Heat surged through her, and she nodded dumbly—his mindless sex puppet.
“Yeah, you are,” he said. “But I don’t think things’ll go that way. I think we’re going to drink and talk until I put you on all fours and fuck you like I just broke out of prison.”
Oh God, yes, please.
“Can I-I… get a timeline on that?” Tabby stammered.
“It’ll happen when I say it happens.”
Her pussy fluttered impatiently, but she knew better than to issue demands. “I can wait.”
He laughed again, low and mean. “What you can do doesn’t matter. You’re here for me.”
Tabby whimpered as he pinched down on her nipple.
“People screw in here, you know,” he said in a conversational voice. “That’s an unwritten rule. There are no cameras, so you can do whatever you want.”
Tabby swallowed. So, Prism was some kind of sex bar. That explained the discreet front door and the heightened energy of the place. The guy openly complimenting her dress and the waiter’s stares. Her excitement mixed with a low pulse of nerves. She’d been at a few parties where things had gotten out of hand, but she’d never done anything like this. She wondered if Toby had been to Prism before and stiffened, hating herself for wondering it. Of course, he had. This was Toby 2.0. He’d probably fucked a million girls at this bar. One after another.
“What’s wrong, Tabitha? Jealous about who I might have already screwed here?”
Hating how well he could read her, Tabby reached for the soda water. The glass was heavy in her hands, and she drank fast, wanting to quench her parched tongue and throat.
“Oh, don’t be jealous, Tabby-tabs,” Toby said, his palm returning to her leg. “You’re the hottest bitch to ever step into this place, bar none.”
She hated herself all the more for the thrill that went through her at his words. The compliment. The patronising little nickname. She put down her glass.
“Did you get drooled on, walking through here with your big tits bouncing for every man to see?”
The hardness in Toby’s voice demanded an answer.
“Yes,” she said, very aware of her newly dampened mouth. “A guy said he liked my dress.”
“Mydress. And did you like them all looking at you? Trying to rearrange themselves through their pants because you got them hard right in front of their wives?”
“Yes,” she whispered, unable to remember if it was true. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Toby. His voice was as velvet as the curtains, his hand vast against her thigh. He pushed his palm across her lap and between her legs, cupping her through her dress. “You won’t be fucking any of them, though, will you, Tabitha?”
She shook her head.
“You’ll be fucking me. When I say so, you’ll pull up your skirt and push your little pussy right back onto my cock, won’t you?”
She nodded, her chest and arms flashing with goosebumps.
“Yeah, you will, and then you’ll work your hips, trying to get me as deep as you can as fast as you can. Make that ache go away.”
She nodded, thoughts gone, head empty. Who cared if he was mocking her? Who cared if he fucked her in a public place? Why would it even matter?
He kissed her neck, stubble scraping down her skin once more. If he kept doing it, he’d leave a rash. But she wanted that—all the marks.
“So,” he said. “You’ve got a boyfriend.”
No, but it wasn’t a question; it was a starter pistol, transitioning them into the fantasy about the kind of woman she was and why she was here. Toby’s hand was still deep between her legs, caressing her through the satin.
“Yes,” she breathed. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“What’s he like?”
Shit.Tabby scanned her memory and settled on Conor of the Sparkling Whine fuckup. They’d only slept together a couple of times, but if she needed a fake boyfriend to humiliate, there was no one she’d rather cuck. “He’s, um, tall with light brown hair. An events manager.”
