Chapter Eighteen #3
Rex’s breath hitched as his fingers tangled in her hair once more—not to control her as she initially thought, but to anchor himself. “Fuck... Angel...” His voice broke as she swallowed around him, her throat massaging his cock in a way sure to make his vision blur.
The plane’s engines roared in the background, but all she could focus on was the wet, sloppy sounds as she worked him, uncaring that her spit dripped down her chin or the way her eyes—still locked on his—shimmered with unshed tears and most probably streaked mascara.
“Close,” he gritted out, his hips jerking. “Don’t stop—”
You can be damn sure I won’t stop, Master R.
Her pace quickened, her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently as she sucked him harder with her tongue pressing against the underside of his cock.
With a wicked thought, she brushed a finger over his perineum.
Softly, once, twice, and then pressed hard against it.
The sensation was too much—too perfectly timed—and with a guttural groan, Rex climaxed, his release flooding her throat in thick, hot pulses.
Xia swallowed every drop, her throat working around him as she sucked him dry, refusing to let go until he was completely spent.
Only when his body went slack against the seat with his chest heaving, did she finally pull back, releasing his cock with a wet plop.
Sitting back on her heels, she licked her swollen lips.
The triumph in her gaze was unmistakable.
She had reduced the indomitable Rex Oliver to a trembling, incoherent mess—his cock still twitching and his breath ragged as his fingers slackened in her hair.
The plane soared higher, the cabin silent except for the sound of their labored breathing.
When she finally spoke, her voice was smug, dripping with satisfaction.
“Well?” She arched a brow, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb before sucking it clean. “How’s that for stress relief, Master R?”
Rex’s answering smile was slow and predatory. His eyes darkened with hunger as they raked over her.
“I think,” he murmured, his voice rough with spent pleasure, “this needs to become a permanent part of my flight routine—during takeoff and descent.”
Xia laughed, rising gracefully to her feet and smoothing down her uniform.
“Careful what you wish for, Master R,” she purred.
“I might just hold you to that. Although I doubt you’d find the same result with another sub.
” She winked at him as she sauntered to the door. “Once I’m off to Hawaii, I mean.”
His lips pursed tightly, as if it was a prospect he didn’t appreciate being reminded of. Xia’s over-imaginative mind gloried in that belief, which he immediately doused.
“By that time, you would’ve found me the perfect Mrs. Oliver, so there’s no need for you to worry about it. She’ll surely have similar skills to please her future husband.”
“Freaking frisky bear balls,” she growled softly, her voice saccharine-sweet and her eyelashes fluttering like a Disney villainess who’d just won Employee of the Month in Hell.
“So, there’s no need for you to worry about it.
She’ll surely have similar skills to please her future husband,” she silently quoted him.
Oh, you absolute fucking wanker, she seethed internally, grinding her teeth so hard, she half-expected to hear molars crack. Similar skills? SIMILAR SKILLS?! I just deep-throated your soul like it was a goddamn oyster shooter, and you’re out here comparison-shopping for a Stepford Sub?!
“Xia, we’re not done. We need to discuss the potentials.”
Oh, I’ll give you potentials, you overgrown, overbearing, over-entitled dominating dickweed, she seethed silently.
Potential for me to yeet myself out of the window.
Potential for me to “accidentally” set your favorite crop on fire.
Potential for me to find a voodoo priestess and commission a doll of you that I can stab with a thousand tiny pins while screaming, “THIS IS FOR THE SIMILAR SKILLS COMMENT.”
“XIA! Get back here!”
She ignored his apoplectic bellowing with the practiced ease of a woman who’d spent years perfecting the art of selective deafness—right up there with eye-rolling, sighing dramatically, and pretending to mishear the word “no.” She hit the stairs at a sprint, his increasingly unhinged commands chasing her like a particularly aggressive swarm of bees.
“I need a fucking drink,” she muttered, already mentally cataloging the contents of the club’s liquor stash. “A fucking triple-strong martini. No, a quadruple. With a side of arsenic and a chaser of ‘go fuck yourself, Master R’.”
He had the audacity—the sheer, unmitigated gall—to imply that some other sub could “equal” what she’d just done? Oh, honey. No. She’d just rewired his nervous system with her tongue, and he was acting like she’d given him a mediocre hand job in a broom closet.
Well, fine. If he wanted to play “Let’s Find Xia a Replacement”, then she’d play “Let’s Make Master R Regret Every Life Choice That Led to This Moment”. Good fucking luck finding similar skills like mine, asshat.
Because sure, why not? Let him shop for subs like they were fucking IKEA furniture—oh, this one’s got a nice “obedient” veneer, but does she come with “emotional depth” or just “easy assembly required”?
Let him find out the hard way that similar skills also meant capable of forcing him to feel emotions he didn’t want to name.
It was time Rex Oliver started to realize his reactions—physical, emotional, and the way his pulse jumped when she walked into a room or the way his voice dropped an octave when he was pissed at her, not to mention the way he forgot to breathe when she smiled at him just right—all those weren’t just about sexual gratification.
They were about something worse, for him at least. It meant something permanent, like... a foundation... a future, and yes... a fucking wife.
“Mark my words,” she muttered as her fingers dug into the banister hard enough to shoot pain through her brain. “He’s going to know that before I leave for Hawaii. If he doesn’t...” Her throat tightened. “Well then... fuck a duck.”
The words tasted like ash and shouted of bad decisions.
Because if he didn’t figure it out? If he let her walk onto that plane without stopping her?
If he looked at her like she was just another submissive in a long line of them, just another body to train, or another mouth to use, and another heart to break—
Then she had lost.
And the worst part? She’d let herself hope.
That despondency settled on her shoulders like a wet cloak.
Suddenly, she wanted to curl into a ball and scream into a pillow or burn down a city block, whichever came first. She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin, the phantom press of his lips against her temple, and the echo of his voice in her ear, “You’re mine, Xia. ”
Yeah. For now. Until he found someone similar.
She swallowed hard, blinking back the stupid, traitorous burn behind her eyes.
Fuck you, Rex Oliver. Fuck this. Fuck everything!
Purely because misery loved company—and because she was nothing if not petty—she pulled out her phone and texted Cheri, hoping she wasn’t already in a scene.
Xia
“Emergency. Join me at the bar for tequila. And
bring a flame thrower. I need to burn something...
or rather... someone.”