by CD Reiss
“Goddess?” he whispered when I stopped twitching.
I tried to answer, but I was blubbering. I took a few breaths to calm down. “Yes, sir?”
“Are you okay?”
“Thank you.”
He untied me. I put my aching arms on my knees, and he pushed me gently forward, his dick slipping out of my ass. I sucked in a breath.
He pulled me into his lap and kissed the tears running down my cheeks. I held him and wept fully. The emotional release poured out of me as he rubbed my back and kissed my face and neck. My awareness of the world around me—my body, the chair, the room, the building, the time of day—was brought about by the softness of his lips and the way he whispered, “Goddess, goddess, goddess.”
“I haven’t been what you need,” he said softly.
“You couldn’t be. I understand.”
“That’s over now.”
“Thank you.”
He put his hands on my cheeks and brushed my lashes with his thumbs. I let my eyes flutter closed.
“You can’t leave me until I destroy you,” he said.
“If you destroy me, I’ll never leave.”
“Regularly.” He took out a monogrammed hankie and held it up. “Blow.”
I blew my nose. He pinched and wiped for me, as if I were a child. He kissed my lips, owning them with tenderness and confidence. I let his tongue into my mouth, its soothing warmth exploring me as if for the first time. The tenderness with which he kissed me was in such contrast to the beating I’d just received that I broke down in tears again. He held me and rocked me in the soundproof studio for what seemed like hours, saying sweet things in my ear. I felt so good, so calm, so loved.
“You’d better cancel dinner,” he said. “You’re going to need some serious aftercare.”
“You think the guys would notice if I ate standing up?”
“Come home, and I’ll feed you in bed.”
“Yes, Jonathan. Yes to everything.”
“And you shall have everything.”
chapter 6.
MONICA
Sometimes, I felt as though I wasn’t in love with a man. Sometimes when things were tense, or we fought, or we made love, or I was away for too long or in the house for too many weeks, or even when he kissed me on the back patio, I stopped seeing him as a man. I stopped seeing him as even human. I felt as though I’d married a time bomb.
I thought once, as my plane crept down a runway away from some dipshit town, that he was more human in that ticking time bombness than he’d been as a normal man with a normal heart. More human in his mortality, his vulnerability, his lack of control.
Wives care for sick husbands who come back from war. Husbands stand beside wives with illnesses that deteriorate their bodies and minds. We read about their strength and dedication, their stand-by-your-manness. But no one talks about the adjustments and the sacrifices. Grieving for the husband who doesn’t exist anymore isn’t feel-good news. We’re supposed to be chipper and upbeat and never admit to a single soul that we miss the men we thought we’d married.
I felt like a piece of shit for missing the hard, bruising sex. It was different with Gabby. When I’d wanted to go out but had to watch her, I’d felt burdened. I admitted it to myself but did what I had to do anyway. I always felt like shit about that too. But with Jonathan, I so ecstatic he was alive that I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed him until he asked me if I was happy.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked in the back of the Bentley.
He’d just fucked my ass raw in the studio, just hurt me badly, and I’d begged him for every stroke. I’d never felt closer to him than in those minutes of pain. But on the way back, after I came down from my high and we had a bathroom break, I remembered why the last six months had been so hard.
“Nothing.”
He stroked my arm with his fingertips. Perfect pressure for the gathering of electricity, as always. “Nothing?”
I shook my head, more at myself than at his disbelief. Nothing, my ass. Something. Everything. “That was a lot of exertion back there.”
Exertion wasn’t just a word but a keyword. Code for unreasonable fear. Secret speak for death. Terror in a few breaths of syllables and the tongue rubbing on the back of the teeth.
“You’ve been told a hundred times—”
“I know, please.” I dismissed him. “I know.”
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and turned me to face him, and my scalp became a center of pleasure. “You’re shutting down.”
I couldn’t deny the truth. Not after he’d torn me open. For those minutes in the studio, when he commanded me, I’d forgotten to worry about him, and he was again my master and king. When he pulled my hair, I wanted to be ripped apart again, just for the release from thinking about him dying.
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just—”
“Open your legs.”
I was pissed he’d ask at a time like this, and relieved. I spread my legs across the leather seat. Not far enough for him apparently, because he pulled my head back and yanked my knees farther apart. I gasped when a bullet of arousal shot through me.
He pressed four fingers between my legs, where the panels of my jeans met. “I am not going to die fucking you.” He scratched the fabric, and I felt the tease through the layers.
Was this the time to answer honestly? Shouldn’t we talk over dinner or in bed? Or across a desk surrounded by pens and blotters and serious things?
“You might. You could.”
“I won’t.” He pushed against my crotch, and I pushed back as if I had no control over my body.
“You might,” I gasped when he undid my jeans. “And you deny it, and it’s a lie you tell yourself. I’m tired of walking around and pretending it’s not a problem, because it is. It’s a big problem. It’s all I think about.”
He slid his hand past my waistband until the tip of his middle finger reached my clit. He barely pressed on it, just rotated around the slip of skin at the top. “You never told me that.”
