God, how does the man do that to me?
One second, I’m thinking about breakfast, and the next I’m lying on his lap with his fingers inside of me, fucking me so good with them that I nearly forget my own name.
As soon as my limbs cooperate so that I can lower myself to my knees next to the chair, I do just that and Marcus lets me. He was so hard underneath my stomach that I know how badly he also needs some relief.
But, without a word, he stands up and starts toward the front door as if to leave despite the erection straining the front of his jeans.
“Wait!” I say to stop him when he’s already got a foot out the door.
“What?” he asks, glancing at me over his shoulder.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay,” I reply softly.
“Anything else you need, or can I go?”
“Ah, h-have you by chance seen my keys lying around?”
Reaching into his front jean pocket, he pulls out and holds up a finger with a keychain dangling from it. “Yeah, I’ve seen them, and I’m taking them with me. Keep your ass here until I get back,” he orders. “My number is in your phone if you need anything. Tonight, I want you on your knees again, sucking my dick dry,” he adds, then he’s gone out the door, leaving me behind on his kitchen floor like some sort of prisoner.
And while I do love having all of his attention on me when he’s here, screwing me and taking care of me, I’m not sure how I feel about not being able to leave.
At least I still have my cell phone. Using it, I could always get an Uber or Lyft to take me where I need to go. Or I could walk.
And where the hell is he going anyway?
The thought of him going to see some other woman makes my blood boil underneath my skin.
He wouldn’t dare. Would he?
No, fuck that. I don’t care where he’s going or if he’ll fuck a dozen women before he comes home.
I. Don’t. Care.
Those are the three words I keep repeating to myself as I shower and get dressed in my leather pants and jacket.
Since I’m going to be staying here for a while, it’s time to do some more shopping.
Sure, my mother is coming this weekend to bring some of my things, but I could always use a few new outfits.
Not to mention that I’m curious to see what he’ll say when he comes home and finds out I left, going against his wishes.
The man needs to learn that I’m the one in charge here – not him.
He can’t tell me what I can and can’t do.
I’m going to wrap him around my finger, be his equal, his queen, and get my foot in the club.
If I give him even an inch, let him think he has the upper hand for even a minute, I could lose my grip on him.
I’ve made too much progress to let that happen.
He gave me the prospect cut after all, and instead of my leather jacket, I decide to wear it out, without a shirt underneath it.
Sure, it’s a little chilly and a little more revealing, but I don’t give a shit.
If I were ashamed of my tattoos, then I never would have let Trey ink them on my skin. It’s impossible for me to look at them and not think about the tattoo artist now, though.
I met Trey when I was seventeen, right after my dad died. He was just getting his shop up and running, so I had him draw me several designs. First, I asked for a sleeve of roses and old clock faces on my right arm to remind me that life is short. He wanted to break up the ink into two sittings, but I insisted on doing it all in one. For six hours, I sat in that chair, my body shivering after enduring the pain for so long. Trey thought I was tough as shit and I wanted to impress him, to be a part of his world. So, I kept going back for more and more ink the next few months, until I walked in and caught him fucking a client in the same chair where he had fucked and inked me.
I haven’t added any new tattoos since then even though I’ve had a few ideas for designs.
For a second, I worry that I’m doing the same thing with Marcus – pretending to be someone else so that he wants to keep being with me. And while I never would have thought pain would turn me on before, now I know it does. That part isn’t fake. Do I prefer the Savage King’s tongue to his belt? Hell yes, but I can handle the temporary pain and even the leftover welts he leaves behind. It’s all for a good reason, and it’s working.
I just need to make sure that I don’t fall for Marcus, that I don’t become so attached to him that I can’t walk away if I need to. After I get what I want.
This could be a long game I have to play since he’ll always be around while I prospect and then when I patch in. Maybe I’ll even let our relationship go on until I become an official member, then break things off gradually. I’m sure there will be plenty of ways he’ll fuck up during the next few months that I can use against him for why we need to call it quits.
If nothing else, I can tell him I can’t take the spankings anymore.
That won’t be much of a stretch. Sure, my reaction to the first one with the belt caught me off-guard, and I did love his palm slapping my ass, feeling how hard he was getting underneath my stomach. But right now, it’s just something new and different. Once that newness wears off and I’m only left with a sore ass all the damn time, I’m sure I’ll want the pain to stop.
The fact that Marcus left this morning still aching, getting no relief even though he got me off with his fingers, means I’m still in control of the situation.
At least for the moment.
