“Had to makes it sound like I’m high-maintenance,” I respond, grinning as he holds the back door open for me and I climb inside. I’ve never been in a limo – for prom we just used my uncle’s old beat-up Cadillac. The inside looks just like I’ve seen on TV shows though, all sleek leather interior seats and a sidebar with crystal glasses and a shelf of liquors.
“Not at all.” Cassius climbs in behind me, settles on the seat beside me and wraps his hand around mine, possessive. He’s constantly touching me, whether it’s to pull me onto his lap during movies or wrap his arms around me from behind while I’m cooking. I love it. I’ll never get tired of the feeling of his strong arms around me, his hand in mine, our fingers intertwined. “I’m the high-maintenance one.” His eyes sparkle as they meet mine. “I insist on spoiling you at every opportunity.”
“Hmm. Well, you are definitely succeeding.” I grin and tilt my chin up for a kiss. He kisses me slow, soft, deep. The kind of kiss that will never get old. The kind of kiss you can lose yourself in.
As the car starts to move, his hands slide around my waist, pulling me across his lap.
“Mr. Anderson,” I gasp in fake outrage, as I position my knees on either side of his hips. His cock is already hard, pressed against the thin fabric of this fancy dress he bought me. “Why, this is very improper.” I feign a high-brow accent, and he only just manages to avoid laughing as he catches my mouth in another kiss.
“Mm, I had the impression that you liked impropriety, Ms. Cross.”
“Maybe,” I admit slowly, wriggling my hips against his, so his cock rubs against my pussy. Shit, at this rate, I’ll soak this lacy thong I put on in no time.
“Only maybe?” Cassius raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, in that case.”
He slides me off his lap again, just in time for the limo to take off, and I actually huff in frustration. Damn him. He loves doing that—getting me all worked up, and then delaying, delaying, delaying.
To be fair, though, when he does make me come, he more than makes up for all the time I’ve spent waiting. I shiver with delight at the memory of last night, when he spent an hour lathering me up in the shower, before he finally pinned me against the cool tile wall, lifted me off the ground, his hands digging into my ass, and fucked me against the shower wall, the hot water cascading down over us. He knows just how to angle it so his cock hits my G-spot every time, and pinned against the shower wall like that, his groin dug into my clit too, making me come doubly fast. When he decided I needed to come more than just once, he slid a hand between us to finger my clit as he continued to fuck me. I made it to three orgasms before he finally came inside me, his hot cum coating my pussy walls, a warm rush of sensation that always made my pussy tighten in pleasure.
I love feeling him come in me. I love the way his cum drips down my thighs after we’ve finished, the way I can still feel the proof of his lust for me, sometimes even hours later.
Not to mention, I love how hard he fucks me. He’s not afraid to make it hard for me to walk the next day, and I appreciate that. I might be a lady in the streets, but I like it rough in the sheets.
I’m still daydreaming about last night when we glide to a stop. The windows are tinted, so I can’t see where we are yet, but judging by the grin on Cassius’s face, it’s somewhere good. It’s always somewhere good. The man has perfect taste in everything, I swear, from apartment décor to food to… well, me, I guess. Maybe I’m feeling biased.
I am definitely feeling biased right now.
He weaves his fingers through mine as we exit the limo, and my eyes widen when I see the restaurant. It’s the newest place in town, ultra-exclusive, so popular that even I have heard of it, and I’ve been in near total baby induced isolation for the last few months. Last I heard, the waiting list for a table here was months long.
But of course, Cassius found some way to swing it. I glance up at him, smirking, as we glide through the doors.
The restaurant is fine dining, a fusion of traditional Japanese-style food and Southern cooking. I’ve never tasted anything like it before, but I am instantly in love. Every plate of food is more delicious than the last, and though I can’t even pronounce half the ingredients, I savor every bite.
As for Cassius, he seems to be enjoying himself too, though his eyes drift over to me more often than the food.
I savor that, too. It’s been a while since a man looked at me like that. A lifetime, in fact.
“So,” he says, as we’re between courses. “What makes Manila Cross tick?”
I laugh into my wine glass, but then I look up to find him studying me, and realize he’s serious. I set the glass back down, thoughtful. “Depends what you mean by tick, I guess,” I reply after a while. “I mean, I love my children, I enjoy my new job…”
“I’m not talking about the present.” His foot hooks around my ankle, tugs on my leg. I foot-wrestle him under the table, grinning at him the whole while. “You know, what are your sore spots, how did your childhood screw you up, all that jazz.”
I burst out laughing. Our eyes meet over the rims of our wine glasses as we toast. “Mm, well… Childhood-wise, growing up with my mom was pretty… tough.” Unwillingly, my gaze drifts toward my cell phone, face-up on the table just in case Lisa calls about the twins. “I guess that’s why I wanted to have kids of my own so badly.”
He tilts his head, questioning. “Because things were hard growing up?”
I sigh. “Because Mom was hard, honestly.” He waits patiently for me to elaborate, holding eye contact. I can’t lie to that clear steel-gray gaze of his. “She left me alone a lot… She was a single mom too, which I know is hard, but like… She’d leave me to cook my own dinner by age 5. I already knew how to operate the stove by then, and how to make pasta, hot dogs…”
His eyes widen, his lips clamping into a tight line of disapproval. But he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me talk, getting this off my chest.
“When I got older and started going to school, she’d never come to any events. She skipped parent-teacher conferences, wouldn’t pick me up from any extracurriculars… My friends’ parents fed me more often than not, driving me to their houses from soccer and letting me stay over, especially when Mom would go on a bender. They didn’t want me coming home finding her passed out in a pile of her own vomit.” I grimace and close my eyes. Why am I telling him all this? He’ll judge me. Think I’m just like her.
But then I feel his warm hand close over mine on top of the table. When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me carefully, concerned and sympathetic all at once.
“I know how that feels,” he murmurs, and my heart aches in my chest, seeing my pain mirrored on his face. “My parents weren’t around much either. Dad was always working, and Mom was sick when I was younger… She passed away when I was only twelve.”
I lift my free hand to fold his hand in mine, squeezing gently. Like he did, I don’t interrupt, just wait for him to get this off his chest, the way he let me have space to talk.