20. Ivy #2
“Look at you,” I sneer, circling him again. “So excited by your own failure. I think you fail in order to get off. Is that what you do? Are you that fucked in the head?”
“Jesus,” Nick whispers.
“No,” the man insists.
“Don’t lie to me.” I tap the end of the crop to his tip, and he sucks in a sharp, pained breath—but his dick also twitches, harder than ever. “Tell me the truth, or this ends now. Do you keep a running list in your head of all your little failures because it’s the only thing that gets you hard?”
“Yes.” It’s a whisper, filled with shame.
“I can’t hear you.” With the crop under his chin, I tip his head upward until our eyes meet. “Repeat yourself. I want to hear you admit what a sniveling little nothing you are.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s why.” His eyes are watery, like he’s on the verge of tears.
“Pitiful,” I spit out. “You aren’t fit to lick the bottom of my shoe, much less to get off tonight. Why should I allow you to do that?”
“You shouldn’t!” he rasps, and now I understand what this is about. It isn’t about release. It’s about the torture element for him. I can’t pretend I’m not relieved. That’s exactly what I need in order to keep up the act.
“I agree. You don’t deserve it.” I tap his chin lightly with the crop before taking a step back. “We’re finished here. I want you out of my sight.”
He releases a shuddering breath but nods, tucking himself into his shorts, raising his zipper. “Get up,” I order. “Fix yourself.”
He does, fumbling with his cuffs, adjusting his tie. Strangely enough, he does look relieved now. Like there’s something deeper at play than simply coming. It’s fascinating, in a way.
“Get out of my sight,” I order. He wastes no time. The door closes behind him, and the room goes quiet, and I can finally exhale.
“That,” Nick says through the earpiece, “was the longest twenty minutes of my life.”
“Was it?” My voice is light, because I’m still acting. I’m not completely unaffected by what just happened, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I thought it went well, myself.”
“Ivy,” he growls.
“Relax. It’s over. Nothing happened.”
The sound he makes isn’t quite a word. Closer to a growl through clenched teeth.
I’m straightening the table, because a professional would leave it the way she found it, when the door opens again. This time, it’s one of the bouncers. Broad-shouldered, wide enough that he almost fills the doorway. “There’s a customer out front asking for a private dance.”
Jesus, this is turning into a nightmare. “I’m not interested.”
“He’s already paid.”
“You’ll need to give him his money back or find someone else.”
“I’ll send him in so you can tell him yourself.” Before I can object, he steps aside, and Nick walks into the room.
He must’ve taken out the earpiece at some point, because I didn’t hear a word of what went down between the two of them. His jaw is tight enough to cut glass. His pale blue eyes find mine, and whatever he sees doesn’t make him any calmer. He closes the door behind him without breaking eye contact.
“Hello,” I murmur.
Instead of responding, he locks the door. That’s all the response I need.
I can feel his anger, hot and alive, directed at everything. At the situation… at me. I probably should be scared, but all I feel is… excitement.
I don’t apologize. I don’t explain. I stand in the middle of the floor in my mask and corset, waiting for him to decide what he wants to do with me.
“Take it off,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “The mask. The wig. All of it.”
I reach behind my head and unlace the mask first. It falls to the floor.
Then the wig, revealing my cropped hair underneath.
I don’t feel like Ivy right now, and I don’t feel like the woman I was pretending to be either.
I’m something else entirely, something that only exists in the space between his fury and my willingness.
He crosses the room in three strides. His hand wraps around my throat, not to hurt me, just holding me there while he looks at me with those pale eyes that see too much. “You enjoyed that,” he says. And it’s not a question.
“I was working,” I say, but my voice comes out breathier than I intend for it to.
“Bullshit.” His thumb presses against my jaw, tilting my head back. “I heard you. The way you talked to him. The way you owned every second of it. You were wet, weren’t you? Standing over him with that crop in your hand, listening to him beg.”
I don’t deny it. There’s no point. Nick sees through every lie I tell, even the ones I tell myself.
His free hand finds the front of my corset, yanking at the laces until the whole thing loosens so he can push it down. My breasts spill free, and his gaze drops. Filled with hunger and something else I don’t want to name.
“On your knees,” he orders.
I go down, the hard floor showing my knees no mercy.
He doesn’t give me time to situate myself or get comfortable.
He’s already unbuckling his belt, pulling it through the loops with a sound that makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
His cock is right in front of my face, hard, thick, and heavy.
Pre-cum already leaking from the head. “Open.”
I obey, and he immediately pushes inside.
His hand is still wrapped around my throat from where he’s standing over me.
He tastes like salt, anger and the bourbon he was drinking while I worked.
His size fills my mouth completely, stretching my lips around his girth, and I have to fight the urge to gag as he hits the back of my throat.
“That’s it,” he growls, his hips starting to move. “Take it. Take all of it.”
He isn’t gentle. In fact, there’s nothing gentle about this whole interaction.
He fucks my mouth the way he wants to fuck me, deep, relentless, and punishing.
His hand tightens at my throat, not cutting off air but controlling it, letting me breathe only when he allows it.
I grip his thighs for balance, feeling the muscle tighten, the tension in every part of him. And I fucking love it.
I love the roughness, the lack of pretense, the way he’s using me to work out whatever monster is raging inside him. My eyes water as he pushes deeper, holding himself there while I struggle to swallow, to breathe through my nose, to accept what he’s giving me.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I force my eyes up. He’s watching me with an intensity that should scare me. His jaw is tight, eyes dark with possession. He pulls back just enough, then thrusts forward again, setting a rhythm that has me desperate, aching between my legs for more.
I moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse under his breath. His thrusts get harder, more erratic. He’s close. I can feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way his grip tightens to the point of pain.
When he finally comes, it sounds like he’s being ripped apart; his hips jerk against my face as his cum spills down my throat. He doesn’t pull out until I’ve swallowed every drop he gives me, and even then, he stays there. Knowing this isn’t over, by the way his cock is still hard.
His hand drops, and he begins to slowly pull out. Causing me to gasp for air. I should feel used… small. But instead, I feel alive. In a way I haven’t in years, my whole body humming.
“Stand up,” he says, his voice rough.
My legs shake as I stand. Of course, he doesn’t help me. He watches me struggle to find my balance in these ridiculous heels. There’s something in his expression that tells me he’s memorizing every second of this.
“Turn around.”
I face the wall with the table of toys still arranged on it. I hear him moving behind me, the rustle of his clothes, and then his hands are on my hips, yanking me back toward him. He bends me over the table until my cheek is pressed against the cool wood.
His fingers find me between my legs, and he laughs. Sounding dark and satisfied. “Soaked,” he says. “I knew it. You loved every fucking second of that.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. His fingers are working me exactly where I need him. He circles my clit once, twice, and then he’s pressing against it, rubbing with the same relentlessness he used when he was fucking my mouth.
It doesn’t take long until I’m wound tight, and on the edge of another orgasm. When I come, it’s so intense, causing me to cry out. My nails dig into the table hard enough to leave marks.
But that doesn’t make him stop, he keeps going, drawing it out longer until I’m pushing back against his hand because it’s too much and not enough all at once.
Only then does his hand go still between my legs, his breath hot against the back of my neck.
“Mine,” he whispers, and I’m so spent, I don’t have the strength to argue.