by S. J. Hooks
“Lay still!” he snaps at me. “And don’t you dare move those hands.”
I hadn’t noticed I’d let go of the pillow and quickly grab it again, my heart racing at the sound of him being so harsh, so commanding. It excites me more than I’d ever admit out loud.
“You can come again,” he says, softer now. “I know you can.”
I draw a breath, nodding.
“I love the way you taste. Let me be in charge.”
I nod again, doing my best to relax. Seconds later, his mouth is back: licking, sucking, and tasting me as though he’s ravenous. His hands knead my ass roughly, adding to all the sensations I’m already experiencing. I have no idea how much time passes, but after a while the near-painful sensitivity turns into something else entirely and I find myself pressing up against his mouth, gasping wildly.
Suddenly, I feel something brushing against a place no one has ever touched before. I realize Mr. Thorne’s right hand has moved ever so slightly, his fingers now busy spreading my wetness around between my cheeks.
“What—”
The pressure increases, and as I open my mouth to protest the intrusion, the tip of his finger slips inside and he sucks down on my clit, hurtling me into a powerful orgasm. Everything clenches and I nearly lose my breath as he continues lapping at me, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure. The moment he lets go, my legs flop out to the side, but I can’t seem to care at all. Faintly, I hear Mr. Thorne moving around and then the sleep mask is dragged up and off my face. I blink a few times to focus and soon my attention is drawn to Mr. Thorne, who has opened his pants and pushed them down, working quickly to put on a condom.
Resolutely, he lifts up my legs and with a swift thrust, pushes his cock inside me, making me yelp.
“Fuck,” he groans, grinding against me to get even farther inside. “You feel good.”
All I want is to sleep, or at least rest for a little while, but the way he looks at me lets me know that’s not an option. Surrendering to his will, I draw a stuttering breath, trying to adjust to his size and the feeling of being completely filled.
“That’s it,” he says, leaning over me and staring straight at me while he begins to thrust. “Let me fuck you.”
When he lets go of my legs, I wrap them around his waist; he uses his hands to caress my breasts, my belly, and my hips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, thrusting harder.
“T-thank you, Sir.” I feel beautiful right now, sexy and desirable.
His fingers slip between my thighs. “And so wet,” he continues. “I knew you’d love a good fucking.” His dirty words have the opposite effect than I would’ve expected. Rather than repel me, they arouse me.
“Don’t you?” he whispers roughly, reaching up to grab my hair, forcing my head back and exposing my neck.
“Yes, yes, Sir!” I cry.
Satisfied with my answer, he starts massaging my clit and I whimper in response. I’m so tender, but he feels good inside me, so I attempt to focus on the delicious sensation of him stretching and filling me to perfection.
“Oh,” I moan, clenching as he pushes inside again. “Oh, God!”
“That’s it,” he encourages, thrusting harder. “Take it like a good girl. Let me feel you come.”
“Please!” I gasp. “More.”
“Yeah?” he pants. “You need more? More cock?”
He fucks me relentlessly while I writhe beneath him, completely naked and at his mercy, and yet I somehow know he won’t harm me. I hear myself babbling but I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I need for him to never stop what he’s doing. I tremble under his hands as he runs them up my body, cupping my breasts before framing my face. He covers my body completely, and at the end of each thrust, rotates his hips so that he presses against me. His face is inches from mine, and I can’t look away.
“Come,” he orders softly. “Let me feel it. You’re so fucking sweet. Give me this too.”
He moves his hands to my wrists, pinning me down, fucking me into the mattress. I can’t move. I’m trapped. I’m his. I’m his. I’m …
I come, screaming, but I don’t think I make a sound. He takes my body and gives me this feeling in return. And in that moment, it’s so worth it. I never want it to end. Of course it does, as all good things do, and I feel him sitting up between my legs. I watch, still breathing harshly, as he pulls out, peels the condom off, and jerks his cock twice before he comes on me, gasping my name.
“You’re mine now,” he groans, spilling himself on my overheated skin. “You’re mine.”
“Yes,” I agree, sighing as he practically collapses, half his body on top of me. He kisses me with surprising tenderness before exhaling deeply and resting his head on my chest. Acting on instinct, I run my fingers through his hair and realize my mistake too late.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I whisper, lifting my arms back up.
“No, don’t stop,” he says. “It feels good.”
Smiling to myself, I stroke his head, messing up his neatly styled hair. I know I should probably contemplate what transpired here: my discovery that sex can be utterly mind-blowing and the fact that I want to do it again—very soon—but I’m just so tired. I drift a little and I think Mr. Thorne does, as well. It’s peaceful and quiet.
Suddenly, his whole body jerks, startling me out of my near slumber. With a soft curse he climbs off the bed, saying something about the bathroom. I stretch my body, smiling lazily at the ceiling. I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed. Mr. Thorne returns after a few minutes, holding a wet rag and a small towel. Obligingly, I spread my legs and let him wash between them, which he does very gently.
“You’re still so swollen,” he comments, tracing his thumb over my clit before circling my entrance with his index finger. “And wet,” he adds.
