“I’ve never done that,” I say. It’s true. My ex-boyfriend never did that for me. I never orgasmed with him.
Royal sets his palm on my pussy and grinds down gently. His touch grounds me, even as it sparks new arousal that threatens to send me soaring higher.
“This is the beginning,” he says.
4
Royal
“That was amazing,” Leah sighs. She’s curled in the chair. My own cock is pressed against my slacks, but I force myself to rise and fetch a warm washcloth from the closest bathroom. I return, and press it against her slick and stimulated pussy, cleaning and soothing all at the same time. I have plans for her pussy, and I want to keep it in good working order.
That’s how I see the world. Machines that need to be fixed. Pipes and joints and screws that should be fitted together so things can run smoothly.
From the first moment I saw Leah, I knew she could benefit from my care. She’s poor, overworked, tired. No hope, and no way out. I can fix all that.
And she will fix me. She is the last piece I need to be complete.
“Tell me about yourself,” I order as I clean her.
She blinks at me, her long black lashes framing innocent eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
I stroke her cheek. Is it too early to tell her why? This house is now her home. My bed is the only one she'll sleep in. For the rest of her life, she'll be beside me.
Maybe it's too soon to tell her all this.
“Because I want to know,” I say. She’ll need to get used to my orders sooner rather than later. She’s already most of the way there. “But if you're tired of talking, there are other things we can do. More I can show you.”
Her eyes drop to the bulge in my pants. She gulps then licks her lips, and I'm tempted to take her again. To teach her all the things I want her to know. All the pleasure she's yet to explore.
“No,” she says slowly, reluctantly. “I'll tell you everything.”
“Good.” I scoop her up and sit back down in the chair with her in my lap. Her lips part but she doesn’t protest. There’s a cashmere blanket beside the chair. I shake that out and tuck it around her. She looks incredible, her dark skin glowing in the shadows, her curves framed in soft wool.
I wait a beat, in case she finds her voice. But I can only hold back so long before I tell her, “You’re so beautiful.”
She blinks at me. The firelight gleams in her dark curls.
“Um, thank you.” She ducks her head.
She’s uncomfortable with compliments. Something for me to work on.
“I guess I should tell you… I have no family. Well, besides the Rossis.”
She bites her lip and I stroke her knee, running a finger over the sliver of skin poking out of the blanket to encourage her to continue. “The couple who owns the Panetteria?” I ask.
“Yes. They look after me in their own way.”
“Continue.”
“My foster family said I could have a job. I was one of several children they took in. It was loud and crowded, and so I got out of the house as much as possible.” She hesitates and then says in a rush, as if she wants to get it out quickly, “My father died in an accident when I was little, my mom died of cancer when I turned fifteen.”
“I'm sorry, principessa.” I run a hand over her silky curls. “You've suffered.”
“Not that much.” She’s biting her lip again. I touch her bottom lip the way I did in the kitchen, admiring its smoothness and the way the brown fades to blush pink and back again. She has a little gap between her front teeth. It’s absolutely adorable.
“I've had a good life. The Rossis are very kind. They even wanted to take me in, let me live with them once. Only…”
“What is it, pet?”
She squirms in my lap. “Mrs. Rossi is not well, and it's a lot to take care of her. They thought it would be better if I stayed in foster care and stayed in school.”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“I want Mrs. Rossi to get better.”
Hmm. This is something I might be able to help with. “Do you know her diagnosis?” I make a note to call the doctor later, to confer.
Now there’s a little line between her brows. I’d smooth it out like I did her bottom lip, but I don’t want to draw attention to her worry. Instead, I wait quietly. It’s ecstasy and agony, having her weight in my lap in this quiet, dark room. The firelight plays over her perfect features.
Finally, she says, “She has rheumatoid arthritis. It progressed really fast. When she turned forty-two, she could barely move. She told Mr. Rossi to divorce her but he wouldn't do it.” She blows out a breath. “Why am I telling you all of this?”