by Amy Daws
Her jaw tightens. “Drop to your knees.”
The conviction in her voice is like a defibrillator to my chest, shocking the last remaining control I’ve lived with my entire fucking life out of my body. I’ve entered into some sexy as fuck fantasy world where she’s the queen and I’m her servant. And, bloody hell, it’s just like my fucking dreams. My mind has clicked off and is uninhibited. Ready to listen, to respond, to please. I’m prepared and waiting for more orders because, for once in my life, I’m not in control. I’m not the celebrity footballer. I’m not the big brother. I’m not the support system, the mediator, the protector. I don’t have to solve things or play a certain role. I can just be myself without expectations. I’m…free.
The feeling is completely liberating. I don’t want to challenge her. I want to make her happy. I want to keep that confidence in her voice. I want to follow her commands, praying like fuck she’ll reward me with her body.
My grip tightens around my cock, and I close my eyes briefly to concentrate so I don’t come like a fucking teenager.
“Eyes on me,” she states.
My eyes snap to hers.
She’s in another place, too. Her voice is different. The emotional sponge she once was has vanished. She’s controlling the feelings in the room. The atmosphere. The pleasure. She’s found me hiding in that faraway fantasy land where she’s the queen and I’m hers. All hers. We have hit a point of no return, and everything around us will crumble if we don’t give in to our desires.
I stare at her strength and grow harder as every muscle and vein stretches and tightens along the length of my cock. I want her so fucking badly.
She lets out a moan and says, “Stand up. Take my clothes off. Right now. Fast…Please.”
I rise, eliminating the few feet between us and reach down for the bottom of her dress. There’s a faint sound of fabric tearing as I yank it over her head, but I can’t help myself. A frenzy has taken over. And as much as I want to glance down at her black lace bra and her tiny slip of knickers, I can’t look away from her gaze.
“I want you to grab my hair and fuck me against that dresser as hard as you can. Don’t hold back. Don’t take it easy on me. Make me scream.” Her muscles twitch beneath her skin. She’s struggling so hard to maintain control, yet she’s still a vision.
I’m getting pictures in my head of not following her orders and being punished. The sight is everything I never knew I wanted.
I grip her by the waist and pull her against my body, walking her backwards to the dresser. I stare at her lips and move in just as she states, “Don’t kiss me. Don’t you dare kiss me.”
I all but growl with agitation and swirl her around so fast on her heels, she loses her balance and falls onto the dresser. She’s bent over the furniture with her arse perched toward me, like a delicious buffet that I can’t touch without permission.
“Rip my panties off and bury your cock inside of me. And you better have a condom, so help me God.”
Her voice is a cry at the end as I grip the strip of fabric lining her crack and jerk them off of her in one strong tug. I fist her knickers in my hand and stride over to my nightstand. I drop the material into the drawer and grab a foiled packet.
Moving back to her, I tear the condom open with my teeth.
“I didn’t say you could open it!” she exclaims, watching me over her shoulder and staring at my bobbing cock. “Bring it here.”
I do as I’m told, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever done with a woman and I haven’t even penetrated her yet. She silently takes the condom and pulls the rubbery object out of the wrapper.
“You gave me control, so I’m taking it.” Her gaze is a powerful pool of copper, twinkling in the dim light of my room. She grabs my cock and tugs it. “I want to put this on you.”
I grunt and stifle a moan as she holds a death grip on me. My pain makes her smile in awe. God, she is beautiful.
“I like your voice,” she says. It sounds like the old Sloan, but she clears her throat and adds, “It’s really sexy. I want to hear it when you drive into me, okay?”
“You got it, Treacle,” I reply.
With a pleased smirk, she drops down on her knees and rolls the slippery condom over me. I’m so turned on, I could probably ejaculate this second. It’s been way too fucking long. But I’m certain that would end badly for me, so I focus on her commands and release my mind to her desires again.
“Now, grab my ponytail and fuck me hard. Really fucking hard. So hard I forget everything.” Her voice is a bit manic, but the neediness calls to me.
