He reaches forward, gripping the back of my neck and pulling me up, pressing his mouth roughly to mine as he pulls open my robe, baring my body to him. It’s not a kiss. It’s a domination—strong movements of his tongue that torment my mouth. He nips my bottom lip, fucks me with his tongue, then gently kisses my swollen lips, taking one final journey of my mouth before he pulls off.
I open my eyes, expecting a softer Nathan above me, expecting the change in his kiss to reflect the forgiveness that had occurred. His fists have loosened, those hands now running rampant over my body, my robe fully open, my legs parted with his knee. His face has calmed, the deep lines faded, the set of his mouth relaxed. But his eyes betray him. His eyes show the fierce anger that still burns brightly. I still don’t know why he’s mad, or what I’ve done wrong, but I understand one thing—my punishment just changed. I didn’t want to be ignored, and now that table is being yanked out from beneath me.
His eyes flick to the backyard, then return to me, and I understand. This is how he will punish me—putting me on display while he fucks me senseless. He will remind me of where I came from, treat me like the whore that I—that one night—was.
And he does. “Stand. Go to the window.”
He puts my palms to the glass, my breasts stiffening in the cool air, his hands taking a generous tour of them as he settles in behind me, the soft brush of his dress pants soon replaced by the bare touch of his thighs, the erect press of his cock.
“Lift your head.” He almost pants the words, his hands settling on my ass cheeks, and digging into the sore muscles there. I resist, my head hung, hating the craving of my body, the need that thrums through me. He leans forward, and he gathers my damp hair, fisting it and pulling back, lifting my head, my world blurring as the backyard comes into focus. On the far side of the pool, a landscaper stands, the hedge clippers hanging limply and forgotten in his hands. Our eyes meet, and he flushes, looking away, his hands tightening on the handles of the tool.
The shame fades, replaced by something unexpected—a fresh shot of arousal. I glance over, to the second man, one who walks along the edge of the pool deck, his head down, focused on the weed-eater in his hands. Any moment, he will realize what is happening. Any moment, he will look over and see me, bent forward and naked, being fucked by my—I gasp when Nathan pushes inside, the shove of penetration so hard that my breasts bounce from the impact. He releases my hair and there is the hard sting of his hand against my ass, his words spitting out hard and unforgiving, “If I want to ignore you, I will. And if I want to enjoy you, I will. You belong to me. You are mine.”
I claw against the glass, my breath catching as he slaps the area again, the slow drag of his cock outward conflicting with the violent push of it back inside.
“Nathan,” I gasp. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. Don’t stop? More? Please? My mind is too scattered to form sentences and too confused with my arousal to know anything but that I am loving every motherfucking moment of this.
He reaches forward, his legs settling against mine, his body curving over the bend of mine as he slides his palms around my ribs and closes his hands around my breasts.
I moan from the sensation, the hard squeeze of his hands, the possessive growl that comes from his throat and vibrates against the back of my neck. “I love your fucking breasts,” he swears, kneading them together. “God, I fucking love them.”
I open my eyes at the admission, catching the wide-eyed gaze of the second landscaper, then Nathan is yanking me around, pulling my face to his, his lips rough against mine.
Are they still watching? Do they see when he pushes me to my knees, his hand firm on my head, my bare body before his clothed one? They probably watch when I take his cock deep down my throat, my body shaking from the effort, when my back contracts and I gag. They see when his legs flex, his head drops back, and he fills my throat with satisfaction.
He’s twisted. To do that to me, to come with the knowledge that we have an audience. I’m ashamed that I played along, that I didn’t twist out of his grip and run back to my room. I’m ashamed that, at the height of it, when I felt their eyes, and hated Nathan’s demands, I was aroused. Aching in my pussy, moisture dripping down my leg, aroused. I moaned when he spanked me. I begged for more as he fucked me. I looked into his eyes and all but asked for his cum.
Maybe I’m as twisted as he is.
CHAPTER 23
Our agreement states that sex will only be asked for once a day, today’s quota already filled. Nathan is a man of regulations, our agreement one that he follows to the letter. Still, I dress in expectation of his return from the office. It is silly, vain hopes that a simple clothing change will recapture some normalcy in a day that has already gone so wrong.
I hear the growl of Nathan’s car, and swallow, sitting before the vanity and running a brush over my hair. I pull at the top drawer, unveiling the black velvet, the delicate jewelry laid out in neat order. Gently running my fingers over the line of earrings, I select a pair of pearls. I hear the sound of the door and I look up, into the mirror.
Drew enters, wandering along the bed, his eyes moving over the neatly made coverlet, the dark television, the vase of fresh flowers. It’s a far cry from the cramped and messy bedroom in Dibs’ house. Maybe it’s because I still feel like a guest, or maybe cleaning is my new hobby, but it is—as always—spotless.
He stops a step or two behind me, and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Are you okay?”
I glance to the house, nodding, Nathan’s frame absent from my view of the great room. Drew reaches forward, his hand startling me, and fingers the end of my hair, examining its dark chocolate strands. “I like it dark.”
I only nod, surprised at his nearness, at the warm hesitancy in his eyes. So do I. I had spent last night flipping through Rosit’s ‘before’ images in my beauty book, and had almost winced at the bleach blonde images of me. I’d been a back tattoo and droopy cigarette away from white trash. Now, looking back in the mirror, at the expensive reflection of myself—I can barely match the two images. On the outside, I am completely different. Inside, I’m still a stripper, trading my body for security.
He clears his throat. “Earlier today, what happened ... none of them could see. The afternoon light casts a reflective glare on the windows.”
I don’t respond. His lie rests in the space between us. I’m the one who sits in this glass house, who stares into that great room and waits for his figure to appear. Reflection has never been a problem. “Are you here to fetch me?”
He nods, and my stomach tightens at the news.