Role Play (Silhouette Studios)

by Katana Collins

  I wet my lips, my gaze dipping briefly to the carved lines of muscle across his chest. “You know, it’s really not fair that you get to sit at this table and even though you’re naked, I can’t see you. You can still see me.” I gestured to my breasts, still very much in view.

  The hint of a grin teased his mouth. “What would you like me to do? Talk to you while doing a handstand?”

  I did a mental double take. “You can do a handstand?”

  “Hey—I do yoga. And I’m insulted by the surprise in your voice.”

  Well, now I did want to see that. “Anyway,” he cleared his throat and continued. “Was there anything else in the contracts that stood out to you?” He shuffled through the paperwork, pausing, eyes cast down at one of the sheets. “You missed one,” he said, holding up the Silhouette Studios consent contract that I hadn’t signed.

  Beneath the table, I wrung my hands together. This was the moment I’d been dreading. “Yeah, about that. It’s just a small thing, but… I don’t really want to file the paperwork with Silhouette Studios HR department.”

  Ash’s gaze jerked up to mine. Okay… maybe it wasn’t such a small thing.

  “Why?” he asked.

  I shrugged, doing my best to act nonchalant. I couldn’t exactly say: Because your boss is my uncle and we’ll both be busted by filing that paperwork. “I’m just not comfortable with it being on public record or common knowledge that I’m sleeping with my boss. What if people think I’m trying to sleep my way to the top? Or Kelly finds out and decides to make my life a living hell at work?”

  He nodded, thoughtful. “I understand that… and I respect it. But you said it yourself last night, these contracts are for both of our protection. It’s irresponsible not to sign them.”

  God, he was right. I hated that he was right. He signed his name, then slid the paper and pen down the table toward me. It felt like a sword being drawn, challenging me to a duel. How could I sign this? Signing this meant filing it with HR. Filing it with HR meant a meeting with Uncle Rich. I tapped the pen, the click, click, click sound echoing loudly in the silence between us. “What if we do something other than signing something that goes to HR?”

  He lifted a brow. “Go on…”

  Panic was swelling in my chest. This was my last chance to convince him or else I’d truly have to explain why I didn’t want to sign this thing. My cheeks warmed and I pressed my palm to one, as if I could hide my blush. I was out of excuses if this didn’t work. “Well… ” I swallowed. God, I was going to sound like a crazy person. Maybe I was. Maybe Ash was turning me into a crazy person. “I don’t want anything signed going to the studio. It’s better this way for both of us.” His brows knitted between his eyes. Shit. Wrong choice of words. “I just mean, it’s better for the perception of both of us. You already slept with my boss, Kelly…”

  “I’m aware of my sexual history, yes.”

  “The real issue Silhouette is concerned with is litigation and protection of its employees. So…” I grabbed my phone, wincing at the shattered screen and I punched Ash’s name into the phone, holding up my hand, palm out to him. “Don’t answer, okay?”

  He sat back in his chair, muscled arms folding at his chest and studied me as his phone rang. Eventually, his voicemail picked up, and at the sound of the beep, I said, “I, Luciana Rodriguez am consenting to a sexual encounter with Ash Livingston.”

  I hung up and offered him a hopeful smile. “See? Now we’re covered.”

  He stared at me, the lines around his mouth deepened with his scowl. “Not exactly. But it’s better than nothing. Why don’t we revisit this later?”

  I nodded, breathing a little easier. I could live with that. I knew we needed something that proved this was consensual. I just really, really didn’t want Uncle Rich finding out.

  “What else?” Ash pressed, tapping the contracts with his pen. “Any other issues with the contracts?”

  “The sweet girl thing,” I said. “It just… I don’t know… feels generic.” Generic and it sliced open a scar that was still in the process of healing. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—that it was the one and only term of endearment my father had for my mother. Used so rarely, but she cherished those words—waited for them, and clung to them when he showed her affection.

  He didn’t say anything, simply stared at the sheets of paper in his hand and made a soft “hmm” sound.

  “It’s what I call all my subs.”

  “And… that’s supposed to make it better?”

