2018 #3
“I'll learn.”
I look back at him.
The words came quickly, almost like he'd been holding them in.
“I'll learn,” he repeats. “I'll be whatever you need me to be. You called me a good boy downstairs, and I really fucking liked it.” He holds my gaze, and for the first time since we walked into this room, the nervousness isn't controlling him.
“If you need my consent, you have it. All of it. I just want you.”
“No.”
His brow furrows.
“You don't give someone all of it. Especially when you don't even know what you're agreeing to.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I soften my voice because he's trying, and I don't want him to mistake correction for punishment. “But wanting me isn't the same thing as consenting to everything I might want to do with you. Those are two very different things.”
He absorbs that without arguing, which earns him considerably more credit than he realizes.
“I don't have it in me to go easy on you tonight,” I continue.
“And I don't know you well enough to trust that you won't ignore your own limits because you're embarrassed or because you've decided tapping out means losing.
I'm not interested in finding out afterward that you endured something you didn't actually want because you were trying to impress me.”
“Then let me be in control.”
“That is not fucking happening.”
The words come out sharper and louder than I meant, and his jaw tightens immediately.
I roll my shoulders, forcing away the tension that filled them. “I'm not a switch,” I say more quietly. “That's not a negotiation or something I'm refusing to do for you. It's just who I am.”
He watches me for a few seconds before reaching into his back pocket. I expect him to leave, and some disappointing little part of me is already preparing to watch that beautiful ass walk out the door.
Instead, he pulls out his phone. When he holds it up, RAG is open to his profile with active matches.
“I'm not standing here desperate for sex,” he says. “I could leave right now and find someone else tonight, and we both know that's true.”
I raise an eyebrow because somewhere between the elevator and here, Blondie found some confidence.
“But I don't want to.” His eyes stay fixed on mine. “It's something about you, Rosepetal. I want you.”
Neither of us says anything for a moment.
I study his face, looking for bravado and finding something far more inconvenient instead. Earnestness. He isn't puffing his chest out anymore or trying to convince me he's experienced enough to handle whatever I throw at him. He's simply telling me what he wants and leaving the decision with me.
I can respect that. Even when it complicates things.
“Sit on the edge of the bed.”
His exhale is almost imperceptible, but I catch it as he starts toward the bed.
“And Jack.”
He stops and looks back at me.
“The word is red. If anything crosses a line, that's your word. I don't care about your ego; I don't care whether you think you should be able to handle more, and I don't care if we're thirty seconds in. You use it.”
“Okay.”
“Say it back to me.”
“Red.” His voice is steady now. “I'll use it.”
“Good boy.” I watch the words affect him exactly how they did downstairs before adding, “And it's yes, ma'am moving forward. Do you understand?”
His throat moves before he answers.
“Yes, ma'am.”
There it is.
That familiar pull of anticipation moves through me, and I have to resist letting my satisfaction show too quickly. This is exactly what I needed tonight. I just hope he understands what he's volunteered for.
He sits on the edge of the bed as instructed, knees apart, hands resting against his thighs while he watches me approach. I stop directly in front of him, close enough that he has no choice but to tilt his head back to meet my eyes.
Now, this I like.
Without my heels, the man has nearly a foot on me. He could probably pick me up without exerting himself, and yet here he sits, looking up at me because I told him to.
The contrast sends a quiet thrill through me.
I reach down and lift his chin between my fingers, watching those blue eyes stay exactly where I want them.
“Now. Reach up my skirt and take off my panties.”
His hands come up, and he starts working at the fabric, uncertain, fumbling, wanting to get it right.
“Eyes on me, Jack.”
His gaze snaps up and stays there. His tongue dips out and drags slowly along his bottom lip as he slides them down with a bit more finesse. I rest one hand on his shoulder and step out of them.
“Bring them to your nose.”
He does. His eyes close on the inhale — involuntary, like his body is deciding without consulting him first.
“Do you like the way your pussy smells?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what, Jack?” I punctuate it with a small slap on his right cheek.
His breath hitches in his throat. “Ma’am.” Then, steadier, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hm.” I watch him for a moment — the flush working up his throat, the way he’s holding himself so carefully still. “I really do like the way that sounds on your lips. I own you tonight. Tell me you understand.”
