“I said. Tongue. My balls. Now.”
I crane my neck trying to reach, but the angle is wrong. He’s too far forward, his weight pinning me, and when I extend my tongue it barely grazes him. I strain, arching, desperate to obey, but I can’t.
He shifts again, pushing closer, and suddenly I can’t breathe. His body blocks my air, and panic flares bright and hot.
I tap his thigh twice, the universal signal for tapping out, but he doesn’t move.
Is he doing this on purpose? Does hewantme to fail?
My lungs scream. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I thrash beneath him, hands scrabbling against his thighs, and finally,finally, he pulls back.
I gasp, sucking in air like I’m drowning, coughing, sputtering, my chest heaving.
Before I can recover, he’s off me, grabbing my arm and hauling me upright. My vision swims. My legs tangle in the sheets as he drags me from the bedroom into the kitchen.
He releases me suddenly, and I stumble, catching myself against the counter. I blink, trying to orient myself.
“You went to bed without making me something to eat.” His voice is stone. “What happened to being the gracious host? Martha fucking Stewart? You mad about earlier?”
I turn to face him, still breathless, my heart beating against my sternum. He’s backlit by the kitchen light, his face shadowed, but I can feel the anger radiating off him.
“Are you mad at me, Vin?”
“Why would you say that?” He steps closer, predatory. “You like it rough, right? I’m just doing what you want.”
But it doesn’t feel like earlier. Earlier felt like fire, warm and all-consuming. This feels like winter, sharp and cutting.
I study his face, searching for the man who groaned my name, who called me his queen, who held me afterward and stroked my hair. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”
His lip curls. “Maybe you should complain to daddy. See if that helps.”
Daddy? Does he mean himself? Some kind of dominance play? Or… my actual father?
“Vin, I don’t know what’s—”
He yanks my tank top strap off my shoulder. “Take off your clothes.”
Heat flashes through me despite the confusion. My body responds to his command instinctively, nipples hardening, pulse throbbing everywhere. But when he tries to force my tank top over my head, tries to shove me to my knees, something in me rebels.
“No.” I shove his hands away.
His eyes widen, surprise breaking through his cold mask. It’s in that moment that I understand: he’s trying to break me, find my limits, make me angry, make me run.
Well, two can play that game.
I turn to the counter and with one sweeping motion, I push everything off. Dish towels, the fruit bowl, the salt and pepper shakers: they all crash to the floor in a cacophony of shattering ceramic.
Vin freezes, jaw dropping.
Good. Let him be confused.
I’m only wearing the thin tank top and shorts, so it takes seconds to strip. I peel the tank over my head, letting it fall. Hook my thumbs in my waistband and shimmy the shorts down my hips. His eyes track every movement, dragging over my bare skin.
I climb onto my kitchen counter and crawl toward him on my hands and knees, scattering anything in my way as I move from the far end of the counter to where he’s standing, staring. A metal spatula clatters to the floor. The sugar canister tips, spilling white crystals. I don’t look away from him.
When I reach the edge of the counter, I stop on all fours, eye level with his chest.
“Do you want to use my mouth?” My voice comes out strong, confident.