Her command is my wish, I think to myself. I wrap her thick chestnut hair around my fist and jerk her around so she’s bent over the dresser, her arse level with my cock. It’s a good thing she still has her boots on or we would not match up. I bend at the knees and position my tip between her folds. My fingertips brush her entry to prepare her, and the wetness between them makes me want to roar with pride.
“Speak, Gareth!” she demands as I press my forehead between her shoulder blades.
“You’re fucking soaked, and it’s making me crazy,” I growl.
“More!” she cries.
“You’re so soaked that all I want is to lick every drop coming from you because I’ve been thinking about your wet little pussy since the second I met you.”
“Oh my God,” she moans and splays her hands out on the dresser top. “I want you to lick me, too. I want you to do about ninety different things with your tongue. But right now, you have to fuck me. I need to be filled, Gareth. I want to feel your big dick stretch me.”
I ram inside of her with all my strength, and she screams in response. Fuck me, she’s tight. Why is she so tight? If I was married to her, we would be fucking every bloody day and twice on Sundays. What’s the matter with her husband? Why am I thinking of another man right now?
“Gareth!” she screams, begging for more with just the sound of my name.
“You’re so fucking tight. Your husband is a bloody idiot.”
“Don’t bring him up!” She reaches back with one hand and digs her nails into my arse.
I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself from coming. Fuck me. Pain and pleasure is a fine line indeed. I tug her ponytail and her grip on my arse loosens. “Your tight, wet pussy likes my big cock, so brace yourself because I’m not holding back.”
My arse and thighs flex as I thrust up into her and reach around with my fingers to squeeze her clit at the same time.
She screams. She screams so bloody loud, I hesitate.
“Don’t you fucking stop!” She slams her palms against the mirror attached to the dresser. I find her face in the reflection and she pins me with a threat. “You stop and I’m out of here faster than you can get that condom off your dick.”
“Fucking tease,” I murmur, yanking back on her ponytail so her head is thrust up toward the ceiling as I pound into her so fast, I knock over all the decorative shit on the dresser. The mirror shifts as she props herself on it, trying to find purchase against the onslaught, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I’m following orders and she’s praising me with the sexiest fucking sounds I’ve ever heard from a woman. The whole scene is the freest and most aroused I’ve ever felt in my entire fucked-up life. This strong, sexy, confident woman said I needed to fuck her and, somehow, obeying her is just as hot as the fucking.
When I feel her pussy clench around me, she lets out a loud, ear-piercing cry. My teeth grind together as I pray to Christ she tells me to come soon because I don’t think I can hold out a second longer.
“Come, Gareth. Fucking come with me!” she bellows, her voice broken and high-pitched, out of breath and panting.
Instantly, hot liquid spurts out of me and encompasses the tip of my cock as I ejaculate into the condom, still thrusting into her as I blow. The pressure of her tight pussy tremoring around me as I move is like a vibrating vice-grip of complete ecstasy.
“Holy freaking shit,” she crie
s, her voice sounding more like her again.
I open my mouth to reply, but the buzz from my security panel stops me mid-breath.
“What the hell?” she squeaks. “Are you…Are you expecting someone?” She shoves me off of her and yanks away from me like she’s been infected.
“No!” I exclaim, annoyed as she begins covering her body with her hands.
“Oh my God, you’re an athlete. Of course you are!” She pulls up the strap of her bra that slipped down her shoulder and squats down in her boots to scoop up her dress.
“I said I’m not expecting anyone!”
“I don’t believe you!” she barks.
“You have no reason not to!”
This brings her up short, but she’s clearly not convinced.
“Except for the fact that you soccer players are the biggest sluts in Manchester. That’s what everyone says.”
“I haven’t fucked anyone in a bloody year!” I roar but instantly feel bad for shouting in her face. I take a step back and soften my tone. “I have no idea who the fuck could be here at this time of night.”
Still only wearing a condom, I rush over to the screen and tap the button to see who’s in the white Mercedes. A bearded, man-bun freak stares back at me. “Christ, it’s Tanner.”
