16. Zoe
Chapter Sixteen
ZOE
I n his room.
“Here,” I hand him my sketchbook with trembling hands as we step out of the study. “You choose. I made three sketches, and I think there will…” I keep quiet as he takes the sketchbook from me.
He is unnerving.
Just being close to him always makes my stomach flip and my blood feel like it’s freezing in my veins.
I dry my hands on the fabric of my dress and hold my breath as he keeps looking through the sketches while leading the way down the hallway. He takes a left turn, and then just one dim gold light comes on as we take another turn.
I follow him, my legs trembling.
He pushes a door open and enters a room. I stop by the door, feeling like a nervous wreck, scared to be in the same room with him, but also in a way that twists my stomach and my… pussy.
It is strange that he scares me but also arouses me.
As soon as the door opens, my nostrils are invaded by his scent. Only this time, it’s stronger than ever. It’s spicy and lush, appealing in an evocative way.
I muster the will to step into the room feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.
It’s his bedroom, and it’s almost completely dark, except for the fire-like electronic light on one side of the wall.
Everything is black: the couches facing the floor-to-ceiling window covered in velvet curtains, the rug spread from under his bed to almost the center of the room, the coffee table, and the library with books in black bindings.
My stomach churns and I feel the need to fill the room with something other his presence.
“Have you chosen?” The setting is beginning to feel intimate. “The suits,” I awkwardly point at my sketchbook in his hand.
He doesn’t look up as he drawls, “You will make all three,” then tosses my sketchbook on his bed.
My eyes fly open and my mouth drops to the floor.
Has he lost his mind? I can barely make one within the timeframe, and he wants me to make three. The embellishments alone will take days.
“Thr…” The word gets trapped in my mouth as his intense eyes shoot up. I swallow it with a whimper and a loud gulp.
“Speak,” he clips, and my tongue loosens at his command.
“It’s impossible to make all three in just…”.
“You will have assistants to help with the sewing,” he slits.
I breathe, it feels like the first time since I handed him my sketchbook.
Assistants. Fair enough.
“Thank you,” I mutter under my breath at his thoughtfulness, then straighten my spine, reminding myself I’m here to take his measurements.
I crouch to drop the things in my arms on the floor, then pick up my measuring tape and stand with it. I don’t dare go to him. Instead, I start to twiddle with the measuring tape, waiting for his permission.
He turns his back to me, dragging his T-shirt up until it’s off. I gulp to stifle the gasp that unintentionally topples out of my mouth at the sight of his broad back.
My trembling fingers ache to trace the lines on the ridges of the scar covering one side of his back.
“Start,” he husks, and I jolt into action.
Since his back is to me, I start with his shoulder length. With shaking hands, I spread the tape out, but I’m not tall enough to reach his shoulders.
“I will need a stool,” I mumble more to myself than him.
He breathes, then struts to the library to get the stool beside it, and I step on it.
I carefully spread the tape across his shoulders so my fingers don’t graze his skin. Even though I want to do it so badly, it hurts every sensitive part of me not to.
I keep the measurements in my head, a talent I’ve had for years thanks to the brutal training from the Bratva. I measure his neck for the other suit with the tight collar, then continue to measure his upper arm, gulping as the pad of my finger brushes across a ridge of his scar.
I step down from the stool, almost slipping because I’m a giant clusterfuck around him, but he is quick to clasp his hands around my waist, holding me to his body. Then, he lets go immediately, as if I might infect him with some deadly disease.
I swallow down the sting from his reaction and continue my work.
I measure his waist, my fingers moving around his adonis belt in a way that makes him hiss under his breath.
I try my luck by tracing the tape up his body, following the line between the blocks of his six-pack until I get to the middle of his chest.
I’m treading on dangerous waters here.
I need to be careful with him. My fear of what he might do to me and what I feel around him combines into something impossible to brush off.
I place the tape over his nipples to measure his chest. The sight of his chest rising and falling in a controlled breathing pattern is making me lose focus.
He wants me.
It’s frightening.
I rip the measuring tape off, then go to my notebook on the floor and write out every measurement taken so far.
I go back to him. We both know his crotch is the next and last thing I need to measure. He says nothing, so I continue. I’m close enough to feel his breath burning the side of my face as I slip the measuring tape between his legs.
He groans, and I inhale deeply. I step to his side, measuring the distance from the tip of his butt to the tip of his waist all the while deafened by my hammering heart.
I step away from him to note down these last measurements, feeling the insides of my thighs damp and my pussy and nipples swollen. I swallow, gawking at him and the mystifying allure around him.
“Are you done?” He says, the roughness of his voice brushing somewhere in my stomach.
“Y… Yes,” I nod.
“Good,” he steps in front of me, making me shrink, and it’s the last thing I remember before his mouth swallows mine in a ravenous kiss.
