Page 20 of Red Flag Bull

As I see it, I can either play along and see where it takes me, or Jason King walks out of my life. Maybe I’ll see him in another nineteen years. If I’m lucky. If I last that long.

“I think you want me to fuck your jacket, and if you have to ask a second time, I’ll be sorry,” I say with a gulp. If he wants to humiliate me, I can’t deny that I deserve it.

I unbutton my jeans and push them down.

I could say no, of course. No is a valid option. It’s not one Jason King always accepts, but that’s what our safe word was for. Not that I’ve ever had to use the buzzkill phrase Dingle-hammer the way it was meant to be used. He always knew where to draw the line for me.

It’s himself he always pushed too far.

I leave my jeans around my ankles, so I don’t have to remove my boots, and take off his jacket. I turn it one way and then the other, trying to figure out how best to fuck it.

The leather is thick, and firmer where it’s padded. There are harder sections that must be plated for protection, in case he falls off his bike. That armoring is probably the most fuckable. Grind-able, at least. Especially the bigger sections over the shoulders. And the spine protection is almost segmented, offering some smooth ridging that may feel pretty good.

I bundle the jacket, to keep the spinal armor on the outside, and then I lower to the ground with it between my legs. The leather is cool at first, but it soon warms with my heat, and when I look up to meet Jason’s gaze, the leather gets slicker and easier to slide against.

His full attention is on me, the way it used to be, and that level of investment is the best aphrodisiac I know. Nobody can hyper-focus like Jason King, but he doesn’t use his gifts on just anyone or anything. To be the subject of his scrutiny is to know you are interesting or important and definitely not a pointless waste of time, even if everyone else is sure you are, and in your heart, you’ve always believed they were right.

He lifts his chin a fraction, and I speed up, chasing the pleasure that’s beginning to unfurl inside me. His jacket will reek of my appreciation for him when I’m done, and when I think about him wearing it…

My clit throbs with desire, and my hard nipples tingle against my thin sweater. A whole new level of fear sends my blood rushing through my veins. My quick decision to obey Jason has come back to bite me in the ass. Or rather, the breasts.

Sometimes my tits leak when I’m ready to come, and I’m an idiot for being too swept up by this warped, dangling pleasure. This isn’t how I wanted him to find out I’m fucking lactating. I should have expressed while I was waiting by his bike, but I fell asleep. What will he think of me?

My movements slow, as the panic sets in, and I shiver when a gust of cool wind whips the soaked fabric of my sweater against my skin.

I’ve made some bad choices for all the wrong reasons, and I won’t be able to hide from him much longer when I’m wearing giant, wet badges of dishonor on my chest.

How disappointed will he be in me? So far tonight, he’s allowed me to walk around the outer edge of his boundaries — he’s testing me, but I don’t know if it’s punishment or considering the idea of opening the gates and letting me back in. He might seal those gates shut when I explain my shameful fucking existence. Will he walk away? Write me off as that terrible investment he made all those years ago? Leave me alone with my fucking demons, until they slay me? It’s what I deserve, I suppose.

“Did I say stop, Amanda?” he asks.

I swallow hard and lift my gaze to him. He’s still keeping his distance, and it’s too dark for him to be able to see the wet patches blooming on my sweater. Maybe I’ll be able to hide the truth until there’s a better time to share it. Maybe I can please him enough to gain his favor, so that when the time comes, he’ll see how badly I need him and take pity on me. Like he did that first time.

I start to move again, sliding easily over the slippery mess I’ve made on his jacket. If this is the closest Jason will ever let me get, I’m going to make the most of it.

I wrestle with the balled jacket to extract the collar and mark it with my scent where it’ll be closest to his nose, and then I tug each of the sleeves from the mound of leather I’ve mounted. I want him to smell me if he brings his hand near his face, too. I drag one cuff through my slick, and then bunch the other cuff and push the stiff leather inside me before I ride myself into a panting, shivering state, where I can feel the closeness of relief. I thrust at the cuff inside me and grind faster, eager to reach orgasm and soak his sexy jacket for him.

Will he wear it smeared with my mark?

“Stop,” he commands.

I do my best to obey, but I forgot how hard it is to keep still at the edge of climax. My legs won’t stop shaking. In fact, my whole body is trembling, and now that I’m not caught up in base desires and need, I’m aware of the night’s chill again. It’s eating into my bones.

“Get dressed,” he says in the same tone. “You’re too cold.”

“I’m not.” I ignore the soaked, cloying fabric over my breasts that’s making me a liar, and tense to control the shivering. I do my best to cling to my fading orgasm, desperate to rekindle both the sensation and the warmth it provided.

My teeth chatter when I don’t clench my jaw, and Jason folds his arms.

He’s given his instructions.

I get to my feet with a whimper, and his leather sleeve slips from my pussy, to replace my pleasure with a cold, gaping emptiness.

“Jeans,” he orders.

I pull them up, keeping my gaze trained low. Only Jason can make a punishment sound like a kindness. This is orgasm denial, masked as concern for my well-being.

“Jacket.”

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