I feel embarrassed that his simple touches are making my heart beat faster and causing my body to awaken once more.
“Oh, to be young again,” Mr. Thorne says teasingly. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to get enough, once you were properly fucked.”
I blush, feeling like a hussy, but I can’t help it; he’s right.
“Would you like to be fucked again, sweet girl?”
“Yes,” I admit, ignoring the feeling of shame that automatically creeps up on me when I voice my desire.
“You’ll have to wait a little while,” he says unapologetically. I understand. He’s forty years old, after all. But while I don’t mind waiting, time is an issue for me tonight.
“What time is it, Sir?” I ask.
“Why?”
“I have to be home by midnight.”
He smiles. “Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”
“Not exactly,” I say, returning the smile. “It’s just … my friend is expecting me.”
Mr. Thorne’s eyes leave my body and snap up to meet mine, the severity in his gaze making me nervous. “And what is this friend’s name?” he demands.
“Jo,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare and his eyes darken even further. He’s upset. Why?
“Who is he to you?” he asks.
He? Oh, shit.
“Jo’s a girl,” I explain quickly. “Her full name is Joanne, but I’ve only ever known her as Jo.”
The moment I say it his expression turns soft, and he strokes my thigh. Was he jealous?
“Oh. I see,” he says. “Why is she expecting you so late?”
I squirm a bit, this time not from horniness, as Jo would call it. “Well, she’s not, really,” I lie. “But I thought it might be safest if someone knew where I was, who could call … someone, if something happened to me.”
Mr. Thorne stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together as he frowns. “I won’t hurt you,” he finally says. “I’d never do that.”
“I know,” I whisper. “It just seemed safest for someone to know where I am.”
He nods. “I understand. And I’m glad you’re being careful, Abigail. The world can be a dangerous
place.” He runs his hand down my upper body, tickling my belly until I smile. “This Jo, does she know about our arrangement?”
“Yes.”
“And?” he asks, looking into my eyes.
“She’s cool. She won’t tell anyone else, I promise.”
“She’s a good friend?”
“The best,” I answer immediately.
He smiles at me. “I’m glad you have someone in your life you can trust. Come on, let’s go downstairs again. You can call your Jo and tell her you’re spending the night.” He stands and holds his hand out to me, an expectant look on his face.
“Spending the night?” I ask, sitting up slowly. “The whole night?”
“Yes. That’s not a problem, is it?”
Actually, it is. If it were just a matter of telling Jo, it would be fine, but her mother is there, as well, and she thinks I’m out working as a server. Do servers really stay out the whole night?
“No, it’s fine,” I lie, taking his hand and getting up off the bed.
Mr. Thorne purses his lips, giving me a look. “Abigail, I don’t want to force you to do anything. If you’d rather not stay the night—”
“Really, it’s okay,” I say, but even I can hear how weak it comes out.
“If you’re worried about spending the night with me, don’t. I have a guest bedroom for you to sleep in.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t stay in here with you?” I ask, motioning to his bed.
“No. I sleep alone,” he says curtly. “Always.”
Weird. “Well … if we’re not sleeping together, would it be all right if I go home when you go to bed?” I ask, holding my breath.
“Yes, I suppose that does make sense,” he agrees. “But until then, you’re mine, and I like to stay up late on my days off.”
I beam at him. “Yes, Sir!”
He chuckles at my happy expression. “I guess you like sleeping in your own bed as much as I do, sweet girl.”
That’s not it at all. Of course, I don’t say that. I merely keep smiling as he helps me put the black dress and heels back on and leads me downstairs to call Jo, while I pray she’ll be able to convince her mom that it’s perfectly normal for a server to stay out until the middle of the night.
Chapter Fifteen
After ending the call with Jo, I return to the living room and sit down next to Mr. Thorne, who has turned the TV back on.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m yours for the rest of the night.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“I do too, Sir.” And I really mean it.
“Here, I brought you a Coke,” he says, handing me a tall glass, the sides damp with condensation. “Almost like being at the movies, huh?”
I take the drink, gaping at him. It’s such a small gesture, but there’s so much meaning behind it. He remembers our talk last time about how I can’t afford to go to the movies, so he’s giving me the experience at home. It’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever experienced. I take a sip and place it back on the table.
“Thank you, Sir. Can I get you anything?” I ask. “I can make popcorn.”
He smiles at me. “It does go well with a movie, but I couldn’t eat another bite. Besides, I have no idea if there’s popcorn in the house.”
“You don’t do your own shopping?”
“No, I have an assistant who takes care of a lot of things, including the grocery shopping. I don’t know half of what’s in the cupboards, I’ll admit.”
“An assistant? Is she pretty?” Where did that come from?
Mr. Thorne laughs. “Andrew is quite attractive, if that’s your type.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh,” he says, smirking. “Nothing for you to be jealous of, sweet girl. I already told you: There’s only you.” My cheeks flame from embarrassment as Mr. Thorne pulls me closer. “Only you, Abigail,” he murmurs softly, stroking my hair. The look in his eyes is hypnotic and all I can do is stare up at him.
“And what about you?” he continues.
“What about me?” I whisper.