“I have to be strong for you. You chase me out of the house to work, and I think it’s because you don’t want me to see you weak. And, oh God, Jonathan, I’m going to come.”
“No, you’re not.” He reduced the pressure and intensity until I could only feel the outer edge of his hand’s heat. “Pull your shirt up. Let me see your tits.”
I yanked up my shirt and bra, and he leaned down and sucked on a nipple so hard and fast, it hurt like hell. I bucked under him.
“I’m going to die before you,” he said, taking a last nip before putting his face to mine. “Way before you. You want to spend the time worrying? Or fucking?”
Which? Was that the only choice: this dichotomy of soul-eating pain or soul-revealing pleasure? I waited too long to answer apparently, because he circled his fingertip over my clit again, barely touching it. I groaned. I wanted to say fucking, to tell him what he wanted to hear, but when he had me like this, I couldn’t tell one of the thousand untruths about my feelings. I couldn’t say what would make him happy for the sake of saving him from stress.
“Which is it, goddess?”
“I’m going to come.”
He brought his finger down my folds, to where I was wettest, leaving my clit kissed by nothing but the damp air in my jeans as he brought the rest of me to life. His outer fingers touched the welts he’d left earlier, setting them on fire.
“Which is it?” he asked.
“Fuck me or let me come,” I whispered.
He pulled his hand out of my pants. The loss was painful.
“You are not stopping,” I groaned. “Don’t even—”
He held my face, putting his nose to mine. “You only talk when your cunt lets you. From now on, I control when you talk. And today, you talk.”
The car stopped in front of our house, and the gate clanged closed behind us.
“You’re a son of a bitch.” My body arched toward him, making a lie of my words.
&
nbsp; “Before I was in the hospital, you could hold yourself together. Now you’re calling me a son of a bitch for doing what it’s my right to do.”
I glared at him, hating him and loving him at the same time, pain and pleasure always hand-in-hand with my king.
“Button up,” he said, pulling my shirt down.
I closed the fly on my jeans, and he opened the door. The late afternoon sun blasted my face, turning Lil’s form into a rectangular silhouette.
We didn’t speak as we walked to the house. A modest thing by Drazen standards, it had a private beach in the back and the whole of Malibu in front. It was an old house built at the crest of the modern era by an ambitious architect who was way ahead of his time. It didn’t have a porch, but a small overhang shaded the wide front door. He disabled the security system and put his hand on the knob but didn’t turn it. Lil drove away, the sound of the engine giving way to the evensong birds and the breath of the freeways below.
I started to think about everything I could be doing. Over the past six months, my brain chemistry had changed so that when I was upset, my thoughts went to music and the business of making it. One ass fuck in the studio wouldn’t change that.
“Come on. I have things to do,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t go over well. I reveled in my defiance. Fuck him with his new heart and old ways. If he wanted to talk, he could take me to dinner.
He swung the door open but didn’t leave room for me to pass. I crossed my arms. He smirked. I felt the tightening of my cheeks as I almost smirked with him. What game was I playing? I wanted to get to work, and I wanted him to fuck me.
No, I didn’t want him to fuck me. I wanted him to either rip me apart or let me make music mourning the loss of my wounds. If this defaulted to a vanilla middle ground because he thought he’d made his point, I would lose my shit.
“Take your clothes off. All of them.”
I rolled my eyes. Lightning quick, like a man who had done nothing but work on his reflexes for the past six months, he grabbed my hair and dragged me to my knees. My safe word was Invictus and I probably still had a tangerine option, but the insides of my thighs tingled when he leaned down and growled in my ear.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
I reached for my placket and carefully, without fumbling, undid the buttons one by one.
“I’ll do what I have to to get you to talk to me. So first…” He yanked my hair, and I gasped. “Take it off. And the bra.”
I shook both off until I was bare-breasted at the front door. How would he get my pants off? What did he intend?
He let go of my hair. “Stand up.”
I got on my feet. He stood in the doorway, framed by a house I’d agreed to with a shrug, his hands at his sides. One of his fingers twitched.
I crossed my arms. “Are we going in or not?” I leaned on one hip, breasts out as if I didn’t give a shit one way or the other how naked I was. “I’m tired, and my ass hurts. Can we just—”
“You’re really pushing it.”
I tapped a single finger on my bicep, a tic of impatience. Even though his beautiful green eyes didn’t leave mine, I knew he saw it, and even if his mouth didn’t smile, I knew I was pleasing him. We needed this, and we needed it to go down exactly the way it was going to go down.
He put a finger on my lower lip. “Open your mouth.”
I didn’t.
With his other hand, he cupped my jaw and exerted pressure, slowly opening my mouth. God, I wanted his cock in it. I wanted to taste the soft skin as it slid to the back of my throat. I relaxed my mouth, and he put his fingers in. First one, then four, pressing my tongue down.
He pulled me to him, speaking softly and firmly into my face. “I don’t mind repeating myself. This is my mouth, and when I say open it, it opens.”
I couldn’t speak, but my eyes agreed. I was putty in his hands.
