remove the friction he wants, reveling in the way his frustration crawls across his beautiful face.
Since I can't envelop him with my hands, I decide I'll have to try it another way.
My breath has just rushed over his balls, my lips barely brushing the skin on his inner thigh before he whimpers.
He fucking whimpers, and it's the most addictive sound I've ever heard.
I press my mouth to the head of him, planting firm kisses on his cock as he strains to control himself, his chest heaving like he's just run a damn marathon.
When my tongue slides over his slit, he groans, his fingers twisting in the sheets as I revel in swirling my tongue over him. I take him into my mouth slowly, exploring the depth and how it makes him react. His hands come to my hips, fingers digging into the fabric that separates my skin from his.
I release him with a pop.
His eyes fly open as I hurry off of him, and he tries to stop me before I can get too far. But I'm not trying to run from him.
I'm trapping him.
I don't know if he’s used the handcuffs in the nightstand for nefarious purposes or if they're simply a kinky thing he's enjoyed in the bedroom with someone else, but they serve me as I brandish them between us.
“No touching.” I scold, making it clear that I'm going to prevent him from being able to do any more of that... making it clear that he has no say over what happens right now.
He's awfully trusting for a serial killer. The thought flashes through my mind when I close the cuff over one wrist first, loop the chain beneath the headboard, and secure his other wrist in the cuff.
I could leave him here, bound to the headboard, while I go to the kitchen and grab the biggest knife he has.
My brain has contemplated it a time or two…
not because I want to do it. But if it comes down to him or me, could I fight him off?
Do I have what it takes to stab him deep enough, drive it past bone and muscle enough times, or with enough accuracy?
Do I have what it takes to kill a person?
But I'm not going for a weapon.
I am the weapon.
“You seem to like this costume.” I muse. “Is it better like this?” I slide the zipper all the way down the front, letting the dress part down the middle and leave me bare.
I drop it to the floor. “Or like that?”
“That.” Cal swallows. “Definitely that.”
I smirk, not surprised by the answer, and climb up him. His jaw flexes as he watches me settle over him, his cock erect between us, desperate for the release only I can give him.
I'm drunk on the power he's giving me, high on the eroticism in the air as I lift my hips, grip the base of his cock, and slide on top of him, slowly taking him inch by inch until at last I'm flush against the base of him.
His chest heaves as he strains against the handcuffs as if he's forgotten they're there.
His lips are parted, wet as I squeeze around him experimentally, watching to see if he reacts to that... if he can feel it. The answer is yes, because he drops his head against the mattress, frustration in the breath that he releases as I sit there, his cock throbbing inside of me.
“Fuck, little doll,” he whispers, his voice straining with need. “I need you to move.”
“I will, baby.” I tell him, not even stopping to think about the name that slips past my lips unbidden. “When I'm ready.”
His eyes are glassy with need, like an addict fiending for his fix, and it makes me smirk.
“Please?”
Fuck.
Okay.
That… does something to me. Something filthy.
“You want me to fuck you?” I venture, despite knowing the answer.
He nods helplessly.
“Then let me hear you beg me.”
“Please?” He tries, his fingers curling like he's searching for purchase. His hips jut a bit, but I lift off him, removing the warmth I've been soaking him in, and he falls flat.
He's a quick learner.
“Little doll,” he groans, and his lips tremble to sell the point. He's either an excellent actor, or he's on the verge of destruction. “Please. Please fuck me.”
I'm about to shake my head no and tell him to try harder when his voice breaks over a whimper.
“Please.”
It's the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and it makes me want to give him exactly what he wants... what I want, too.
I sink around him again, settling all the way before rocking my hips to make sure I've taken him in as deep as he can go.
The pleasure ripples through my stomach, stealing my breath as he tosses his head back, relieved.
It doesn't last long, because when I begin to rock my hips against him, taking him deep and then pulling back so much that he nearly slips out from inside me, he groans.
“I won't last like this.” He confesses, his breathing ragged. “It's too much.”
“You can do it.” I assure him, breathing through the pressure that his cock chases through me as I tilt my hips, taking him to a deeper place inside of me and causing us both to groan.
He's actually fucking sweating, his skin glistening as I plant a hand on his chest and use the leverage to work myself over him, faster and faster. My thrusts grow sloppy as I pick up speed, his breathing desperate as his nails bite into his palms, his cock impaling me with each dip of my hips.
“Fuck, little doll. I can’t...”
I can tell he's close when a little furrow develops between his eyebrows, like he's concentrating really hard on not spilling inside me yet.
Good.
I don't allow him to hold off, doubling my pace until his hips are twisting beneath me, his lips quaking with the series of groans and breaths leaving him rapidly. He creates a fucking symphony in his bedroom, and it's a beautiful composition, an ode to heady, unrestricted pleasure.
I think the pleasure must give way to pain at some point, based on how he seems to stop breathing, like he's holding tight to something.
He doesn't speak; he seems incapable of it as he lies there with his eyes heavy on me, like he's been drugged on the sex, while I chase my own pleasure.
When I angle myself just right, it lets him reach a deeper point inside of me, chasing pleasure into places it's never reached. I dig my nails into Cal's chest, seeking purchase as I go after what I want with reckless abandon.
I use him as my fucking toy—a dildo with nothing attached, something I can manipulate inside of me to bring me the release I need.
It builds faster than any other time I've done this alone, spurred on by his keening sounds, desperation thick as I drive him past overstimulation, taking advantage of his cock for as long as I can.
I scream when the heat bursts through me, flashing white-hot from the place he’s buried deep inside me, in my fucking womb.
Thank God I can't get pregnant, because I think he was knocking at my cervix, and that bitch was desperate enough to let him in.
I collapse overtop of Cal, breathless and sweaty as the orgasm shreds me apart, gripping me at an atomic level that takes all the energy from my body.
I can't even lift my head to watch as he lets out a long sigh of relief, his chest heaving so hard that it bobs me up and down with every breath.
He's still buried snugly inside of me and apparently too exhausted to move, to twist his hips and slide out.
Not only am I also too exhausted to move, I don't want to. There's something about holding him hostage inside me, feeling myself twitch around him with the aftershocks, our blood pulsing and thundering so near one another.
When I find the strength to lift my head from his chest, it's to find him watching me— or more accurately, staring at the top of my head.
“Don't move.” He tells me, tipping his head to indicate that he wants me to lay back on his chest again.
So, I do.
I lay there, holding him inside me even as he softens and his breathing evens out, even as he begins to snore softly and my eyes grow heavy.
I don't know what just happened, but I know one thing.
That wasn't just sex.