“Who’s Tanner?” Sloan asks, clutching her dress to her chest.
“My brother,” I growl through clenched teeth. “He’s here to watch the match tomorrow, but he wasn’t supposed to be here until the morning.”
I press the admittance button without a word, and Sloan and I begin scrambling for our clothes. I pop into the loo and yank off the condom that has to contain my biggest load to date. When I stride out, Sloan approaches.
“What are you doing?” I ask, glancing down at her fully dressed state.
“I need a minute!” she snaps, moving toward the loo. “Just go down and stall!”
I shake my head and slide back into my jeans, still feeling semen seep out of my tip and into the denim. The texture is bone-chilling, but I’ll probably be leaking for days after that epic fuck. I yank my shirt down over my head and make my way downstairs, barefoot, trembling, and exhilarated beyond belief.
Euphoria overcomes me as I swing open the door just as Tanner strides up the steps with bags in hand. A curvy, dark-haired woman stands beside him, frowning at something behind me in the house.
“Tanner!” My voice booms, deep and throaty, maybe even a bit hoarse from all the dirty talk I just did. I nervously smooth my hair and adjust my shirt over my groin as my eyes dart back and forth between him and the entryway behind me, unsure what the fuck Sloan is doing. I cough out an uncomfortable noise and say, “Surprised to see you tonight.”
The girl frowns at Tanner. “Didn’t you tell him you decided to come early?”
Tanner shrugs. “Didn’t occur to me.”
The girl looks like she’s about to apologise for my brother’s rudeness when Sloan’s hand touches my arm to move me out of her way to exit. The sensation is like needles.
“It’s fine. We’re all done here,” she states, smooth and confident, like she didn’t dominate me upstairs five minutes ago. She throws an empty garment bag over her shoulder and smiles.
“Who’s this?” Tanner smirks, amazement on his face.
“This is no one,” I answer quickly, wanting to knock the look off his face before Sloan bolts. Her eyes look to mine with barely contained fury. “I mean, she’s someone, but…Sloan is my personal shopper.”
“Personal shopper?” Tanner’s curious tone gets right up my nose.
“I prefer celebrity fashion stylist,” Sloan corrects, her tone crisp and unforgiving as she moves past us. I stare wistfully at her retreating frame, hating that whatever just happened has ended so abruptly. “And I really need to be going. I only did this late call as a favour. Good luck at your event tomorrow, Mr. Harris.”
Without a glance back, she strides toward her car. Tanner’s friend frowns as she watches Sloan leave. I wonder if she notices the messy appearance of Sloan’s ponytail.
“Who the fuck was that really?” Tanner asks, placing a hand on my shoulder and waggling his brows at me. “Cam and I thought you were fucking celibate!”
I roll my eyes. I pretty much was until a few minutes ago.
While standing in the kitchen with my brother and Belle—the woman he’s fake dating for the next month to get out of some salacious media scandal—my phone vibrates from where it’s plugged in on the counter. The two of them are busy making googly eyes at each other, so I unlock it and read the text that came in.
Sloan: That WILL NOT be happening again. Ever.
My brow furrows, disappointment clouding my buzz. Begrudgingly, I type back.
Me: You’re the boss.
And a fine boss at that.
IT’S BEEN SIX MONTHS SINCE I slept with Gareth Harris. Since that one, shining, life-altering moment of pleasure, I have moved to a little place called Hell.
It’s hot in Hell. And cold. Hot and cold. Not warm. Not simmering. Not even room temperature. Just all hot or all cold. That is how my life has been the past several months of dealing with lawyers and Cal…and Cal’s mother.
Now I find myself staring across the boardroom table at them, finally ready to sign the documents for my new life as a part-time mom.
Callum’s mother, Margaret, sits dutifully beside him with her tiny hands in her tiny lap. The pair of them look like strangers to me. Sure I recognise Margaret’s blonde-dyed bob and her affection for beige draped fashion. And Cal sits there with the same smug look on his face, wearing a suit he probably doesn’t remember I bought for him. But other than slight facial recognition, I don’t know this family at all.