"Yes, ma'am. I understand."
Fuck, he's gorgeous. So eager.
I let my gaze track over him, taking my time about it. “If I own you, I want to see my possession. Shirt off. The tie stays."
He slides off the edge of the bed and onto his knees like it’s somewhere he was always meant to be.
I reach back and unzip my skirt just enough to let it fall, step out of it, and look down at him.
He’s looking up at me with an expression that makes fourteen months feel like a very long time to have waited for exactly this.
The muscles in his forearms flex as he loosens the knot at his throat, unbuttons his shirt, and slides it off to reveal a plain white undershirt stretched over his broad chest. A black chain with a small green pendant circle his neck.
I brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and he looks up at me through lashes that should be illegal.
I take the two ends of the tie and wrap them around my fist, giving a firm but gentle tug. “This is going to be your leash for the rest of the night.”
He draws a quick breath. “Fuck, that’s hot.” He catches himself before I can punish him for it. “I mean — yes, ma’am.”
“You’re such a quick learner, sweetheart.” I reach down and curl my fingers under his jaw, tilting his face up. “You’re going to have to earn your right to come tonight. Stick out your tongue, Jack.”
I lean down and suck his tongue into my mouth, then kiss him deeply, my nails firm at the back of his neck, and I feel him tremble. Knowing he’s never been dominated before, never been broken into submission — it’s the best fucking aphrodisiac there is.
I release him and take one step back, then pull him forward with the tie until his chin rests at the top of my slit. “Don’t stop until I come.”
He reaches out and with a firm grip on my hips yanks me forward, hooking my knee over his shoulder.
The first pass of his tongue pulls a sharp breath out of me I don’t bother hiding. He’s tentative for approximately four seconds — learning geography, then something clicks, and he dives in. His grip moves around to my ass, steadying me against his mouth, taking charge of keeping me upright.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck, that’s good.” My fingers thread through his hair, gripping tight as I buck against his mouth.
I am intensely grateful for the Brazilian wax I got two days ago, because I feel his tongue everywhere.
My whole body erupts in goosebumps. He takes my clit between his teeth and pulls, flickering his tongue over the captured flesh.
My head falls back, and I let out a rough moan. He hums against me in acknowledgment, taking it for exactly the encouragement it is.
He finds a new rhythm that makes my jaw go slack — tongue and pressure and the occasional graze of his rough chin that feels so deliberately placed I have to remind myself he got approved for this app today.
I look down and see the way the fabric of his slacks pulls across his lap and the blatant, very specific problem he is not doing anything to address.
“You’re so hard for me,” I say, mostly to myself, and he groans against my center like the words physically hurt him.
He slides one arm around the back of my thigh and pulls me closer and goes deeper and I stop thinking about composure or control or the fourteen months or Judge Peterson or any of it — there is only this, his mouth, the obscene wet sounds he’s making, the way he keeps adjusting the angle like he is genuinely, earnestly trying to take me apart.
The orgasm builds sharp as he slides two fingers inside and curls them repeatedly. He stares up at my face, mouth open, watching every expression like he’s studying me. “Jesus,” he mutters, fingers still working. “You’re soaking my hand.”
He keeps finding that spot, and my whole body starts to give.
“Right there.” My grip tightens. “Don’t move. Stay exactly—”
Within seconds I'm coming, hard, everything pulling tight and letting go at once until I'm heaving for breath and squirting everywhere.
His eyes blow wide. “Holy — oh, fuck.” The words barely make it out of him.
When I finally still, breathing hard, I look down at him.
His forehead drops forward to rest against the inside of my thigh. His shoulders are heaving. One hand is shaking where it’s still gripping my hip, and between his legs, a dark stain has spread across the fabric of his slacks.
He came.
Without a single hand on him.
He came from touching me.
I look at the top of his head for a long moment, at the flushed back of his neck, at the slight tremor still moving through him, and feel something I was not remotely prepared for settle quietly in the center of my chest.
I card my fingers through his hair. Gently this time.
"Good boy," I mumble. "Such a good boy."
He exhales like he's been holding it since we walked through the door.
Fuck. I really wish I could keep him.