I don’t touch up my makeup, not that I wore much today. Just some concealer and nude lipstick. One thing about being with a man who thinks the world begins and ends with your ass is that you could be stung by bees and he’s still going on about how gorgeous you are.
I slowly open the door. The main room is empty… save for Ian standing in one corner on the phone. He’s speaking his nearly unintelligible French.
He puts the phone down as soon as he sees me. “Look at you. What have I done in this life to have the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”
Normally I don’t blush when he flirts like this, but I’m already entering that confounded headspace that allows me to be vulnerable, so I become as bashful as an innocent lamb at her first boy-girl dance.
Ian extends his hand. He’s taken off his watch and rolled up his sleeves. Even so, I can see every strong line of his arm and hand, like a roadmap of his body. My eyes travel along one of them as I approach, lifting my own hand to take his.
He twirls me. The skirt of my negligee flares out, showing more skin than is appropriate even in this situation. Or maybe that’s me feeling bashful again.
The moment I stop twirling, he snatches me into his backward embrace, hands on every part of my body seemingly at once. I’m speechless. Even if weren’t starting a scene, I would be at a loss for words for how much he wants me.
Not merely wants me. Possesses me.
“You’re the most exquisite woman in Paris.” His murmurs against my skin are only matched by the way his thumbs press into my skin. “Do you know that? French girls aren’t half as beautiful as you, and this is supposedly the birthplace of beautiful women.”
“I’m told I’m part French on my father’s side.” Where does he think the name Alison comes from? The Swedes?
“That explains it.” Has being felt up ever been so good? I want to bottle the way he worships my body and save it for rainy days when I’m alone and in need of the man who is currently away on business. “Now, what can I do for you, ma belle fille?” Oh, he would choose this moment to suddenly have a perfect accent. Where was this when we were asking directions at noon today?
I’m squirming, but not because I want out of this hold. My body is reacting to how he touches me. “You can start by spoiling me,” I say.
“Hm? I didn’t hear you.”
Damnit. I’ve started to forget that we’re playing roles. “Please make me feel good, sir.”
The words are suspended in the air. Ian buries his nose in my twist, teeth nipping at the roots of my hair. Shudders tear through my scalp. I want him to ravage me right now. Is that truly too much to ask? What’s keeping him from throwing me down on the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy? That’s where we were last night when we were interrupted.
No. This isn’t sex because we’re driven to have it. This goes beyond that. This is what lured me into this relationship to begin with.
“What exactly is going to make you feel good?” The hem of my negligee ascends my thigh. “I want to make sure I give you exactly what you need.”
We’re moving toward the bed. I envision myself collapsing on it with him on top of me, tearing away my clothes and inhaling the most sensitive parts of my skin. I want to lose myself to every motion of sexual therapy.
My knees hit the edge of the bed. The force almost knocks me over, but Ian’s hold is so strong that I can’t go anywhere. Once I have my bearings, my senses also return. Ian’s cock is hardening behind my ass. How badly does he want me, exactly? Enough to bury himself so deep within me that I don’t know where I end and he begins? Please, please, please.
“I need you to remind me of who I am.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“You tell me.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
A lump the size of my heart goes down my throat. “You’re going to dominate me.”
“Is that what you want? For me to dominate you, Katie?”
Rocket science isn’t needed to know why he’s asking me these questions. It’s not for foreplay. It’s a way for us to make clear what we want from a scene. A play on consent, I suppose you could say. Something that’s always mattered to me. Ian has never been intimidated by it. Guess it plays right into his style as a Dom… he likes it when women beg and plead for him. I heard him with other women before we started dating. I know.
My whimper shakes the whole room. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s going to make you happy, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He releases me. I fall, hands first, onto the bed. This must be how he wants me, because he doesn’t say or do anything to make me move. And he could do so many things… tie me to the headboard, flip me onto my back…