Chapter 64
Anton
She’s a fucking kitten when she’s like this.
I hold her under the torrent of water in my ensuite shower. I have her wrapped up tightly in my arms. If I let her go, I think she might sink to the floor in a contented, woozy pile.
But there’s no chance of my letting her go.
I can’t stop kissing her. Can’t stop myself from sucking on her lower lip, from teasing her tongue with mine under the spray. She’s tucked into my body, her glorious tits cushiony against my abdomen and her face tilted up to mine, soft and starry-eyed.
I feel like the king of the world. Or at least:
‘I finally feel like a man again,’ I murmur against her lips, and she breaks our kiss to laugh. Her arms are looped around my neck, and she’s playing with my hair.
‘Oh, that’s what that was about, was it? Your daughters and your dog gave you a hard time so you thought you’d fuck me senseless on your kitchen island?’
‘Something like that,’ I admit sheepishly. ‘But mainly it was that you allowing me to do whatever I like to you is the single most erotic thing there is in life.’
‘Good comeback,’ she says sleepily, and I bend my head and find her mouth again.
It’s true.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.
There are women who aren’t interested in the kink of sexual power dynamics I like to practice. Case in point: my exes.
There are women who are naturally submissive and long for a man to take charge. They’re lovely, but not exactly a challenge. Case in point: Athena.
And then there are women like Gen. Women who are strong and fierce and awe-inspiring.
Women who could rule the world, if they wanted to.
And who, when the lights go down, feel the strongest need to abdicate that power.
To yield their mind and their body to a man who can take charge.
Who can turn them inside out. Think for them.
See them.
That’s the beauty of our dynamic. I need to dominate; she needs to submit. And when she grants me carte blanche to fucking tear her apart, she doesn’t have to explain.
Because I already understand.
Because I already know and see and worship the darkest, neediest parts of her.
It’s terrifyingly good between us. Terrifyingly right. It enthrals and amazes me how clearly our bodies and souls can communicate.
I adore her like this, when she’s relaxed and pliant and trusting. When the creases have gone from her brow, when I’ve fucked every last vestige of stress about the Cannes pop-up and that fucking Rapture place out of her system.
Even if it’s temporary.
When I turn off the shower, and kneel on the mat so I can dry every inch of her, when I squeeze out her hair with a towel and lead her through to my bedroom and lay her down on the bed, I don’t need to ask her how she wants it this time.
I don’t need to ‘fuck anything out of her’, because, for now, there are no demons left.
Instead, I sheath myself and I lower myself on top of her, testing her, consuming her, and I move inside her so slowly, so deeply, that our bodies feel like one.
And that, for me, is the rawest kind of sex I know.