“Hatethe way you fuck,” I say at last. He scarcely reacts, so I continue, “It doesn’t suit you at all. The fact you don’t fuck to wreck is ridiculous. Who do you think you are? A gentleman, or something?”
“You don’t like the way I fuck, huh?”
“No. Can’t stand it.”
“Hmm, is that right? Tell me. Tell me everything you hate about the way I fuck.”
My belly quivers from the way he looks when he says it. I have an awful feeling I’m not going to like how that conversation is going to go. Either that, or I’m going to like it way, way too much.
“I hate how you touched me.”
“You hate this?” he croons, running his hands softly up my sides.
“Yes,” I say. “Hate it.” He strokes my sides again. Warmth from his hands radiates through me.
“What else do you hate?”
“I hate the way you kissed my neck. It’s disgusting, it’s juvenile, it’s…it’s…all slobbery…”
I lose my concentration then, as he takes the back of my neck securely in his hand and tilts my head. My head lolls to the side far more than his subtle touch warrants. He kisses my neck. Soft lips. Warm tongue. I make a repulsive, grating sound.
“You don’t like this?” he asks sympathetically.
“Can’t stand it.” My voice is changing. It’s gone lower and sounds breathier than it should if I have any hope of seeming convincing.
He kisses my neck over and over. He kisses me until my blood is boiling and I’m nothing but mush. I’m boneless. My arms flail limply on the bed every time his mouth makes contact with my skin.
“I hate the way you touched my nipples,” I pant. He dips his head down to my chest and flicks an already hard bud with his tongue. He barely touches it. “It’s too little pressure, Asshole.” That does nothing but provoke him. He strokes my nipples over and over, even softer than he did before. He does it so softly, my whole body quivers. I arch back hard enough to strain something. He has me, though. Strong hands dig into the small of my back, holding me steady.
“You don’t like that at all, huh?”
“No. Does n-nothing for me.”
“Nothing?” I shake my head vigorously from side to side. “Then why are you so hard?”
“I’m not hard,” I lie.
“That’s a shame. If you were, I’d kiss you here, and here…” He draws a light line down the center of me, down my chest and down my belly, “…and here. Then I’d take your cock in my mouth.” He runs his fingertips up and down my rigid length. It’s a light, teasing touch that makes my face feel hot with frustration. “So, you’re sure you’re not hard, huh?”
I make some animalistic sounds and let off several expletives in a rough, hoarse voice. “I, it-it’s a biological response. It’s just a physical response to a particular set of stimuli.”
“Wanna see my physical response to this particular set of stimuli?”
To my eternal shame, I do. I really, really do.
Chapter 8
Asshole
It’seveningandI’mon the sofa. Damon’s in the shower. Again. We went at it for hours. Hours. At this point, I don’t know for sure how many times we came. We fucked on the bed, then I blew him. Then we showered together, and he blew me. Then we fucked a bit in the shower and then some more on the bathroom floor.
My balls feel achy and oversensitive now. My legs are so shaky that if Damon comes out of that bathroom with a mirror shank and tries to stab me, I doubt there’d be a damn thing I could do about it. Hell, given my recent track record, I’d probably let him.
I might even like it.
This whole thing is a mind fuck. A complete mind fuck. I look around the safehouse. Everything looks normal. I’ve straightened out the bed and I’m warming up a lasagne in the oven. The only thing out of place is the bottle of lube that’s still out on the nightstand. It’s next to the small pile of rings and necklaces Damon took off and left there the second night we were here. I get up and walk over to put it away. I pick up the bottle and look at it long and hard.
I’ve lost count of how many of these kidnapping jobs I’ve done over the years. I have a rough estimate in mind, but I couldn’t tell you the exact number. One thing I do know is that for every single one of those jobs, I’ve bought a very similar set of supplies. I tailor the menu slightly depending on the mark’s dietary preferences and I buy different clothes for them depending on their gender and size, but overall, the list is almost identical. The essentials are the same. That’s no mistake. I do it on purpose. It takes guesswork out of the equation. It reduces the likelihood of mistakes. It’s common sense.