“Get your pants off while I explain my position.”
I unbuttoned and unzipped while he held my jaw open. I couldn’t swallow, and drool formed over his fingers.
“Do you remember the hospital? The week before the first surgery?”
Remember? How could I forget? I got heart palpitations thinking about it. Any time I smelled alcohol or something beeped, my chest felt as if it had been encased in a clenched fist.
“That week, we had rules,” he said. “Should I remind you?”
I nodded as much as I could.
“Get your pants down.” I wiggled to slide them down while he spoke. “The rules were: only the truth, even if it hurt. We would never protect each other from each other. And no judgment.”
I got my pants down to my knees. I was twisted, fighting the tight jeans, the pressure of his fingers, and the memory of lying next to him in the never-dark Sequoia Hospital.
He removed his hand, which was wet with spit that dripped down his arm to the elbow. “All the way off.”
I leaned to get my shoes off. He held my elbow when I almost fell then resumed watching my clumsy and twisted operation until I was completely naked before him. He was perfectly calm, perfectly commanding. Only the huge bulge in his pants indicated how involved he was in what was happening.
I stood with my hands at my sides. “I remember.”
“I want that again.”
“It’s hard when you’re telling me to get my clothes off.”
“You know what, Monica, you don’t even know yourself. Look at you. I haven’t seen you this relaxed in months. The only time you let your worry go is when you give me control. And your worry is what keeps you from being honest.”
I swallowed. Blinked. A torrent of wetness welled behind my eyes. “I don’t want to break the scene.”
“Stay still. Stay naked. Speak your mind.”
“I almost died with you a hundred times. That recovery room, they had you in this induced coma, and you looked dead. There were bags of blood. Bags hanging over you, and you were all opened up. And, I’m sorry, I haven’t said this because you’re the one who went through it.” I swallowed a gallon of tears. “I don’t want to see you like that again. But I think about it all the time. I dream about it. I see it when I close my eyes. I want you to live, so I do what I think will make you happy, and I always get it wrong. Stay or go. I give you attention or none. It’s always wrong.”
“What about your happiness?”
“It doesn’t matter. Not as much as yours. It’s not life or death.”
“It is, Monica. It is.”
I shook my head. “You can’t convince me of that. We can do this hurtful honesty thing all day. You’re the priority, and I’m okay with that. Deal with it.”
He nodded, looking down for a blink, then at me. He reached for my wrists. “These go behind your back.”
I did as instructed.
“Now get on your knees.”
I bent them. With my hands behind my back, it was hard to balance.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I thought he’d take me gently by the elbow, but he dragged me down. He was right. I was relaxed, totally submitting and trusting him, loving every bit of discomfort he dished out.
“Spread your knees apart.”
I did, too slowly for him. He kicked them wide.
“Do you remember your safe word?” he asked, unbuckling his belt.
“Yes.” A tingling rush went down my spine with the promise of his dominance and the way it made me forget how fragile he really was.
His cock was out in the next second. “Open. Your. Mouth.”
I parted my lips enough to breathe, and before I could open my throat or prepare, he put his cock between them and pushed my head into him. I choked on the mass of his dick, but the scent of his soap, the taste of his skin, the shape and thrust of him brought a wave of pleasure and a strong desire to please him.
“Take it, goddess. Take it all. Not one inch should be left.”
He pushed forward again, fucking my face mercilessly. He p
ulled out, letting me breathe and making eye contact with me. Checking on me. I was safe. I gasped, chest heaving, and opened my mouth again.
“I want you to think about something. While I take your mouth, I want you to think about how its purpose is my pleasure. To fuck.” He stuck his dick down my throat, all of it in one stroke, and pulled it out as violently as he’d put it in. “To talk.” He jammed it in again before I could utter a word. “Whatever I say.”
He began in earnest, treating my throat the way he’d treated my ass an hour before—as a receptacle for his soap-scented cock. He moved my head by my hair, pulling out to let me breathe but no longer than necessary. My hands were behind me, so I couldn’t wipe the drool off my chin or move my hair from my face.
“I’m going to come down your throat.” He was so strong, so solid, so commanding with a wisp of hair over his forehead, his monster cock dripping with my spit, hanging in the foreground of my vision. “You’re going to swallow every fucking drop. Do you understand?”
I opened my mouth as wide as I could, looking up at him through my hair. I wanted to tell him to fuck me anywhere he wanted. To make it hurt. Make it uncomfortable. I wanted to forget everything in our way. The hurt, the stress, the worry. I wanted to break the cycle again, and be nothing more than under him.
But he didn’t give me a chance to beg for it. He cupped my jaw in his other hand and stuck his wet cock in my waiting mouth to fuck my throat. He could live forever. He could pound my face like this in an eternal grind, never sick, never dying, never at risk. No. This dominant beast was built to fuck and to hurt and to live.
He pulled out long enough to let me breathe then shoved it back in, coming with a bark, his balls pulsing against my lower lip. His hair-pulling violence turned to stroking and caressing as he filled my throat, slipping out for a breath, and sliding in again.
