And I am lost to her. She doesn't know it—can't. She may never know, as I am incapable of that kind of vulnerability. But it's true. And if she continues to crave the power play that just occurred, she will own my very soul.
She stands at the window, naked and lush and goddamned breathtaking.
Bold and fearless and unashamed and proud.
Submitting to me does not dim her energy, does not crush her spirit, does not deflate her pride.
It energizes her.
The light in her eyes as she looked up at me with my cock down her throat was brilliant and full of glee and arousal.
I didn't know such a woman could exist, that anyone could want to give the very thing my fucked-up psyche demands I take.
I hold all this within myself and keep my face composed into the mask of indifference I have worn every moment of every day of my life for so long that I no longer know how to remove it.
I am the Man in the Iron Mask.
God, I need to fuck her. I need to own her pussy. I need to own her asshole. Her mouth. Her words. Her gaze. Her hands.
I want to paint her face and tits with my cum.
I want to put a vibrator in her ass while I fuck her sweet, tight, plump pussy.
I want to hold her all night long and whisper words of adoration as she tumbles into sleep.
I want to protect her.
Shelter her.
Keep her locked up in a tower because she's MINE.
I savagely shove that line of thinking away; I am no longer that man.
"Jakob. Please." Her whisper jolts me back to the present, and I realize I’ve been lost in my thoughts for who knows how long, while she stands, waiting, needing, and watched by a stranger.
"What do you want, Brys?"
"Let me come, Jakob. I need to come." She leans back against me, turns her face to mine, whispering. "Please."
I wrap my hand around her throat—cupping, holding, not squeezing. Her breath catches on a shudder at my touch, making her tits jiggle. God, she's going to be so fucking gloriously beautiful when I let her come.
I shuffle backward a touch, keeping my hold on her throat, forcing her off-balance so she has no choice but to lean against me, to trust me to support her weight. I'm ravenous for her, but I keep a savage grip on my need.
"Jakob? Please. Touch me. Please." Her voice is a ragged hiss. Desperate. Her hips buck forward, seeking touch.
One hand cupping her throat, my thumb on her pulse-point, I at last gather the satin weight of her breast in my other, and I cannot hold back a groan at the glory of it. Hot and heavy and so soft, the tender globe fills my palm and spills over it. I tweak her nipple, and she gasps sharply.
The smoker has lit another cigarette, watching shamelessly.
I release her breast to fall heavily, bouncing and swaying. Cup the other, tweak her nipple, getting another sharp gasp.
"Sensitive, aren't you, Brys?"
"Yes, Jakob. Very sensitive."
I flick her nipples, scrape my thumbnail over the turgid tips until she whimpers. "You like that?"
"Yes, Jakob."
