Victoria’s asleep. In my arms. And I’m holding her, stroking her, silently hating myself for what she’s turning me into. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want her to leave me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.
I had every intention of granting her wish today. Showing her what a fuck toy really is. I knew I would lose her because of it, but that was the point. But then she turned it around on me when I was fucking her mouth like a mad man and she actually moaned.
She was enjoying it. She was enjoying my control over her. And fuck me if it didn’t bring me straight to my knees. I wanted to stop right there and give in, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to make a point. I had to figure out what she wanted from me. Because there had to be something.
But then she started crying. It wasn’t unusual, I mean, let’s face it… I’m a dick. I’ve made plenty of women cry in order to get to the bottom of their motives. It’s part of the package. But Victoria was crying because I’d denied her pleasure and made her feel unworthy, not because I fucked her roughly. And I don’t even know what to begin to do with that information.
Chapter Three
Victoria
I wake to Gabriel’s kisses, soft and sweet along my neck. His erection is pressed against my thigh, letting me know he’s ready to go again. The man is a freaking machine, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I stretch out my legs and curl my toes, feeling blissfully sore. I slept amazingly well for being in someone else’s apartment. And as I glance at the clock next to the bed, I realize I stayed the entire night. He didn’t ask me to leave, and he slept with me too. What does that mean?
My eyes flutter down to watch him as he continues to worship my body. He looks beautiful and content. So content. I wonder if he could possibly feel how I do right now.
“I like waking up to you,” he murmurs.
I roll into him and bring my mouth to his.
He makes love to me twice. I call it making love because there is no domination. No orders. Just pure, gentle, sweet sex. And I love it. I love it both ways, hell any way really, so long as it’s with him.
***
This week has flown by. I’ve already spent three nights at Gabriel’s, with another three boxes of lingerie delivered to my door. Each time I come here, he dominates me for hours. And when we wake up together in the morning, it’s always slow and gentle.
I wonder if this is what he normally does with all the women, and I secretly hope that it isn’t. The thought of Gabriel with another woman makes my skin crawl. It shouldn’t, given our circumstances, but I still can’t help it.
He’s already left for work this morning, so I’m left to show myself out. I pad down the hall to his guest bathroom to have a shower, pushing down any temptation to explore his apartment further.
As the hot water sluices over my sore muscles, I’m reminded of the night before. He was deliciously brutal with me, binding my arms together over my head and teasing me relentlessly. I had the most powerful orgasm yet. Or should I say, orgasms. Gabriel can never leave it at just one.
I step out of the shower and dry myself, opting not to bother with the half-torn lingerie I came here in. There is something about being naked under my trench coat that makes me feel uninhibited. But at the same time I make a mental note to start bringing a change of clothes. Or would that be too presumptuous? I don’t want to freak Gabriel out, but then again, why should it? A girl needs to have something to wear home, no matter what time she’s leaving.
As I exit the building, I’m stopped on the street by a tall wisp of a woman with long blonde hair. She is dressed to the nines in a skin tight black dress and Christian Louboutins. My heart skips a beat when I recognize her as Anya Petrovski, the model from Top Design. What I can’t comprehend is why she’s approaching me and waving to get my attention, or what she could possibly want to talk about.
“Well, look at you,” she purrs in a thick Russian accent. “You must be his pet project of the week.”
“Excuse me?” I snap. “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course, darling.” She laughs wickedly. “Poor, pitiful woman trying to sink her claws into Gabriel Maddox. Although I must admit, you definitely don’t look like his type. I’ve never seen you in any films, and I can certainly say you aren’t a model. He must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel with you.”
Anger surges inside of me, but it has nowhere to go. As usual, when faced with a woman like this, I seem to have lost all ability to think or speak clearly.
She eyes my trench coat suspiciously, shaking her head in disgust. “I can just imagine what you have on underneath that hideous coat. Doesn’t it make you feel like trash, leaving his apartment like that?”
Flames of embarrassment burn my face, and I clutch the belt a little tighter around my waist. “I didn’t catch your name,” I say flatly.