Toxic:Tell me what you feel.
“I feel it everywhere. My clit is throbbing. My bed is soaked.”
Toxic:Tell me what you want me to do, but say please, and call me daddy.
For the love of droids, I can’t with this man.
And yet, I do.
“Please lick my pussy, Daddy,” I whimper.
Toxic:Good girl, now touch yourself there and tell me how it feels.
I touch my delicate flesh, trying to tame the sensations so I can reply. “It’s hot, sticky.”
Toxic:Shove your fingers in your mouth and lick them clean. I want to hear it.
The obscene sounds I make as I lick my fingers clean could be used in court to prove my insanity.
Toxic:I wish it were me licking you clean. I’d lick you, hole to clit, making you come so hard you squirt all over my beard.
Well, fuck me if he’s not the most deliciously disgusting man to ever walk the face of this earth.
Toxic:I want you to come now, baby girl. I want to hear every moan.
I work my clit in circles, twisting and gasping and saying things that make no sense, until finally, sweet release washes over me.
How is this possible? Save for the two times I’ve been with Toxic, I’ve never gotten off so hard. This man is better in sext than most men are in real life.
Suddenly remembering that Toxic is on the phone, I scramble to hit END.
A moment later, my phone pings.
Toxic:That was amazing to hear, baby girl. Now get some rest. And don’t worry. Daddy’s going to take good care of you.
EIGHT
Samantha
If time would just stand stillfor about a decade, I might finally catch up on work, because apparently, my now-occupied uterus isn’t the only part of my life that’s been thrown into chaos.
I’ve put out two fires this morning, and three more have already sprung up with a fourth on the horizon. Not that there’s much I can do to fix the situation until my stupidly, McStupid clients reply back to me.
Desperate to forget my growing list of worries, I settle into the couch to peruse the pages of my favorite celebrity gossip rag.
Through the blinds, I see Elliot and Jordan heading into the guest house.
How predictable.
An email notification alerts me to a dilemma with my very first client, Thomas Spence.
Is the universe trying to give me a heart attack? Because it certainly feels like it.
Thomas got drunk and went scorched earth in a convenience store, toppling shelves and doing so much damage that it’s now closed for repairs.
Currently, he’s out on bail and had enough sense not to issue a statement.
Gone are the days when this would have flown under the radar. If I’m lucky, he’ll get probation and check his ass into rehab, which I didn’t realize he needed until this very moment.