  He nodded. “I see your point. The nickname is really important, though. We need a term of endearment that I use for you in the bedroom. It helps differentiate when it’s playtime and when we’re back to reality. It’s not as important for subs I only see at the club, but since we work together, I have a feeling those lines might blur a little more than I’m used to.”

  I had nothing against pet names… it just couldn’t be that one. “I’m not telling you we can’t use a nickname. What about baby girl instead of sweet girl?”

  His face drained of color, his jaw going slack. Tensed fingers tightened over the ring on his pinky finger. “No. I-I can’t use that.”

  My stomach tightened. Poor Ash. Whoever owned that ring before him must have been his baby girl. I nodded, feeling my brows dip in concern. “So… something else then.”

  His tanned chest rose with a deep breath. “What about… Shorty.” Color returned to his face, painting his cheeks a rosy-tan color, and his lips turned back into a half-grin.

  “Shorty,” I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth. “I kind of like that.” It wasn’t too feminine or cutesy. Or overtly sexualized like other nicknames. It feels like me. Like the kind of nickname that could be sexy in the bedroom, but you could also use in public without it calling too much attention.

  He scribbled some notes on the paper. “Good.” Then, tapping the pen on the table, he murmured, “If nothing else stood out to you about my rules—”

  “Money,” I blurted out. “I’m not accepting your money to pay for stuff.”

  “Why don’t we take that on a case by case basis?”

  “I don’t see a case where I would accept.” I moved to cross my arms, only I was met with the bare flesh of my nipples and felt myself flush. Crossing your arms just didn’t have the same effect when you were naked.

  “I make more money than you,” he said bluntly. “It says nothing about your talent or status… it’s just the truth because I’ve been at the company and in this business longer. I know what assistants make at Silhouette because I used to be one. So, if we continue our scenes and extend it out into public—dinners, drinks at LnS, that sort of thing, then I am paying.”

  A knot lodged in my throat. “It seems really unlikely that either of us will want to extend this publicly.”

  Silence. His eyes were locked onto the sheet of paper. Finally, he looked up at me, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Why do you say that?”

  I shrugged. “It just seems like we each have a lot to lose if this gets out.”

  “Maybe. Then again, maybe not. Not if we sign the consent contract.”

  Ah, touché. “Fine. In the unlikely event that we continue this relationship outside of tonight, you can sometimes pay for dinners and drinks. But I’m not accepting a clothing budget.”

  His mouth twisted when I used the word ‘relationship’ but he said nothing. “As I said, let’s take this on a case by case basis. It might be a moot point.”

  “Exactly. If it’s a moot point, then why are we discussing any of it?”

  “Jesus, Lucy. It’s not all a moot point.”

  Except right now in that moment… it did all feel like a moot point. If neither of us wanted to be seen in public with the other, what was the point? Unless, I was kidding myself that I could keep this casual. Keep any relationship casual—particularly one with a person I worked with and had to see daily. There was a reason why Uncle Richard was trying to limit the amount of inter-office rel
ationships… practically an impossible feat in Hollywood.

  Oh, God. Anxiety rose from the pit of my stomach. A looming fear of another person in my life controlling me, choosing what was important and what wasn’t. I felt that swell of panic that I couldn’t quite describe or put into words why it was so paralyzing.

  I needed this contract conversation to stop. It was triggering me… and all I wanted was a fucking orgasm. All I wanted was to finally feel a release and explore this side of me that I always knew existed and never let myself open up to. And if we kept up this conversation about contracts and language and what was moot and what wasn’t, I was going to chicken out. At any moment, I was going to run for that door, get in my car and never look into Ash Livingston’s stunningly blue eyes again.

  I had to act. And fast. As Ash continued talking about the contract, I hit my pen with my elbow, sending it careening off the table and rolling under. And just for good measure, I nudged it with my toe so it rolled farther. “Oops,” I said, then scooted the chair back and crawled under the table to get it.

  Ash noticed, but didn’t seem to think anything of it. Above, I could still hear the flipping sound of ruffling papers. I left the pen where it sat on the floor, taking a moment to breathe in how utterly gorgeous he was from the waist down. Even sitting there beneath the table—legs spread, cock hard. Balls tight and drawn up toward his body.