I was married to Cal for six years. We lived together in Chicago for three years, then Manchester for another three. I drove Sophia out to the Lake District to see Margaret every Sunday. I’ve never particularly cared for Margaret, though. She’s posh and prim and likes to make backhanded comments about my clothing selection every time I see her. To say she’s not a fan of mine is a huge understatement. But, miraculously, this divorce has made her impression of me even worse. Now she stares back at me like I’m a disgruntled member of her staff.
My how quickly things have changed.
Cal’s lawyer speaks first while pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher in front of him. “With Margaret Coleridge’s terminal illness, my client is requiring a fifty-fifty custody split. One week on and one week off with every Sunday being dedicated to a visit with Margaret in the Lake District regardless of whose week it is.”
I want to scoff. I want to scream. I want to cry. Cal’s mother has lung cancer. A cancer she could fight but opted not to because she doesn’t want to lose her hair. That’s why we moved to England in the first place. Because Cal’s mother is dying. Because Cal wanted to be near her for her final months. Here we sit, three years later, and the woman is still alive and still controlling all of us.
My lawyer leans over and whispers into my ear. “I know this hurts. Just remember that Sophia’s inheritance is contingent on this, and it’s all temporary.” Translation: Once the seemingly immortal Margaret finally does kick the bucket, we can attempt to renegotiate the custody agreement.
My divorce from Cal has taken six months to finalise because I refused to agree to the true fifty-fifty split. I wanted Cal to take every other weekend like most absentee fathers, but his mother was in his ear. When she threatened to take Sophia’s trust fund away, it took ten billable hours for my lawyer to get me to submit.
Money is a horrible reason to agree to these terms, but I know what it’s like to work a job that isn’t your true passion. Ultimately, the trust fund will give Sophia opportunities that I never had. It will give her control of her own life. Something I still don’t freaking have.
Cal’s lawyer takes a sip of water and continues, “Callum Coleridge will maintain residence at the Coleridge Estate on Rossmill Lane—”
My
lawyer interjects, “And my client has secured a residence a few blocks over on Weygates Drive. She is renting the guest house to her business partner, who has cleared all background checks as you requested.”
When Margaret’s mouth pinches a fraction of an inch more, it takes everything I have not to jump across the table and claw her eyes out. What no one is saying is that I had to lease out the guest house because it was the only way I could afford to live in the same area as my child. Granted, Freya is a friend, not just a colleague. And the fact that my home has a guest house means it’s by no means a shack.
But this is what it takes. Back when I signed the prenup with Cal, I didn’t want or need his money. My mother yelled at me for not negotiating for something, and now I realise she was right. Our move to Manchester put us in a neighbourhood and a lifestyle very different from what we had in Chicago. Since I refuse to be more than a stone’s throw away from Sophia, I’m doing whatever it takes to make her life as unaffected as possible.
My lawyer continues, “And you still agree that Ms. Montgomery will be first on the call list for any emergencies.”
Cal’s lawyer leans in to whisper in his ear. The two nod before he replies, “That is correct.”
Margaret clears her throat and Cal puts a worried arm around her. “Do you need some water, Mother?”
She nods and he hurries to pour her a glass, sloshing some on the table nervously as he does.
Where was this person when Sophia was sick? Why wasn’t he this devoted during our times at the hospitals? Is it the inheritance he will receive when she finally dies that makes him oh-so attentive? If I had money, would he have cared more about Sophia’s well-being? Does Margaret realise how uninvolved her son was during all those dark months we spent in and out of hospitals?
I bite my tongue as the lawyer moves on even though all I want to do is cry over the thought of being apart from Sophia for seven days straight. This entire situation is inhumane. It’s indecent. This is not how a family is supposed to be. We should have access to each other whenever we want. Not only on our designated days.
“Very well then,” Cal’s lawyer states. “I believe we’re settled on all the other terms. All we need to do is sign.”