I’m taken aback, but he doesn’t leave room for me to do anything other than comply. The kiss sends a scalding current surging through my body, making me physically tic until the force gathers in the base of my stomach.
I clamp my legs together as my pussy pulsates, making me wet. He is the first person to make me wet through natural means, and it’s surprising to see that regardless of the damage done, somehow, his touch can help to repair that core part of me.
A part I think only responds to him.
He drives me back, one strong arm coming around my waist, his hand ripping my dress from the neckline to free one of my breasts until my back hits the door.
He pulls away from me and growls.
I can feel the heat everywhere. My throat, my chest, my stomach, my pussy.
His eyes are hooded, darkened by a hunger I would liken to predators in the wild. He is panting and I’m heaving. The mix of fear and desire is the perfect elixir.
“You,” he husks, too foggy a voice to barely make it out as a word, “You,” he groans, undoing the hook of his jeans and then zipping down to free his cock. “You…” He wraps his hand around his cock. “You make me lose my fucking…” he grunts as he tightens his fist around his cock, my eyes dropping on the glimmer of precum that spills out of it.
I fall on both knees to catch the drop with my tongue. I know what to do for my master needs. I have played this role so many times.
He keeps fisting his cock, and I keep my tongue at the tip, flickering it around the opening to lap up every bit of his juice.
We are both wild with need. Ravenous with desire.
“Tell me you want me to fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he throws his head back, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Tell me you want my cock in your sweet little pussy.”
As much as he is commanding me to say it, I want to say it because I want it. I have never wanted to be used and fucked by anyone the way I want to be used and fucked by him.
I have never wanted to act the slave as much as I want to with him.
“I want you to fuck me,” I swirl my tongue, then trace a vein down to his balls, “I want your cock in my pussy,” I tease his balls.
“Fuck,” he spurts, “The things I want to do to you,” he hums. “The things I need to fucking do to you, Zoe,” he lets go of his cock. “Come here,” he beckons, and I’m up, my knees almost buckling.
He wants me just as much as I want him. He wants my vocal consent before claiming me.
He wants me to want him.
From the very first day I was sold to him, he felt like a new dawn. I felt drawn to him, and my body reacted to him, and my mind tilted in his direction.
He can have me whenever he wants but knowing he wants my consent nonetheless makes a dark part of my bruised heart glimmer with light.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he holds my gaze, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, “and I should not be fucking you, but…” he breathes. I catch my breath. “Hands on the door and hold your ass up for me,” he taps my breast, and I turn to obey, but he squeezes my ass, gathering the fabric of my dress to get a good grip.
He lets go and I flip over, doing as told. I place my hands on the door, I’m not used to wearing underwear, so my pussy is already bare for him. Swollen and twitching with need.
One of his hands comes to cover mine on the door, and the other gathers my dress up while he works his way with keeping it as a band around my waist. I push out for him, and he digs his fingers into my pussy. I arch my back at the delicious intrusion.
He grunts into my hair and sniffs me before dragging his fingers to take some of my wetness to my butt hole. He teases and I tighten the muscle around my butthole as pleasure skates through me, making my vision glitch.
He presses his warm body against mine, then finds my pussy with his cock. He circles the tip around my opening, and with the urgency of the need weaving around us, he pushes deep inside of me.
“Ah…” I breathe out from the ecstasy of being so full and grit from the pain of his sharp entry. He is big and I will be bruised. “Make it hard, please,” I beg.
Our fingers interlock as he slams into me. I want the pain. I want it as much as I want the pleasure, if not more. Because it is not being inflicted on me, I am consenting to it.
Maybe someday, he can whip me, choke me, bite me until he draws blood. I wouldn’t complain because it’s exactly what I need.
“Is this how you want it?” His chin rests on my head, his voice staggering from the fucking.
“Harder,” I whimper, the orgasm already clambering through my body to muster in my stomach.
He picks up his pace, slamming harder into me in a snappy way that both hits my G-spot and grates my walls. So good. Too good.
Our moans and grunts fill the room. The slapping of our skin thunders.
“Give me that orgasm, Zoe,” he demands, slinging his arms around me to find my clit and pinch it. He gives the spot a flick and my body obeys.
The heat splashes through me, obliterating in my stomach and spurting out of my pussy. I clench his cock as I start to spasm, gritting and muttering with a twitching vision that blurs everything else.
His grip around my hand tightens, and I know he is about to cum, too.
One deep shove inside of me later, and I’m splintering into the most pleasurable numbness, feeling him douse me with his cum. We hit the highest peak and then clamber down together.
Our distorted breathing circles the room, and I hear our hearts thrumming.
I wait for him to tell me to stay away from him. To give me the same order as the first time. But instead, his arms come around my waist, and he plasters me to his body.
I drop the back of my head on his chest and breathe in.
I might be tempted to call this place home.