Earning Her Keep (Price of Love)
“Yeah. Dream job. Dream life. Anything.”
She blows out a breath that catches her hair, making a curl fall softly against her cheek. “Well, my pie-in-the-sky dream would be to have my own yoga studio. I love yoga…” she trails off, cocking her head. “Which I’m pretty sure you already know.”
“Shit. Know it? I’ve been jacking off to you doing down dog every morning for a month.”
She lets out a saucy little moan. “God.”
No kidding. The way her pussy presses out from the soft opening in her thighs. Bliss. “But yeah, I gathered you’re a yoga fan.”
“I’d call my studio Go With The Flow.” She smiles at the dream, and it makes her even sexier than before. “And you know, you could probably benefit from it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I’m not in the yoga-studio funding business,” I say but that’s a lie. I’ll fund fucking anything to make her happy.
“I know that. I mean, you might benefit from yoga. It might help you and, you know, your issues.”
Here we fucking go. “Issues? What fucking issues?”
Right on cue, my goddamned watch beeps out a reminder.
She nods knowingly. “Those issues. The control.” She leans in a little closer. “The O.C.D.”
Nobody talks to me like this; I never let anybody close enough to know what she knows besides maybe Ethel and Morty but even them I keep more at arm’s length. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or infuriated by this fucking conversation.”
She bites her tongue with a little laugh. “Maybe both.”
Definitely both. “You didn’t seem to mind my need for control earlier.”
Her eyes flash and dilate. Her nipples tighten. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about your watch dinging every twenty minutes. How you triple-check the locks every time you walk out the door. How every day at 7:55am, you come down and drink a kale and whey smoothie, which you hate? Understandably. But you do it because it’s—” here she adds air quotes— “on the schedule. Everything by the schedule. Everything. Who lives like that? Loosen up, maybe. Start with some yoga.”
She shrugs, twisting her perfect pink lips.
She’s got a fucking point. But I’m not ready to concede. “Well aren’t you fucking clever? But don’t forget, that discipline is what brought you to me. So don’t trash it.”
She lifts her shoulders, like she’ll give me that, and eats a candied walnut off her salad plate with her fingers. “I’m not trashing anything. But you’re not the only one that’s been watching, you know. I see you. And I see a better way to live, if only you’ll let yourself be happy.”
She’s naïve and young, but she’s got courage and wisdom. And I love that. She’s got me right where she wants me. And right where I want to be. But it’s time to take back some power. Time to fire the big guns and go for a subject change.
“Anyway. It’s chocolate lava cake and cookies and cream ice cream for dessert.”
She lets out a hungry groan. “No way. Really?”
I nod at her. “Anything you want, babygirl. Anything you want.”
Just then the door swings open softly, and Morty comes into check on us. “All to your liking, sir?”
“Yeah. But I think we’re going to need more napkins,” I answer on a grin, glancing at her. She’s moving onto the thigh now and it’s getting downright messy.
She bubbles out a giggle. “Definitely. Lots. Paper towels if you have them. Maybe a bib.”
Morty’s eyes sparkle with grandfatherly affection for her. But I’m feeling a whole different kind of affection. My balls are filling up fast. Dick throbbing.
“Ethel does love a good eater!”
There’s no fucking way I’m letting anybody put a roll of paper towels in here. “More napkins will be fine. Then you two can go home for the night.”
Morty looks genuinely mystified. “First, you’re home at 11:18 on a Tuesday and now this?”
I deadpan him to say Stop jamming me up, Morty. I need him and Ethel out of here fucking STAT because I can’t hold back much longer.
He meets my glance with a maître-d style nod. “Very well, sir.”
* * *
When Ethel and Morty’s car rolls down the driveway, it’s on. Like someone fired a fucking starting pistol. I need her now. Right fucking now. “Change of plans for dessert.”
“But… what about the lava cake?” she says. Blink-blink-blink. So sweet. So fucking innocent.
So fucking naïve.
“Have it later if you want it. Have the whole fucking thing.” I take her by the throat, drawing her up to standing. Her napkin falls from her lap. Tipping her head back, I squeeze enough to let her feel it. Enough to feel her pulse under my fingers. “You’re what I’m having for dessert.”
“Dane.” Her voice is thready, hoarse from the pressure of my palm constricting her windpipe. She squeezes my forearm but I barely feel it. “Don’t,” she rasps, fighting for air.