Page 78 of The Bargain

Eagerness to please me.

“Ah, Desdemona, fuck…”

I bite deep into my bottom lip, arching into the seat, hips straining, pushing deeper. Desdemona… It’s not pity, exactly, this thing I feel pouring out of her tonight, this sudden, coiling connection between us that seems to be drawing us ever closer. Pity is a familiar taste, chalky and dry, more bland than unpleasant. Desdemona would not be the first person to pity me, but that’s not it. It’s something else, something new and unexpected and unsettling.

Tenderness.

It makes me want to lean into it and pull away at the same time. It makes me want to be only just brutal enough with her to bring tears to her eyes, and it makes me want to make her melt with pleasure. Maybe there’s the exact same battle waging within her right now, because she’s picking up her pace, growing confidence, her eyelashes two gold, glistening fans on her flushed cheeks.

And before I know it, I feel my own pleasure ignite, cresting.

“Ah, fuck⁠—”

I push Desdemona away from me, my cock slipping from her mouth with a muted wet sound, a thick line of moisture connecting the tip to Desdemona’s swollen lips before dropping, breaking.

“You’re going to make me come,” I tell her in a low, rough laugh, heart beating a mile a minute.

She dabs her wet lips with the pads of her fingertips, looking up at me. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Yea.” My voice is hoarse. “But not like that.”

Closer, I don’t say out loud. Need you closer.

I draw her back up to her feet, then reach beneath her long skirt, all the way up her interminable legs, and pull down her underwear, tossing the delicate scrap of satin and lace aside. Her hands still balanced on my shoulders, we go tipping back into the auditorium seat, Desdemona straddling my lap. My eager cock bumps against her inner thigh as I roughly bunch her skirt up.

She lowers herself onto me, but I stop her with a huff of shocked laughter.

“Love, wait,” I gasp haltingly. I slide a hand up her inner thigh, finding the molten, red-hot place between her legs. “I wanna make sure you’re ready.”

She rolls her eyes impatiently. “I’m ready.”

“No, I mean⁠—”

My fingers find what they’re looking for: she’s so wet that my middle and ring fingers slide in with no effort. Inside, she’s hot and tight, and I feel her tightening. I widen my eyes. She gazes back, unflinching, eyes almost black.

“I’m ready,” she repeats, voice low.

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. And I realise a new layer of danger to what we’re doing here: this isn’t something we can chalk up to pretend.

No plausible deniability for us, then.

But fuck—real feels so good.

I already know this is going to be fast and hard and messy before I even slide my cock inside her. After every fantasy I’ve ever had of humbling Desdemona, of breaking her pride, of bringing her down to my level, in the end, when it comes to it, when I’m standing in the eye of the storm and the silence and the clarity all set in, all I really want is her.

Her pleasure. Her voice, her eyes, her body.

Her heart.

“Oh, f-fuck,” Desdemona whimpers as she lowers herself on me, my cock pushing deeper into her. “God. Oh, god.”

“No,” I breathe. “Just me.”

She gazes down at me, blinking slowly. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy and dim. She bites deep into her bottom lip, bracing her arms, and slides all the way down, settling herself on top of me with my cock buried inside her, her entire body shuddering as she adjusts, her voice one long, satisfied hiss.

And she says the one thing I didn’t even realise was what I most wanted her to say.

“Elias.”