  “You all right down there?”

  “Yep, I got it,” I said. Then licked my lips, and as silently as I could, I crawled beneath the table toward him. I was an entirely helpless moth to his flame and he was calling to me, beckoning me.

  I reached him and didn’t hesitate. If I was down here much longer, he would no doubt peek under the table and find me there, staring at him, my nose practically in his groin.

  With my flattened tongue, I licked him, sampling his hard length from root to tip, ignoring the way he jumped in his chair as my wet tongue traveled the length of his cock. It swelled immediately beneath my tongue, and twitched—a quick, sharp movement. I repeated the movement, licking him again; this time, circling around his tip, nibbling at the ridge.

  From above me, he inhaled a sharp breath, the flat ridges of his stomach tightening. Scraping my nails up the sinewy muscles of his thighs, I braced myself on his legs before taking his cock as deeply into my mouth as I could. I only managed to get him two-thirds of the way in before his head hit the back of my throat. He let loose a long, deep groan of pleasure.

  “Shorty.” Even though his voice was stern, it was also breathless. Needy. Almost as needy as I felt inside. His hand fell to my hair, twirling around the strands, and his shallow breath deepened.

  The legs of the chair scraped against the hardwood floors, screeching in protest where Ash’s body did the opposite. His hips pulsed up, pushing himself deeper into my mouth.

  Everything was too swollen. Too swollen and achy and greedy for more. I brushed my hand down my body, pushing my fingers against my clit.

  “You are not touching yourself,” Ash growled. His hand in my hair tightened and he yanked my head back, almost to the point of discomfort, but not quite to where I would have defined it as pain. A soft biting discomfort that pinched the back of my neck and scalp.

  Fuck. Maybe on some level I knew I’d get caught touching myself. Maybe on some level I truly wanted to be caught—wanted to be punished. Wanted to feel more of his hands coming down on my ass and pussy. The tip of his cock brushed my chin as he held me tightly away from himself. “You promised me I’d come,” I whimpered, my voice raspy, mouth still wet and watering from the taste of him. “You promised me in the closet.”

  “If you earn it,” he hissed. “Do you think you’ve been a good girl to earn that, Shorty?”

  “Yes,” I cried.

  He tsked, a soft click of his tongue. “Come on, now. No lying.”

  “I’m not lying. I did what you asked. I read the contracts. I ate my dinner. We reviewed our limits—”

  “Sort of. You sort of did everything I asked. And you fought me on every level.” He leaned forward, his face coming so close to mine that all I needed to do was push slightly higher on my knees and take his lips in another kiss. “Be honest with yourself, Shorty. Do you deserve to come yet?”

  A breath hitched in my chest. “No,” I cried.

  “No, what?”

  I swallowed, knowing he wanted me to call him Sir. But I couldn’t do it. By calling him Sir, I was essentially giving over all my power to him and I just wasn’t ready for that. Not when I was here on my knees, offering to pleasure him and he wasn’t taking it. It was degrading. I felt foolish and young.

  But if I was being honest… another, stronger part of myself ached to say it, wanted that degradation, and thrived on it—as long as it was solely in the bedroom. And that was what was so fucked up. I swallowed, hot tears burning the backs of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I ignored my gut—the part of myself that was so fucking turned on by the word “Sir.” This wasn’t the time to use it. It couldn’t come from this place. This place of fear and mistrust. My mind won out, which was for the best. It was smarter than my vagina, anyway. “Just… no.” Adrenaline slammed into my veins, racing through my bloodstream the moment the words left my mouth. What would he do? How would he react?

  “Just no,” he repeated, his voice a hollow whisper. What did that mean? What did that empty repetition of my answer mean he would do to me?

  His hold on my hair tightened and those ice blue eyes turned fierce. “Lace your hands behind your back.”

  I did what he asked, grasping my fingers at the small of my back, stretching my shoulders and opening my chest. My breasts ached to be held, touched, and licked like before. That flush at my cheeks spread down my neck and over my sternum.

