7. Kicked Puppy
7
Kicked Puppy
Evan
Sophie loosens up over dinner, becoming more chatty.
But beneath the polished veneer, I can’t shake the feeling that Sophie’s good mood is nothing more than a calculated pretence.
Everything feels heady and overwhelming: the rich taste of food, the clinking silverware, the weight of Sophie’s perfume.
The heat of her body pressing into mine, her fingertips skimming the rim of her glass.
She smiles, sips her espresso martinis, keeps the conversation artificial.
Her performance is flawless and detached, the warmth between us as fleeting as the flickering candlelight.
When she’s told me just about everything she’s willing to tell me, whatever morsels of information I’m allowed to consume, she shifts the focus firmly to me.
I know I should call her out, challenge her, demand to know why she keeps me at arm’s length even when she’s pressed against me like this.
But I don’t. I let her win because it’s easier, because she is giving me what I want, even if it’s just the smallest possible portion of it .
“So how are you liking working at your dad’s company?” she asks over dessert.
She’s changed for dinner: a simple black slip dress with a cowl neckline and delicate lace trim, a black blazer over it and her trusty black boots.
She’s dressed simply enough, with her thick dark hair flowing down her back.
But she’s tipsy by now, her body pressed into mine as we share dessert, dipping her spoon into decadent caramel and sucking it off slowly as I speak.
I’m almost overstimulated with the heady perfume of coffee, liquor, caramel, the sweetness of Sophie’s skin.
All I want is to drag her into my arms and devour her for my dessert.
Talking about Operations is just about the last thing on my mind.
“It’s great,” I tell her, realising how easy it is to lie when the truth is painful enough.
“Bit boring, but who cares?”
“You’re learning a lot?” she asks, propping her chin on my shoulder.
I think about photocopies and endless spreadsheets and I almost laugh.
“You could say that, yeah.”
“Are you commuting? Or have you got a place in New York?”
I’ve been thinking about it, mostly so that I don’t have to see my parents all the time, and to avoid the awkwardness after I inevitably crash and burn through my three-month probation.
“If I get an apartment in New York”—I hold Sophie’s chin in my hand; she has a fleck of caramel trailing over her bottom lip, and I have the dirty urge to clean it with the tip of my cock—“would you come visit?”
“Of course.” She agrees readily because she’s tipsy, and maybe she senses the nature of my thoughts because she wipes at her bottom lip with a finger before sliding it into her mouth, sucking off the caramel in a slow, tantalising motion.
Blood rushes between my legs, my easily persuaded cock twitching to life.
“You’re gonna fly me out in a fancy private jet just to get me into your bed?”
As if she doesn’t know I would.
As if I’m not going to be imagining that exact scenario non-stop from now on.
“What’s the point of putting up with me if you’re not getting treated like a princess?”
She leans into me, invading my personal space, and the heat of her skin and the smokiness of her voice whirl like hot gold magic around me, making the restaurant and the patrons and waiters all disappear into nothing—nothing else matters except her.
“Is that why rich kids like you pick loser girls like me?” she says.
“To play fairy godmother?”
There’s venom in her words, but, ah—Sophie can sink her teeth into me all she wants.
Haven’t I always adored being hurt by her?
She could rip me apart, dig her claws into me until I bled out right here at the table, and I’d probably still crawl after her, begging for more.
“The only loser at this table is me.”
I say it mostly to please her.
Her smile melts from cruelty to fondness, like I’ve been promoted from object of torment to adored pet.
“Not just a loser,” she says, dropping a light kiss on my cheek.
“ My loser.”
Afterwards, Sophie is in the mood for drinks and dancing, so I take her for drinks and dancing.
She keeps ordering for both of us, but I stick to the same drink, alternating each sip with water.
Sophie’s getting wasted enough for the both of us .
The nightclub we end up in is loud, dark, chaotic.
Lights flash erratically, carving her outline in fractured bursts of colour.
The air is thick with heat and desperation.
Sophie slams back drinks and presses into me, moving like she’s trying to outrun her own thoughts.
Sophie needs to get wasted, I realise as she drags me to the writhing mess of the dance floor.
Because Sophie lives her life under such a crushing weight of pressure, and because her every emotion is kept on such a tight leash, and because she is both oppressed and her own oppressor.
This is the only way she can ever feel free: with alcohol pumping hot and heady through her veins in the dizzying darkness of a club.
This is the only time Sophie can truly let go, and since I’ve not been drinking anywhere near as much as her, I’m sober enough to understand exactly what she’s doing.
My chest aches as I follow her to the dance floor and let her press the length of her body into mine.
But it’s so fucking easy, following her lead, moving to the pounding beat of the music, running my hands down her waist and hips, feeling her hot skin beneath the delicate satin of her dress.
It doesn’t take any effort at all to let her rub her body against mine, to let her laugh a throaty, sleazy laugh against my neck when she palms the hard bulge in my trousers.
“Disgusting,” she rasps into my ear, mocking yet affectionate.
“ Pathetic .”
And I know that she means it, deep down, and I still let her lead me out of the club by my belt, like a horny dog.
I let her smear sloppy kisses along my jaw in the back of the cab on our way back to the hotel and I tremble with excitement and want, holding her like I never want to let her go.
Sophie doesn’t even wait for us to get to our room.
She shoves me back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, arms thrown around my back, and kisses me hot and hungry.
