Zion could tell me to do pretty much anything right now and I’d do it, quickly, automatically, enthusiastically. It’s a dangerous place to be, I guess, but it feels unbelievable. And, I realize again, that Idotrust Zion. And not just now or yesterday, when he opened up about himself. Or when I went and made the seemingly unwise decision to have unprotected sex, maybe even before then. And that’s possibly—no, definitely—why I was so hurt when he went out and cheated. We had no love contract between us, no sexual agreement within the confines of the marriage, but Itrustedhim. And that hurt.
I’ll never do it again, Twyla. I promise. On my life.
I think of his words, his emotion, his raw intimacy with me and sink back into the scene.
Now, I’m so worked up, so loose and lost and under his spell, that when he tells me I can’t come and it’s suddenly so close, I can’t stand it.
Instead of complying, I impale my mouth on his cock and reach for my clit. A brat is a brat is a brat, I guess.
“Whoa, bro, what’s she doing?” asks Blade, clearly stifling a laugh. “You see that?”
With a martyred sigh, Zion, pulls away, leaving me empty and frustrated and bereft. I reach for him and he bends just far enough to grab my face, squeezing my cheeks with his fingers and, in the process opening my mouth. It hurts, but I keep rubbing my clit. He’ll need more than this to stop me.
“Fuck, Zed, I had no idea.”
“Right?” Zion’s cock slaps me across the face, drawing a gasp straight from my lungs. Forgotten, my hand falls away from my clit and, before I know what’s happening, he bends and picks me up in the same fireman’s carry he used to drag me here.
I squeal as Zion hauls me over to the bench and drops me on my back. “We need the bigger plug,” he says.
Blade moves, his stride smooth and graceful, and returns with another plug and lube in hand. “Fuck, she’s dripping.”
Zion sighs again. “Yeah, but she doesn’t listen.”
“Sorry, man. You’ve got your hands full. Brats are tough.”
I start to roll off, thinking—or not thinking—maybe I’ll run so he can catch me? Maybe I’ll piss him off and see what comes next, because I absolutely love this game. But Zion stops me with a hand on my chest. “No coming. No running away. Those are the rules, got it?”
I turn my head away. Zion leans over me, his cock pressed against my abdomen, too high to do any good, and does that face grab thing again, pressing my lips into the plumped-up O of a blow-up sex doll. “You stay still, you don’t come, and you do what I say, or…”
“Or what?” I ask, spittle hitting him in the face.
“Or you get treated like the little brat you are.”
A thrill runs through me. I want that. I want to be treated that way, even though I’ve got no godly idea what that is.
So, I twist out of his hands, of course. I struggle, hard, to get off the bench, fall to the floor, crawl to the door, as if running away’s what I want. It’s not. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here in this cocoon with Zion. I want what he wants to give me. I want the punishment, I want the pain, the anger, the emotion, harsh and pure, beautiful.
I make it outside, which I think they might have allowed, to be honest, get to the top of the porch steps, grab onto the wooden post, and get flattened by Zion, who wraps a hand around my throat, not to choke me, but to hold me.
I look in his eyes, expecting anger, I guess, but it’s not there. Not at all. What I see instead sends a flutter to my belly, tightens my chest, and makes me want to kiss him. To take care of him.
It’s the earnestness, probably, more than anything. Earnest and sort of shocked, like he’s taken a bowling ball to the stomach and he’s out of air and doesn’t know how to get it back and, the thing is, I’m the same way. I am.
“I feel so much,” I say, without meaning to, tears gathering in my eyes.
“Me, too,” he replies in a whisper.
“Is it always like this?”
“Never.” He shakes his head, brings his face close to mine, shuts his eyes through a series of breaths, and opens them again. “I want to kiss you.”
I nod. “Do it.”
He leans in, so close his breath licks at my lips first, then his mouth, which he presses, for a quick, urgent moment before pulling away. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” I ask, the hurt creeping inexorably in.
“Better.” He gulps and runs his hands through his hair, leaving it a mess. “Than anything. Anything I could ask for, think of, dream up. It’s like you’re…” He grimaces, looks out into the teeming darkness, then down at me again. “Like you’re the fantasy I never dared have. Never let myself. How could I, when I didn’t even know?”