  “Have you ever had your mouth fucked?”

  I blinked up at him, confused. Even though there was only one guy I’d ever had sex with, I’d given out my fair share of blowjobs back in my sorority days, so I nodded.

  “Answer with words, Shorty,” he said through gritted teeth, clearly frustrated.

  “Yes,” I said, quietly.

  Another flick of his jaw. “You’re not going to say ‘Sir,’ are you?”

  “No,” I answered honestly. “I haven’t signed anything yet.”

  His eyes drifted closed, the lines at his brow and around his eyes deepening. “Fine.” Only, it didn’t seem fine. Leaning forward, he pinched my nipple, latching on between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing just enough to be uncomfortable.

  I sucked in a sharp breath, feeling that pressure skitter from my breast down between my thighs. “When I ask if you’ve ever had your mouth fucked,” Ash clarified, “I’m not asking if you’ve ever given a blowjob. Have you ever had your mouth fucked? Knelt there with your mouth open while a cock slams into your throat over and over and over again?”

  “No.” That description and the firm hold he had on my nipple, which immediately tightened when I answered, left me breathless.

  “No, what?” Was he going to press this issue every time?

  “No, I’ve never had my mouth fucked,” I said. He pinched harder in response and my pussy squeezed in response. “But I’d like to,” I whispered. “I’d like to try.”

  A low, satisfied groan slipped between his parted lips and he twisted his fingers around my nipple. With his other hand still holding my hair, he pulled my face close to his and whispered, “Your safeword is not a word right now. If you need me to stop, raise your hands in the air and snap. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir,” he said, pinching harder. “Yes, Sir. We need to work on how you address me,” he growled. “Now, open your mouth.” He released his hold on my nipple, and I immediately glanced down, staring at the deep red of the one he’d let go of in comparison to the other he hadn’t touched. It was a rich scarlet that contrasted my pale breast. The red mark was sexier than the action itself. I wanted more. Darker marks. Marks that would
last beyond our tryst so that I could remember him well beyond tonight.

  I took a deep breath and parted my lips for him. I fully expected him to shove his cock inside, but instead, he pulled my mouth to his, kissing me long and deep, delving his tongue inside, licking against mine. His moan rocked through my body, vibrating in my core.

  He finished kissing me with another sharp yank and pulled my face between his legs.

  My yelp of surprise was stifled, muffled by his cock forced into my mouth. I pressed my tongue to the underside, resisting a gag as his thick head hit the back of my throat. He yanked my hair back, pulling me away from him, and I increased suction, hollowing my cheeks. My glasses slipped down my nose as he paused, giving me a moment to catch my breath. He pulled my face level once more, and I looked up at him through watery eyes, as he asked, “Are you going to address me as Sir?”

  My racing pulse thundered in my ears. “No.” Between my thighs, I was drenched. The display was both intoxicating and humiliating. I wanted to both fuck him and slap him at the same time.

  He wasted no time, shoving his cock between my lips once more and forcing his way to the back of my throat, only this time I was more prepared. I opened wider, breathing, ready for the welcome intrusion. He did all the work, pumping his hips in and out of my mouth, pushing deeper and harder with each movement.

  A tear slid down my cheek as I breathed through my nose, forcing my body to relax against the gag reflex threatening the back of my throat.

  “Luciana,” he murmured above me. Simply hearing my name in his low, graveled voice had me squirming for more. Wanting to give him everything. And for a brief, fleeting moment, I even wanted to call him Sir. Instead, I relaxed my throat, opening it wider, and his cock went deeper. “Holy fuck, Lucy.” His cock slid deeper down my throat, his hips thrusting fiercely—harder into me.

  It was hard to breathe, and more tears were streaking my face, probably washing away what little bit of mascara I was wearing. But even though it was uncomfortable, I loved it. I wanted more. Harder. I wanted him to use me. Fuck me. My sex pulsed, needing attention. He had to take care of me, right? He wouldn’t leave me aching and needy for a whole other night, simply because I wouldn’t call him Sir? Would he?