“Yes, Davis.”
He gives me a satisfied grin. “Such a good little whore.”
I gasp lightly, both from the words themselves and the surge of pleasure that rides through me as I rub myself. Davis called me a whore. It was a word that he didn’t even dare use in Amsterdam when he was incensed with me. Now, he says it like it’s nothing—like it’s as common and normal as using my own name.
“That’s what you are,” he goes on as he strokes himself with hard, fluid motions. “My whore, Olivia. Mine to do with as I please. You’ll lie here on the floor and you’ll let me come on your tits because that’s what I’m owed—what I get for paying for you.”
I groan as I arch my back, my brain pulsing with anger and foggy with lust all at once. I shouldn’t do this. I should be better than this. This is the kind of shit that women like me would never stand for.
His free hand moves to my breast, gripping me like he owns me. That possessive grip has me working my hand faster, wondering why I can’t make myself stop.
This isn’t what women like me are supposed to want. Well-educated and successful women aren’t supposed to let men belittle them like this. Actually, fuck the fancy degrees; no woman should let a man speak to them like this. Debase them like this. And yet I find myself rubbing my clit furiously and allowing the familiar sensations of pleasure to scale my body.
Davis strokes himself harder, speeding up as he watches me undulate beneath him. “You’re so damn desperate. Look at you, waiting for my cum. That’s sick, Olivia. Did you get that wet with my cock in your throat? Good little cocksucker.”
“Stop it.”
“I can’t believe you have the nerve to walk around my company all week when deep down this is what you’re imagining.”
“Fuck you,” I groan out right as my orgasm hits me. I moan shamelessly as it overtakes me, pleasure colliding and cramming into every confine of my body. I’m twisting on the floor, saying yes or his name or a mix of unintelligible things as I writhe with it. I don’t care how twisted this is. I don’t care about what he says. I especially don’t care when I feel the sensation of his hot spend hitting my chest.
Davis says my name as he comes, bracing one hand on the floor and the other around his cock as he pumps himself. He covers me in it, getting it in my hair and on my bra and on my neck without apology. He groans out, repeating my name again and swearing in the same breath, like both words can be used interchangeably.
When he’s done, he considers me with hooded, satisfied eyes and takes in his handiwork. “Yeah, apparently it is possible to make you look even hotter,” he declares before he reaches down and rubs his palm over my cum-covered breasts, massaging it into me.
I arch into his touch, jutting out my breasts even though I know I should be appalled. This fucker is literally rubbing his spend into one of my favorite bras, as if his cum is so wonderful and valuable that I should want to bathe in it. I let him though. Brazenly, I let him and I even feel a sense of disappointment when he stops.
Davis stands up, towering once again. I’m not surprised when he doesn’t bother to help me up and instead leans against the back of the couch as he begins to fiddle with his phone.
After a deep breath, I hoist myself up and stand, watching as he types. He still breathes heavily, and I finally have a chance to see his shirtless figure.
Life. Forever. Changed.
“Davis—”
“I called you a car. It’ll be here in five minutes,” he interjects. “See you on Monday.”
I’m dumfounded as, once again, he turns and heads down the hallway without so much as a farewell glance in my direction, leaving me standing there in my ruined underwear—a mess of cum and my own wetness.
Used.
As I climb into the backseat of the car, I feel just as conflicted as I did a week ago when he left me wet and wanting. I didn’t know it was possible to want someone who could treat me so cruelly. Men had been shitty to me before, but never had it left me feeling so…dejected.
He called me a slut. A tease. Desperate.
A whore.
He called me the kinds of things that my mother accepted from men—from the heinous, horrible men that she let into our lives.
And all I can think about as Saturday night in New York passes me by is that I hadn’t come so hard in ages.