“You can’t take it?” He questioned.
“No,” I answered.
He eased up. His strokes were light. “That’s better?” He asked.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“What if I don’t want to be soft, pretty? What if I want to fuck this pussy?” He asked as he sped back up to the original pace.
I continued to whimper lowly.
“I love when you cry for me; you’re not loud enough. Let me hear you.” He gritted, pulling my hair.
By that point, I was done; my legs started to shake again as I struggled to hold myself up on the table. At one point, I heard a glass fall and shatter, and he still fucked me.
“Tell me when you’re about cum.” He demanded.
I don’t know what it was about that phrase that made me want to disobey it every single time. Without warning, my body shook, and I squirted. I wet him, the edge of the table, myself, the ground.
I cried so loudly, I knew the people in the street 16 stories down could hear me. He grabbed me and pulled me to his chest before he pulled out of me and probably said every curse word in the Urban Dictionary.
We stood like that. Still against each other, finally our breathing synced from fast and ragged to slow and controlled.
He sat in the chair and pulled me into his lap. He kissed my shoulder and my face. It was like I felt like I had no worries in the world. I was free, and we were butt-ass naked on the top of a building. Forbid, they brought out the drones for census research; we’d be somewhere on a map app for the world to see.
Eventually, we put on our clothes, and I told him that I definitely needed to go home and shower, but he wasn’t having that. Instead, he took me back to his estate, where I spent the rest of the day being tossed like a salad.
We took a nap together, and when we woke up, he fed me again.
When night started to fall, he took me home instead of his driver. When he pulled into my driveway, he silenced the engine and gave me a serious look.
“Listen, pretty. I mean what I said.” He reminded me.
I nodded.
“I’ve had a great day with you, Dinero. But still, with my career, I can’t see myself being domestic.”
It made him laugh. Maybe because women would jump at the chance to be on his arm. But for me, it was deeper than that. I needed to at least feel like I wanted to give relationships a chance, and right now, I just didn’t.
“Okay, pretty. I understand that. Are you open to trying?” He asked.
“I’m open to being open. I can’t say I’m there yet.” I laughed. But it was the truth. Two days weren’t enough for me to say I wanted to date him.
Silence stretched for a while between us.
“I understand your hesitance, but I want what I want.” He doubled down.
I bit my lip and then pulled the latch of the door and pushed it open.
“Goodnight, Dinero,” I said as I hopped out and went into my home. Today was a day for the books, or in my case, for the journal. But I can’t say that I was willing to try to be in a relationship. Especially not with a man who told me he felt the same way as I did. One day we just might wake up and say fuck each other.
I shook my head as I walked upstairs to soak.
Now I’m sitting at my desk writing and craving the touch of a man who was only supposed to be temporary, yet again. My phone vibrated, and his name flashed across the screen. I ignored it. He would learn in due time that it’s hard trying to be with a woman like me.
I’m going back to sleep. It’s only Monday, and I have a whole week ahead of me. Goodnight.
Can you turn a hoe into a housewife?
