“The Kiss Of Death is when the queen gives a fatal kiss, a checkmate to the king while being protected by a pawn from her team,” I said, not wavering my eyes away from her.
She knew what it meant.
Four years ago, she had given me a checkmate, her daddy protecting her. I was trapped. Weak.
“Levi, I—”
“I think you owe me a dare.”
She gulped. “Tell me.”
I leaned back on my chair and trailed my eyes over the length of her body. “Masturbate in front of me.”
Her eyes widened twice their size. I’d noticed how shy she was acting, and I wanted to break that barrier her dad had surrounded her with. She wasn’t his queen anymore. And with me, she wouldn’t have to feel ashamed of her own pleasure.
“I can’t.”
“I’ll guide you,” I said. “If you don’t know how to please yourself, how could you accept pleasure? You need to know what you like and what throws you over the edge, even if I have my own ideas.”
Dalia Mercier didn’t want sweet; she didn’t want to feel fragile and breakable. She had been caged, but I would free each of her impulses and break her mask apart so Mercier wouldn’t even recognize his own daughter. He couldn’t accept her just as she was.
“Have you ever touched yourself, Dalia?” I knew she did.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But it wasn’t… I couldn’t… finish.”
“Undress yourself.”
“I won’t be able to touch myself if you watch me.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of with giving yourself what you deserve and giving me a show that would be engraved forever in my brain.”
I put my phone on the table, starting the playlist I’d made for her based on her YouTube history of songs—mostly classical music.
She laughed. “I won’t even ask how you know my favorite music. I can’t tell if this is romantic or creepy.”
“Just appreciate the gesture.”
“A bet is a bet, I guess.”
She bit her lips and threw my sweatshirt over her head, revealing her perfectly shaped breasts, her pink nipples pointing hard at me. She crossed her arms to cover them, and I had to readjust my growing hardness in my pants.
“Dalia.” My voice was almost pleading. “Use your hands for good. Touch your breasts for me. Caress yourself the way you want to.”
She held my stare, her fingers slowly caressing her chest. Her cheeks flushed. Right now, she could finally appreciate the body she was gifted. I felt my muscles tensing. She pinched her nipples, her eyes closing.
“Now touch yourself.”
She leaned backward on the chair, traveling her hand to her sex, the string of classical music rising higher. Her chestheaved up and down, and, fuck, I had compulsions. Raging compulsions. Murderous ones.
“Slide a finger inside your pussy.”
She did, and a part of me thought of choking her with my cock, before pounding inside one of her holes so savagely. I wanted to feel her break, melt, plead under me. The other part wanted to worship her, not daring to lay one hand on her, almost afraid of how I could ruin her. I readjusted my hardness again, my breathing becoming ragged. I would come before she did. How pathetic was that?
“Slide another.” Her eyes bulged, questioning me. “It’s either your fingers or my cock, and I assure you, it’s way thicker than that.”
I rose from my chair and watched her from the top. She was a masterpiece. I tucked her chin up to me, and her eyes creaked open on me. Seeing her like that, flushed with one hand in her panty, stroking herself shamelessly, was delightful.
I should take a picture of this moment, save it for my eyes only. I cupped her breast and kneaded her nipple, her back arching in response.
