Chapter 28
I give myself one last look in the full-length mirror, turning slightly to catch the way the light hits the fabric, the way the silhouette shifts with my movement.
The dress is everything I hoped it would be—strapless crimson silk that hugs my torso, the neckline dipping just low enough to suggest, without revealing, and the slit high on my left thigh so that every step will flash a hint of skin.
The matching heels add four inches to my height, making my legs appear endless.
My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, the kind of carefully constructed “effortlessness” that took my stylist forty-five minutes to achieve.
My makeup is dramatic, with smoky eyes and red lips that match the dress.
I look like a movie star. I think. I look like the woman the world expects me to be.
I take a steadying breath, feeling the familiar flutter of pre-event nerves in my stomach, and I head downstairs. The heels click against the stairs, a staccato rhythm that announces my arrival before I reach the foyer.
Gunnar stands by the front door, checking his watch with an impatience that vanishes the moment he looks up at me.
His tuxedo fits him like it was painted on, his broad shoulders emphasized by the jacket’s perfect cut, and his toned thighs are accentuated by the satin stripe down his trousers.
The bow tie that he fought so hard against sits perfectly straight at his throat, and the mother-of-pearl studs catch the light with subtle elegance.
But it’s not the clothes that make me stop mid-step or that make my breath catch and pulse stutter. It’s the man wearing them. He looks both devastating and dangerous.
“You look fucking gorgeous,” he breathes as his gaze travels down my body with a thoroughness that leaves me feeling simultaneously exposed and adored.
I force my feet to move again, closing the distance between us, and I let my own eyes roam over him with equal appreciation. “You clean up pretty nice yourself, Daddy.” I pitch my voice low enough that only he can hear the honorific.
His throat bobs as he swallows, the word clearly having affected him. “Only on the outside, baby girl,” he whispers gravelly, stepping close enough that I can smell his cologne. “Because the things I’m thinking about doing to you right now are fucking filthy.”
Every syllable over his lips sends heat pooling between my thighs, and I have to press my legs together to relieve some of the pressure. “Don’t you even think about ruining this hair or makeup,” I warn as we step out into the cool evening air, the limo waiting in the driveway, its engine running.
Dressed in his own dark suit, Damon stands beside the rear door, his expression professional, but his eyes sharp.
To the public, he’ll look like my bodyguard, the hired muscle every celebrity needs.
Gunnar, by contrast, will simply look like my date.
The distinction matters for the narrative and the photos that will circulate tomorrow.
Damon opens the door for us, and I slide into the back of the limo, finding the leather cool against my skin.
Gunnar follows, settling in beside me with a casualness that doesn’t fool me for a second.
I see the way he’s looking at me, the predatory glint in his eye that promises retribution for my teasing.
“I do believe you’ve misbehaved, thinking you get to tell Daddy what he can and cannot do with his pussy.
” His voice is loud enough to carry to the front seat.
The limo driver’s head snaps around, his professional composure cracking for just a moment.
Damon sits beside him, trying to hold back a chuckle, his shoulders shaking with the effort.
Gunnar notices the driver’s reaction, and his expression hardens.
He reaches for the control panel on the door, his finger quickly finding the button to raise the privacy partition.
The glass slides up with a soft mechanical whir, sealing us into our own world, cutting off the view from the front.
He shifts in his seat, angling his body toward mine as the air grows thick and charged.
“I think you are forgetting which of us is in charge here,” Gunnar says, his deep tone making my stomach flip.
Before I can respond, his hand finds the slit in my dress, his fingers sliding beneath the silk.
I gasp at the contact of his rough, warm palm against my skin as it runs up my thigh with devastating slowness.
His fingertips dust against the thin fabric of my panties.
“And I think you need a reminder,” he continues, his eyes locked on mine.
He slides off the seat, moving with a grace that belies his size, and kneels before me on the limo floor. His hands slide up my outer thighs, his touch firm and possessive. He hooks his fingers around the thin straps of my panties on my hips.
“Gunnar—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Quiet,” he commands. “Unless you’re using that pretty little mouth to beg.”
He pulls the lace down my legs, the fabric dragging against my sensitive skin, and I lift my feet slightly so he can guide them over my heels. He drops the scrap of lace and silk onto the black leather seat next to me.
“Open,” he orders, his hands pressing against my inner thighs.
I obey, spreading my legs for him, my dress riding up to expose me completely.
The air of the limo is cool against my heated flesh.
He urges my thighs wider, settling himself between them as he sucks his fingers into his mouth.
He coats them with saliva in a gesture that’s so crude and deliberate, there’s a rush of wetness between my legs.
He runs two fingers around the entrance of my pussy, teasing me with the promise of penetration, circling the sensitive flesh until I’m whimpering and my hips are bucking toward him, seeking more. Without warning, he slips them inside me.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my head falling back against the seat as I fist the edge of the leather.
“This sweet little pussy belongs to Daddy, doesn’t it?” he asks, his fingers curling inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice breathless and high.
