It’s so good, I can’t imagine any way it could get any better. But it does. My orgasm bursts to life, nothing one second, and then it’s all I know. Shooting and spraying, pulsing and clenching as Stuart fucks me straight through my orgasm and into his own. His pace quickens. Above me, his jaw tenses and his eyes grow dull and unseeing. We both cry out, deep, raspy moans from him and shrill, helpless shrieks from me. Guttural, grating sounds that ring out over and over until Stuart’s heavy body collapses onto mine.
Stuart’s in the car, hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, waiting for me. It’s a Cadillac from the late nineties—the first car he ever owned. All boxy lines, swoopy curves, and pristine leather interior, complete with an electric-blue paint job. Even without Stuart in it, it’s sexy as hell. With him? I’m toast.
Since I got here, I’ve seen him washing it a lot and faffing under the hood, but this is the first time I’ve seen him take it out. I feel nervous and overexcited and spoiled rotten to be allowed to touch such a machine, much less ride shotgun.
“Where are we going?”
“Marco’s,” he says.
Marco’s is one of the best Italian restaurants in town. The food is amazing and the prices are hair-raising.
“B-but I thought you said I couldn’t afford to go to places like Marco’s anymore?”
“Oh, you definitely can’t.” His lips peel back and his eyes flicker with humor that turns into heat. He cocks his head to the side and says, “But your Daddy can.”
I feel like I’m floating. Hovering a couple of inches above the ground. Drifting off into the ether from nothing more than a collection of letters and sounds. Like that, I’m drunk again. Completely intoxicated. Woozy as fuck from a few choice words.
I talk nonstop all the way to the restaurant. My voice is high-pitched, and I know I’m laughing too much and too loudly. I can feel it, but I can’t stop it. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I’m talking about, and that’s probably for the best. I’m pretty sure my executive function is at an all-time low.
Marco’s is lovely as always. Swathed in gleaming dark timber, white linen, and moody black-and-white photographs of Old Hollywood stars. Each table is set with an excess of silver, and there’s a small vase with fresh sprigs of rosemary and a jewel-colored cut-glass holder with a tea light flickering in it.
Stuart pulls my chair out for me, and as I sit down, I feel where he’s been. I’m a little tender. Bruised in the very best way. Bruised from being used by the sexiest man on the planet.
My head spins from the thought.
I love it.
Stuart is talking, but his words are coming at me slowly. Best I can tell, he’s talking about wine pairings and sensible meal choices. He’s talking quietly. Using an inside voice specifically designed for polite company, a husky sound that caresses me like a tongue running up my spine, making me think and feel things that are in no way appropriate for polite company.
I realize he’s stopped talking.
I look up at him and bake under his gaze when our eyes meet. My insides feel hot. So hot I find it hard to sit still in my chair. I squirm hard to feel where he was more.
He watches me with a detached sort of interest before leaning forward in his chair, scooting one side of his mouth to the side in something that resembles a smile. “Are you sore, little boy?”
If you’d told me a few months ago I’d get off on being called little boy, I probably would have rolled around laughing. I’d have thought you were crazy. I’d probably have asked if I could have a hit of whatever you were smoking. I had no idea that two little words could snap me in half and rub me together. I had no idea that a person existed who could make sparks fly with two words. No clue that someone could undo me with nothing more than a smile that wasn’t even a smile.
“Uh,” I say after a few shallow breaths, “a little.”
“Good.” This time, the smile is a smile. It’s a smile and a half. A dark, languid smirk that looks like everything good in the world got put through a blender. He circles my wrist lightly and runs the pad of his thumb over my pulse. “As long as you’re my boy, I’ll make sure you’re sore on the outsideandthe inside.”
My jaw drops and I blink rapidly several times. I feel like I'm outside my body. Like I’m floating again. Drifting slowly down to Earth. Landing lightly. Grounded by the warmth of his touch. Catapulted into the stratosphere by his words.
The evening takes on a magical quality. Candlelight glitters and streaks into long splinters of light when I blink. Stuart’s eyes blaze. Flames flicker. Reflections from the candles, I guess, but right now, I’m not a hundred percent sure. If you were to tell me he was glowing or able to generate fire, I’d probably believe you.
When our food arrives, Stuart takes his time selecting a perfect bite. He spears a scallop and twirls fettucine on his fork until it’s a perfect, compact mouthful, then he lifts it to his lips and blows on it two or three times before holding it out to me. I drop my fork with a loud clatter and hold on to the edge of the table in an attempt to keep my shit together. My face is hot, and I’m brim full of arousal and a heaped serving of humiliation as I lean in.
There are people all around us.
I’m twenty goddamn four, and I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.
Still, I lean forward and take what he’s offering.
By the time the satisfying starchiness of the pasta mingles with the delicate sweetness of the scallop, the humiliation is gone. It’s gone completely. Gone without a trace. I feel coddled and pampered as fuck as I chew. I feel taken care of and smug and spoiled, and for the first time in my life, I relate to Jessie. I relate hard.
Even though the setting is idyllic, and the food and wine are delicious, every time I open my mouth, I have to fight an almost irresistible urge to say, “Can we go home, please, Daddy?”
19
