The Boss's Runaway

He called a local acquaintance who set off firecrackers in one of the stairwells, thus creating a diversion long enough for us to escape in the opposite direction. I probably shouldn’t have been giggling the whole way down the emergency stairs. There was no help for it, though, and I’ve been giggling constantly since it happened. Except for when I’m moaning.

Or screaming.

The same friend who set off the diversionary firecrackers is an older married gentleman who also happens to train blackjack dealers. Under Locke’s supervision, he has been training me all week. Once I’m certified, I’m going to begin dealing cards during Locke’s shifts, instead of waitressing. Where you’ll be covered head to toe and within reaching distance, he says.

Yes, everything is coming up roses…except for one thing.

And I really shouldn’t complain because I’m so incredibly happy.

I’m in love.

Deeply.

Infatuated, really. With my Locke. I crave him with every cell in my body at all times. I cling to him in sleep and run to him when he walks through the front door (after he manages to unlock the eight deadbolts he had installed). And he still sleeps with a shotgun propped against the bedside table, muttering about men wanting to take what belongs to him.

I do. I belong to him.

The way we make love to each other is intense and…oh my goodness, so satisfying. Locke is my Daddy at all times, but when we touch, I become his pumpkin. I don’t have enough experience to say that the way we play is little twisted, but my gut tells me it is. And I don’t care. I know what feels right for us and I’ve given myself over to the pleasure wholeheartedly.

Locke holds me down and dominates me like a lathered up bull. We reach a level of gratification that leaves us both shaken…and afterward…he asks God for forgiveness.

And my heart drops straight through the floorboards.

The deadbolts on the front door begin to turn and in response, my nipples turn into stiff pegs, my hands raking up and down my bare thighs in anticipation. It has been over twelve hours since the last time we made love and I’m going through withdrawals. My skin is clammy and flushed at the same time, my fingertips twitching from the need to grip his sturdy shoulders.

The final deadbolt is disengaged and Locke lunges through the door, his eyes searching wildly around the apartment until they land on me. As if he worried I would no longer be there. But of course, I am, and I run to him now, throwing myself into his arms and planting kisses all over his face, whimpering when he tugs up my skirt in back and kneads my bare bottom with two strong hands, his breath accelerating, the telltale ridge growing against my belly.

“I miss you so much when I’m gone, I’m a fucking mess by the time my shift ends.” He hefts me up so I can lock my thighs around his waist and I giggle out of pure happiness, though his expression is serious as he studies my face. “You’ve been stuck in here for days, honey. Let me bring you out for a walk. There’s an ice cream shop down the block that’s open all night.”

We decided I would lay low in the apartment for a while after the incident. The man Locke assaulted didn’t press charges and Locke managed to smooth things over with the casino manager—it helps that he’s the best pit boss in town—but neither one of us are ready to trust that the men who demanded a turn with me gave up so easily. Locke is working with security to determine their identities and bar them from the casino. Furthermore, the security guards who pounded on the door of our suite have been fired.

“Ice cream,” I say excitedly, kissing his face with even more gusto until he chuckles. “Can we go after you bring me to bed for a while?”

He groans and tilts his hips, grinding the juncture of my thighs down on his hardness. “Sissy, you know if we take our clothes off now, they’re not going back on. And I’ve been sick all day thinking of you locked in here, no fresh air. I need to take good care of you. Let me.” He spanks my backside with a sharp slap. “When we come back…”

“You’ll wrestle with me?”

His ears turn crimson and he can’t look me in the eye. “Yes. God help me, we’ll wrestle.”

A thistle sprouts in my throat. I can’t swallow it down. Locke loves what we do together, but he also can’t move past his belief that it’s wrong. That by touching me, he’s sinning. Or forsaking his God. I don’t think he realizes that it hurts my feelings. He must not—or I know he wouldn’t do it. Maybe I should talk to him about how his repenting makes me feel?