“And it’s mine to use whenever I please, isn’t it?” He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, driving his fingers deep.
I moan, the sound embarrassingly loud in the confined space. “Yes, Daddy. Yes, it’s yours.”
He settles into a rhythm, moving inside me with practiced precision, his thumb circling my clit with every other stroke.
It’s devastating, this combination of fullness and friction, and I feel myself climbing toward the edge with terrifying speed.
Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he stills his fingers.
Holding them inside me, motionless, Gunnar denies me the final thrusts I need to come.
“Please,” I whimper, trying to grind my hips against his hand, seeking completion.
“No,” he states simply before starting again. He works his fingers in slow, teasing strokes that bring me back to the precipice, only to deny me again. And again. And again.
The limo glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the city lights painting patterns across the tinted windows as Gunnar leisurely finger-fucks me for the entirety of the journey.
An hour of torture, of being brought to the edge of orgasm and then denied while I beg and plead, receiving only his dark stare in response.
By the time we enter the drop-off line, I’m a mess. Wetness coats my upper thighs. My cheeks are flushed, my breathing is ragged, and my body is trembling with unfulfilled need. “Please,” I try one more time, my voice breaking. “Please, Daddy. I need to come.”
He pulls his fingers from me with a wet sound that makes me blush even harder.
With them in his mouth, he licks them clean with obvious enjoyment.
“No, baby girl,” he denies, his eyes dark with his own arousal.
“This is your punishment. You’re going to spend the night with flushed cheeks and a needy pussy.
And if you can be a good girl for me—smiling for the cameras, making nice with the industry vultures, and pretending that you’re not distracted with thoughts of my cock buried inside you—I’ll think about letting you come on the way home. ”
The car creeps forward, the velvet ropes visible through the windshield, and the crowd of photographers waiting like a pack of hungry wolves.
“My panties,” I blurt, realizing I can’t exit the car without them. I can’t walk the red carpet commando and dripping for him.
Gunnar reaches over, swiping the discarded lace from the seat.
He uses them to dry his fingers with deliberate slowness.
His eyes holding mine, he proceeds to tuck them into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
“You also don’t get the pleasure of these.
” He pats his pocket. “I plan to keep that pussy wet and aching all night while you remember who you belong to.”
The door opens, and Damon’s hand appears to help me out. I have no choice but to compose myself, fix my expression, and step out into the blinding flash of cameras with my arousal slick on my thighs and my panties in my date’s pocket.
Gunnar follows, his hand resting on the small of my back. To the public, the gesture looks supportive—which it is—but I also know that, right now, it’s about control. He is owning me, reminding me with every touch that I’m his, even as the world watches.
“Smile, baby girl,” he whispers against my ear as we face the first wall of photographers. “Show them what a good girl you are.”
I smile. I pose. I answer questions from reporters about my dress, my next project, and my handsome date. And all the while, I feel the absence of him between my legs. It’s a constant thrum of need that Gunnar orchestrates with nothing more than his proximity and occasional heated glances.
He stands beside me, looking every inch the distinguished escort, the supportive boyfriend, and the man proud to be on my arm.
But I know the truth. I know that beneath that tuxedo, he’s aching to punish me.
He’s enjoying every moment of my discomfort.
And I know that when we get back in that limo, he’ll either reward me or deny me further, depending on his whim and my behavior.
As we walk the red carpet, the cameras flash and the crowd screams, the world watching the perfect image of Hollywood glamour. They are all oblivious to the game of dominance and submission we are playing out between these public, performative moments.
I pause for a photo, turning to face Gunnar, who puts his arm around my waist. With his hand low on my hip, he pulls me close, and his fingers dig into my flesh just enough to cause my pussy to flutter.
“Having fun?” he asks, too soft for anyone else to overhear.
I look up at him, finding the blue eyes that hold my entire world. While I feel love when I stare into them, at this moment, frustration and the desperate need to come are coiled so tightly they trump my true feelings. “I hate you,” I whisper with a smile.
He laughs, the gesture crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him even more handsome. “No, you don’t,” he counters. “You love that I own you. You love that I can do this to you. And I love that, right now, surrounded by all these people, you’re thinking about nothing but me.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right. I am thinking about nothing but him.
His fingers inside me. His mouth on my skin. His cock stretching me. The release he’ll hopefully grant me when this night is over.
We reach the end of the carpet, the entrance to the theater looming ahead, and Gunnar’s hand slides lower. His palm momentarily cups my ass through my dress before sliding up to my hip as we step into the lobby, the noise of the crowd fading behind us.
The usher escorts us to our seats. When the lights in the theater dim, Gunnar slides his hand obscenely high up my thigh. His pinky dusts against my pussy, the contact causing my toes to curl in my shoes.
“If you want to come tonight, not a peep,” he warns. “I don’t want to hear so much as a sputtered breath pass over those lips as I play with my pussy.”
I nod, answering him silently, hoping I’m ready for whatever he is going to demand of me, and that I’m strong enough to endure his playful brand of torment.