And because I’m hungry enough to be willing to feast on crumbs, I drag her up against me, letting her wrap her long legs around my waist. I open my mouth to her tongue and I taste the Cherry Manhattans she’s been drinking.
I don’t let her go when we reach our floor.
I carry her with one arm around her waist all the way to our room, to the bed, where we both collapse in a tangle of heated skin and gasping breaths.
“Ah, Sophie, fuck.” I barely recognise the sound of my own voice, disintegrated into a low whine.
“Missed you so much. Need you so bad.”
She laughs like I’ve just said something funny.
Neither of us bothered to turn on the lamps, but the distant city lights and the stars cast a silver glow through the floor-length windows.
In that dim, eerie glow, Sophie’s eyes are almost black, her skin like mother-of-pearl.
She grabs me by my hair, pulls.
“Stop talking,” she rasps.
“Take off your clothes.”
I obey.
She props herself on her elbows to watch me, half-fascinated, half-triumphant.
I undress quickly, my cock heavy against my thigh.
Stepping out of my discarded clothes, I drop my knee onto the bed and pull Sophie to me by her waist.
“Your turn.”
She shakes her head and pushes me off her, using all her strength to shift the weight of my body back.
I watch her, frowning as she raises her skirt and pulls off her black underwear.
It’s the only thing she takes off—she’s still wearing her black boots, her satin slip dress, her oversized blazer.
Maybe this is the kink: her fully clothed and me naked, the scales of power tipped in her favour.
I can tell by her biting kisses that Sophie wants to fuck, but that’s not what I want.
I want to make love to her, to kiss her slow and hungry, make her come with my mouth and then take her slowly, savouring the sensation of her body, her skin, the heat and perfume of her.
She’s made me wait too long, and now I need to feed the addiction.
But Sophie doesn’t let me hold her, and she doesn’t let me kiss her mouth soft and deep.
She bites my bottom lip hard, and when I pull back in surprise, she hisses, “I don’t want to fuck like some old married couple.”
Her words cut clean as a scalpel, leaving me gaping raw and red.
I’m not as stupid as she thinks.
I know what she’s really asking for.
Pleasure but distance.
Intimacy but control.
And she knows I’m too fucking weak to say no.
Pain and anger surge through me, searing enough to cauterise the wound.
She squirms underneath me until I let her roll me underneath her.
She straddles my lap, and she lets me dig my fingers into her hips.
I reach for her, wanting to drag her against my chest, feel her skin against mine, let her know she’s safe, but she slaps my hands away.
I lift myself up to kiss her throat, and she pushes me back with an irritated huff.
She grinds herself on my straining cock, the wet hot glide ripping a moan out of me.
“That’s right,” she sneers, her smoky voice rough and mean.
“That’s how you want it, too.”
It’s not, but when she takes my cock in her hand before guiding it into her tight heat, I can’t help dropping my head back against the bed, mouth open, my entire body tensed, nerve endings buzzing, muscles twitching.
My fingers tighten on her hips as she rides me, every rise and fall a torment and an ecstasy .
I want to touch her skin, to taste her, to feast on the sight of her body as she bounces on top of me, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction.
She rides me, fully clothed, skirt bunched at her hips, long thighs taut with tensed muscles.
And when she’s about to come, trembling uncontrollably, breath seized in her throat, she fucking closes her eyes .
Even in this moment, she wants to shut me out, and this time, even the pleasure of her tight hot pussy isn’t enough to abate my fury.
My arm flashes up—my fingers curl around Sophie’s throat, hard.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and unreadable, her pupils dilated like spilt ink.
For the first time all night, she looks at me like I’ve caught her off guard.
“Eyes open,” I command roughly.
She laughs, jagged as broken glass, but there’s a tremor there, barely noticeable, like a crack in a glass too fine to see.
I punish her laughter with a hard thrust that makes her eyes roll back; I punish her laughter because I want what it’s hiding.
She swallows, maybe with nerves, maybe with anticipation, her throat moving beneath my fingers.
Her eyes stay open.
“Good girl.” My voice is low and harsh.
I release her throat and shove both my hands beneath the satin fabric of her dress, grabbing her hips hard—taking over.
I fuck into her from beneath, hard, short thrusts that make her gasp.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’m going to send you back to Harvard with a limp and so many bruises around your neck everyone will know you belong to me.”
She sneers even as she whimpers, my cock driving into her mercilessly now, my own orgasm building, inevitable.
“I don’t belong to you,” she spits out .
I flip her around, hard, pinning her down.
I yank up her skirt so roughly it tears in my hand, and I pull out my hard cock, and I rub it between her thighs, slick with her wetness, until it slides over her clit, and I feel her entire body trembling with unbearable tension.
“Yes, you do,” I growl into her ear.
“You. Will. Always. Be. Mine .”
She comes with a strangled cry, and she tries to cover her mouth, but there’s no hiding her convulsing thighs, the pulsing of her pussy when I thrust home.
I let the addictive pleasure of her orgasm rush me to mine, and I come inside her with brutal, desperate thrusts, burying a hoarse moan into her neck, into her soft dark hair, and she laughs, drunken and contented and still a little mocking.
And then she curls her arms around my neck, holding me close, her thighs pressed into my hips, my cock still inside her.
For a moment, I dare hope that she’s satisfied enough to grant me affection, to grant me the closeness I’ve craved all evening.
I tighten my arms around her, shiver as her lips brush against my temple.
And then she murmurs into my ear.
“You fuck so much better when you’re not pretending it’s love.”