Bossed Around

She turns and strides away, revealing the bare buns of her stunning little ass. They twitch down the hallway, jiggling ever so slightly, and I crawl after her, panting.

Chapter 4

Thea

Power tingles in my fingertips, fills my tummy full of bubbles.

This mammoth of a man prowls after me on his hands and knees, in the hallowed halls of my uncle’s gallery, and I might as well be floating. As soon as Duncan knelt in front of me, a pressure fell away from my shoulders I didn’t even know was there. And I can breathe. I can breathe with these reigns in my hands, the other end tied to this man’s neck.

My life has been coordinated by others. I’ve been moved and left behind and maneuvered—but not now. I’m finally the one doing the maneuvering. I might still be caught within the walls of this place, but on the inside? I’m finally soaring above them.

I glance back over my shoulder with a prim look and find him licking his lips, riveted by the movement of my hips, my bottom. And following my urges, finally allowing them to fully formulate, I rake my fingers up through my hair and toss it around, adding swagger to my walk.

The resulting animal groan curls my lips in a smile.

Was this the right decision? Giving in to the wickedness inside of me?

I don’t know. Maybe I won’t know until it’s too late and I’ll be consumed by the world. Gobbled up like so many women before me. Sin could take hold and never let go. But this morning when I woke up, I knew with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t be able to withstand the temptation for four to five days. The temptation to let my impulses out for once. To liberate them where they pulse constantly beneath the surface.

For the next little while, I’m not going to think about consequences.

Or the fate of my immortal soul. What my uncle would think if he could see me parading through his beloved gallery in panties and a chemise.

I’m just going to indulge. I’ve waited so long.

Just once. At least once.

Up ahead, I spy my destination. A throne from the nineteenth century, ornately carved and fashioned with red velvet, protected behind golden ropes so gallery visitors don’t get too close. It’s a replica of the throne sat upon by Queen Victoria and I should have more humility than this, I really should, but I step over the ropes anyway and take a seat, slowly lowering myself onto the cushioned velvet and crossing my bare legs.

The sheer wetness that gathers on the lace of my panties is obscene. It’s lust and sin and depravity, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. Especially when Duncan gets to his feet long enough to loudly drag the rope barriers aside, before dropping into a kneel once more, this time at the foot of my throne, his big chest puffing up and down in great heaves, his giant hands shaking where he rests them on his thighs. This formidable Scotsman has given me total power over him and it zigzags, electric, through my veins now.

“Take off your shirt,” I whisper, tremulously, my voice not quite caught up with the rest of me. The reigns might be in my hands, but they’re trembling. Excited and nervous. About what’s to come, how being the queen, the ruler, will make me feel. If I’ll ever be able to live without this afterward.

Duncan reaches behind his neck, capturing the back of his collar and tugging the long-sleeved garment over his head, flexing hundreds of profanely thick muscles in the process. They play and swell and shift beneath the thin material of his shirt—and then all I can see is brawn. An excess of it. Ink, too. It starts at the base of his throat and winds downward, around his navel in the pattern of a magazine of bullets, disappearing into his black pants, the button of which has been undone since I came upon him.

Touching himself. Undulating against the wall.

Chanting my name.

Did he realize he was doing that?

“What were you thinking about when I came downstairs?”

The lump in his throat travels up and down. “I was thinking of watching you get dressed. How you would look…putting on stockings and panties.”

My sex pulses, a low throb that makes me squirm on the throne. “And in this fantasy, what were you doing while I dressed myself?”

That inked magazine of bullets vibrates with a drawn-out shudder. “Waiting with a ready cock, angel.”

A ready cock.

I’ve never heard the word spoken out loud by anyone else.

Let alone heard it in these terms. A ready cock. Ready for me. For pleasure.

“It’s hard now, isn’t it?” I manage, my pulse picking up.

“Aye,” he grunts, his hand inching toward the outcropping of caged flesh.