I only want her to look like that when she's eating my cock, only want her to be hungry for my cock and nothing else.
My niece Scarlett likes to say I'm a control freak, and although I know she doesn't mean it as a compliment, I have no problem admitting it's true.
I always want to be in control, and it's why every minute of my day is accounted for. I live for routines and schedules, and even the times that I allow myself to indulge in sex are limited to specific hours of the night.
So yeah, I'm a control freak in every fucking way there is, and it's why I've never allowed my work and personal lives to overlap...until now.
It was about fifteen minutes ago when I noticed some loser piece of shit eye-fucking my Francesca as he stalks her about the room, and it takes every bit of my control not to beat the shit out of him.
Francesca is mine.
She might not know it yet, but she is, and I don't appreciate anyone eyeing what's mine like she's on the fucking menu.
The guy is probably about her age, but he's also one of those idiots who think it's cool to dress in pink sweaters and mid-thigh shorts, along with crew socks matched with rubber sandals.
What the fuck is that about?
I know we're not supposed to judge a book by its fucking cover, but there are always exceptions, and that pathetic excuse of a man can't even be compared to a book to begin with. That would imply it's not all air up there, when just looking at him I already know what's inside his head won't even be enough to fill up a page.
That is the kind of guy who's been stalking my girl around the venue, and when I see him finally make a move—-
FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!
I see his eyes shoot straight down to her tits - my girl's tits, dammit - as he starts to talk...
That fucking does it for me.
Fuck being in control, and to hell with playing it cool and biding my time.
Francesca is my woman.
And it's time to claim what's mine.
Francesca
Men don't get to hit on me as a rule.
I think I was about fifteen when I realized the opposite sex automatically equates my D-cups to sluttishness. Since then I've become rather uptight, and I've never left myself open to overtures of any kind.
I know I should at least give some men the benefit of the doubt, but the potential drawbacks just aren't worth the hassle. As long as I have Kevin, I'm cool, and I've never let any guy come close, both literally and figuratively.
Tonight shouldn't have been an exception, but because I've allowed myself to be distracted in more ways than one, I'm now paying the price.
The jerk standing in front of me has the oiliest smile ever, and my skin starts to crawl as I feel his gaze drop to my chest.
Douchebag.
Men like him have been the bane of my existence since forever. These jerks have somehow convinced themselves ogling is a form of flattery, and although I'm tempted to give Douchebag here a piece of my mind, doing so might only make things worse, and so I tell myself that I should just get rid of him as quickly as possible.
This is Mary's event, after all, and I don't want to do anything to upset her.
I reluctantly turn my gaze back to the jerk who's still staring at my chest, but before I can lie and tell Douchebag I have someone with me, he's already grabbing the chair across the table and dragging it next to mine.
"Hope you don't mind I join you," he says as he takes his seat.
Grrr.
I know I don't own this table, but I was here first. Has the term 'personal space' stopped to exist, and it's why douchebags like this guy have no qualms invading my privacy?
The jerk resumes talking...and is still talking fifteen minutes later.
About himself.
He's a vlogger as well apparently, and aside from being a perv, he's also revealed himself to be the type of idiot who's let the size of his social media following get into his head. Douchebag here thinks he's all that just because his Instagram or Tiktok posts have an X number of hearts, and that's so not good news for me.
In my experience, jerks like this one have such massive egos, and so it's going to take more effort than usual to make Douchebag understand things won't alway go his way just because he's partially famous.
"How's the lasagna, by the way?"
The sudden question about my lasagna of all things throws me off, but what shocks me even more is when he takes my fork right out of my hand and digs into my plate.
What. The. Hell.
Douchebag actually makes eye contact as he takes a taste of my lasagna, and my jaw drops.