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
Immediately, I start to shake my head, but he holds me by my chin, stopping me.
“I realize I don’t have a say in what you do when you leave here, so I want you to be honest with me.”
“There’s no one, Sir. Only you. I’m yours completely.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as though he’s savoring my words. “I’d like for you to keep it that way,” he says, gently running his fingers across my throat, making me shiver. “Is that too much to ask?”
I shake my head. It’s not as though I have guys lined up around the block. Making this promise to Mr. Thorne is easy.
“Only you,” I say, “Sir.”
His lips are on mine in the next moment, kissing me with so much heat that I feel it all over. I let him push me onto my back and slide my dress up. Moaning wantonly, I wrap my legs around him, unable to stop myself from rocking my hips. What is it about this man that makes me lose all inhibitions? His dark chuckle reaches my ear before he bites on my neck, probably marking me, but I just don’t care.
“More, please.”
“So eager,” he says, lifting me up to reach for the zipper in the back. I feel no shame at the moment and as he unzips my dress, I pull up his shirt, wanting him naked. My hands slip underneath the fabric, and what I feel against my fingers isn’t smooth skin but rather something bumpy and uneven. As I flatten my palm against his hard abdomen, trying to figure out what I’m touching, I realize Mr. Thorne has stopped moving entirely. For a second, we’re both frozen in position, but then he pushes himself off me and I catch a glimpse of a white crisscross pattern of scars where my hand touched his skin. There are so many of them, and just thinking of how they got there makes my stomach turn.
Mr. Thorne doesn’t say anything, his expression stony. With slow, deliberate movements, he tucks his shirt back in and sits quietly next to me, staring into space. I sit up slowly.
“Did someone do that to you?” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond.
“I’m sorry.” I move a little closer, tentatively placing my hand on his shoulder.
He gives me a curt nod, clenching his jaw several times. His posture is rigid. “You can go put your own clothes on now. We’re done for the night.”
His dismissal stings, but I’m not sure he actually means it. It’s obvious he didn’t want me to see what I’ve seen. He’s never really taken any of his clothes off in front of me, which I always thought was one of his weird quirks, but now it makes sense.
“I’d like to stay,” I tell him, moving my hand up to caress his hair. “Watch the movie with you, Sir. Or whatever else you’d like to do.”
“Why?” He looks at me. “I’ll pay you the same amount, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I have no idea how to respond to that. Realistically, that should be my only concern. But it isn’t. The money he pays me is my main motivation for being here, but I didn’t have to offer to bake him a cake, I didn’t have to sing “Happy Birthday” to him, and I certainly didn’t have to buy him a present. I did those things because I wanted to, of my own volition.
“I don’t want our night together to be over yet,” I say. “It’s still your birthday, sort of. I’d like to spend it with you.”
He examines me closely. “You really are such a sweet girl, aren’t you, Abigail?”
He’s asked me that before, and I know my answer. “Yes. Your sweet girl, Mr. Thorne.”
I lean in, kissing him on the lips. A spark of tenderness rushes through me as he responds, reaching up to gently cup my cheek. “Do you want to, uh, continue?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “The moment’s passed, wouldn’t you say?”
I don’t know what to tell him. If I hadn’t put my hands up his shirt, he’d probably be fucking me on this couch right now, and I know it’s my fault the mood is ruined. Feeling
disappointed, I can’t hold back a small sigh.
“Let’s watch the movie,” he says, touching me under my chin before zipping up my dress again. “It’s all right. There’ll be other nights.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He pours more wine for both of us and starts the movie. While he seems perfectly at ease, I can’t help but feel awkward just sitting here. We’ve never done this before and I’m not sure how to act around him.
“What is it?” he asks. “You’re fidgeting. Are you cold?”
“Oh, uh, maybe a little.”
“C’mere,” he says, lifting his arm in invitation. I move into the corner of the couch with him and curl my legs underneath me, relaxing as he drapes his arm around me. “Better?”
“Much, Sir. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Abigail,” he says, giving me a small squeeze.
We watch the movie like that. I can’t remember the last time someone held me for a long period of time. It’s really nice. But at the same time, I can’t stop myself from wondering about the man who’s embracing me. How did he get those scars? Even from my brief glimpse I could tell it had to have been a serious injury. What if it wasn’t an accident and someone hurt him on purpose? The thought makes me shiver.
“Still cold?” he asks, rubbing my arm.
“I’m okay.” I lean into him and close my eyes, soaking up his warmth and affection as he slowly caresses my skin from my fingertips to my elbow, over and over again. At some point, I must nod off, because suddenly I’m being awakened by Mr. Thorne saying my name and stroking my cheek. I pry my eyes open, looking into his warm hazel gaze. I’m still in his arms, heavy and sleepy.
“Is the movie over?” I mumble.
“Mmhm.”
“I’m sorry I missed it. Was it good?”
“Not really,” Mr. Thorne chuckles. “There were aliens for some inexplicable reason.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say, frowning.
“Perhaps my expectations were too high.”
“You were right. You don’t always get what you wish for—not even on your birthday.”
Mr. Thorne brushes my hair off my forehead, stroking the length of it down my back.
