“I’m asking if you want me to make you come, Adrienne.” When I don’t reply, he says, “I want you to feel relaxed as possible tomorrow, and I like it when you’re honest with me, as you were just now.”
I swallow. Jesus Christ. Is he offering to make me come as some sort of reward for my honesty?
“You can say yes or no. I don’t mind either way and I don’t expect anything in return. It’s something for tonight, that’s all, to make you calm.”
Part of me would rather he pull me into his arms and kiss me instead of talking to me in this matter-of-fact manner. The embarrassment is working better than his orders to get out of his room.
But the other part of me likes how he’s framing the offer in such a reasonable manner: there’s no messy emotion attached to it. No sign that it would change our relationship.
I note that he didn’t say try to make me come. He will make me come. I’ve had an orgasm with a man before but it’s never been a certainty, and I’ve never been told I would, like it was a money-back guarantee or something.
“You seem sure of yourself,” I say, because it’s easier to hedge than say yes. Shut up and say yes.
But he doesn’t have a reply to that. He just waits.
“Well, um. Yes, then.”
“Please.”
“Please.” And I want to add daddy to the end of that, to tease him, but also because he does seem to be acting like a dom. At least I think he is. I’ve never met one that I know of, but his reserve and control seem to fit. I don’t say it, though, because suddenly I don’t feel like being a brat anymore.
He looks at me a moment longer, his expression unreadable, and then he takes my hand and rolls me over onto my belly. His hands are very firm and warm as he caresses my behind. “Is that all right? Want me to go on?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper. There’s a hot ache between my thighs. He grasps the elastic of my shorts and underwear in his hands, waits for a beat, and then pulls them down and off me in one smooth motion. I bite the side of my finger and close my eyes, liking the feeling of being naked with him from the waist down, feeling bashful at the same time. Does he like what he sees, or is he still thinking of this as just a comfort for me?
“It’s a goddamn miracle,” he mutters, his hands roving over my skin again, “that I haven’t given you the spanking of your life, all the lip you’ve given me.”
I wonder what I would do if he did spank me. I think I might like it, though I know I’m not really a sub. How could I be when I like getting my own way so much?
“Hmm? Nothing to say now, princess?”
I don’t respond, and he raises his hand and brings it down in a stinging smack on my ass. “Answer me when I ask you a question.”
My eyes snap open. “No,” I yelp. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Th
at makes a change.” His hand rubs over me, stroking the spot that he just slapped. “Are you wet for me, princess?” His voice has grown warm and indulgent. I’ve never heard him speak to me in that tone before and I like it.
I arch my back and open my legs wider as his fingers delve down. “Yes,” I pant.
“Good girl.” He finds my wetness and rubs his fingers over it, gently circling. I clutch the sheets, nerves sparking with pleasure. He’s making me feel amazing and I’m a good girl? That’s just about the best thing ever.
He presses deeper, two fingers sliding into me so slick and sure that I cry out. They’re hard, invasive and oh so good. The thickness of them is just what I need. I love his beautiful hands.
I hear him make a satisfied noise at the back of his throat. “God, you’re tight, kitten.” His fingers push in and out of me, exploring the ridges and smooth planes. He homes in on a spot on my front wall that feels incredibly sensitive and my eyes fly open and I look at him. There’s an expression of concentration on his face and the fact that he’s taking such care over making me feel this way makes me wonder if he does like me after all. The heat of him, the largeness of him, is as wonderful as his firm fingers inside me.
He notices me looking at him and he asks, “Is that good?”
I bite my lip and make a strangled, assenting noise. He keeps rubbing and everything is turning to liquid gold. His other hand runs through my hair, smoothing it down, and then trails down my spine to plant itself on the fleshy part of my behind. His fingers rub harder and I moan loudly into the mattress, feeling myself tighten around him—but when I’m close to the point of no return he stops again, and pulls his fingers out.
“What are you doing?” I gasp. He can’t leave me like this. I’m sweaty and panting and so needy for him.
“Are you going to be a brat tomorrow?” he asks.
“No,” I say, my hands gripping the sheets, breathing hard.
“Are you going to do as I say without sassing me?”