“Please what, blossom?”
“Please…” She sounds so pitiful. I should have mercy on her, but instead it just makes me crave more of her begging. “I have to...I’m going to…”
“Permission to come,” I tell her quickly because she’s about to climax anyway, and I don’t want to punish her more. I mean, of course I do, but not at this precise moment.
She climaxes as I give the plug short, quick thrusts in and out of her ass. She sobs out her release, and I spank her some more for good measure. “I wanted you sitting on this plug in that cocktail bar, remembering who owns you.” I alternate slapping each cheek, not holding back much in the intensity. “But since you need me to take it out, I’ll have to make your ass red and hot instead.”
“Ohhh,” she moans, still humping my lap. I stop spanking and roughly massage her ass. Pulling out the plug takes coaxing because she tightened around it when she orgasmed, but I manage to ease it out.
“Stand up, beautiful.”
She wobbles when she gets up, still wearing her sexy stilettos. I steady her with a hand on her elbow then wash and sterilize the plug for later.
Kayla’s flushed and off-balanced, just the way I like her. When I return from the bathroom, I wrap an arm around her from behind and kiss her temple. “Good girl,” I murmur because I know how much those words mean to her.
She lets out a whimper-sigh, relaxing back against me. She’s so precious. I wish I could keep her.
I kiss her again. “Come on, little flower.” I take her hand and lead her to the elevator.
Downstairs, the cocktail lounge is full and hopping. The young, good-looking and rich of Beverly Hills all gather here to drink and talk loudly. There aren’t any tables, but I score one barstool at the bar, which I help Kayla onto. She fusses with her dress to keep from flashing her bare beaver as she gets up. Not that she has a beaver. She’s freshly waxed—another gift for me. I get to mark her smooth, soft skin with rug-burn from my facial hair.
I squeeze my body in beside her, my hand on her back, making it clear she’s with me.
Kayla doesn’t know what she wants. I could order for her, and she’d drink whatever I buy, but I’d rather find out what she likes. I ask for the cocktail menu and let her scan it. “What are you getting?” she asks.
I’m amused that she wants to know. She’s always measuring me to figure out what I want from her. Maybe not now, for the drink, but these things matter to her. “Vodka, rocks. I’m boring. What looks good to you?”
“Maybe the Moscow mule.” She points at the cocktail description.
Sweet girl. My lips tug up in the ghost of a smirk. “Russian drink. Good choice.”
She flushes a little and shifts on the stool, reminding me she’s sitting on a bare, red ass. I take another mental snapshot. Some day Kayla will be famous, and I’ll get to jack off to these memories thinking, I knew her when.
I hate that thought. Not the one of her being famous but of us being a distant memory.
I order the drinks. Hers comes in a copper mug, decorated with an orchid and garnished with blackberries. She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “Mmm. I love it.” She’s so damn cute.
I sip my drink in silence. It takes me a minute to realize the lack of conversation has grown awkward. Kayla’s toying with her straw too vigorously, shooting glances around the room.
Blyad.’
I’m not used to making small talk. Sure, I call her when we’re apart. When I’m back in Chicago and she’s here, but those conversations are sex-driven. Me ordering her to masturbate, so I can watch or to tell me all her darkest desires. I don’t ask about her work or about her day.
I wouldn’t even know how to have a conversation like that.
Kayla swivels in her seat and scans the crowd, then tips her pretty face up to me. “Do you think it looks like I’m your whore?”
My brows slam down. “What?”
She sucks on her lower lip.
Fuck. These are the moments that shock me. When I find out the alarming thoughts going in her pretty head. Things I never would have considered. Like how I hurt her feelings when I checked in before greeting her.
“No,” I growl. “I think you look like my very hot date. Why would you say that?”
She doesn’t answer. There’s a little furrow between her perfectly waxed brows that I want to rub away. “What am I to you?”
Gah. I rub my forehead, my stomach sinking. This is where I cut her loose, and we crash and burn. I should tell her she means nothing to me. That I was her master, and she was my slave, and I can’t keep flying out to L.A. every weekend. We need to become something else. I already told her the moment she’s over it, it ends.