If he’s implying what I think he’s implying…
I don’t respond, because I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I don’t know what to say.
“I guess,” I admit, my voice husky. I want to scream Yes, yes, exactly that! But manage to restrain myself. I squirm over his lap, eager to either be let up or spanked again. Anything to avoid this conversation that makes me feel too vulnerable, too needy, childish even.
“I think I know the kind of attention you want from me,” he whispers, slowly dragging his palm down my ass.
“Do you?” I ask. I hope he does because I don’t have the nerve to verbalize it. But maybe he’s figured it out.
When he leans in, I’m momentarily floating at the smell of his clean, signature scent, rugged and masculine and woodsy.
He belongs here. I’m the one that doesn’t.
“I’ve touched you. We’ve slept in the same bed. I’ve skirted the edge and brought you to climax, but we haven’t had sex yet. And here you are, Vivia Montavio…”
He slides me off his lap and onto the sand where I land with a soft oomph. White sand cascades around my clothes and shoes.
“You want me to make love to you, don’t you?”
Well since you put it that way…
I hold his gaze for long minutes, thinking over my response. I have no use for formalities or pussyfooting around and he definitely doesn’t.
Instead of answering his question, I swallow the lump in my throat. “Why don’t you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer at first. I wait for his response, but he doesn’t answer at all. He stands, helps me to my feet, and walks to the dock. “Let’s get some food,” he says.
Food. Fish. Ew.
My body’s on fire, and I feel dejected. My belly drops, and a raw feeling of emptiness pervades me. I should know better than to get my hopes up. I should know better than to think anything matters beyond me being his captive and the families that rule us.
* * *