Yet... I also know I want this.
I can blame it on hormones or horniness or loneliness. Or all three, if it eases my conscience.
But the end result is clear. I’m not going to fight it. I’m going to take it.
Oh my stars. Well, at least choosing which option, is easy enough. I have never given anyone a hand job and I am not about to humiliate myself with my ineptitude. Mister man-whore here will know straight away how incompetent and inexperienced I am, and I’d rather die than suffer that.
“Thighs,” I croak in a far too shaky voice.
He half carries me over to the edge of the pool. He gently bends me over it until my naked chest is pressed against the warm tiles of the floor. Then he moves my legs until they are pressed together.
“Keep them tight,” he whispers.
I shudder.
His very hard, very hot, very large cock, slides between my thighs. Just below my balls. Flipping heck, why does that feel so good? He is only touching the wet skin of my legs. Nothing should be erogenous there. What the hell is going on?
He leans over me. Hands resting on the edge of the pool. Tendrils of his hair brushing over my back.
His hips move. A long lazy thrust. Then another. And another. Little grunts of pleasure start spilling out of him.
This should be terrifying. He is looming over me. Holding me down. I’m trapped. It should not feel safe.Like I’m protected. Wanted. Cherished. His small sounds of pleasure should not be making me tingle all over with delight. I am not thrilled that I am pleasing him. He is a dirty pervert. I have zero desire to make him feel good. None at all.
His hand moves. Hot and firm, it wraps around my straining cock under the water. He tugs on me in rhythm with his thrusts. One, two, three and I’m done for. Balls drawing up and cock spurting everywhere.
I moan as he groans his way through his own orgasm. We are cumming together, in perfect synchronicity. Clouding the water around our hips.
Fuck. That was good. Orgasms really are wonderful things. And apparently really fucking easy to obtain with help. Unlike the hours I usually struggle with solo.
Soft lips brush over my bare shoulder. “My beautiful pet.”
My eyes sting. What a bastard. Giving me orgasms and then being nice to me. How dare he?
Well, I’m going to show him. I’m going to be the worst pet that ever lived. By the time I’m done, he is going to regret ever meeting me.
I’m going to make his life hell.
And it’s going to be fantastic.
Chapter eight
Another night of sleeping in a warm, dry, and comfortable bed. Another glorious bath, followed by a sumptuous breakfast.
Being a prisoner of the fey really isn’t that bad. I could very easily get used to this. It is certainly a thousand times better than being on the streets. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be pleasant about it though. I’m still going to do everything in my power to make Tristan’s life an absolute hell, because frankly, he deserves it.
I look over at the asshole. He is still writing in his damn notebook. He didn’t look at me at all during breakfast. Not even once. I’m only annoyed because it meant he missed my disgusting eating. All that wasted effort. It is infuriating. And nothing at all to do with craving his attention.
I’m sitting here at this fancy-ass breakfast table, by these enormous windows, in this absurdly posh room, and I’m being ignored.
He is just sitting there in his stupid, exotic, beautiful clothes. Writing in his stupid notebook and completely ignoring me. It is like I’m not even here.
I let out the loudest, most obnoxious burp I can manage. It hurts my throat, but finally he looks up.
“Finished?” he asks with a soft smile.
Bastard. Clearly I’m going to have to think of something more gross than burping. Maybe picking my nose and eating it. If that doesn’t do the trick, there has to be something that will piss him off. He can’t go around being all stunningly attractive and nice and making people feel things. He has to pay the price.
“Are you finished?” he repeats.
