Page 90 of For Real

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I just didn’t think you would.”

Fuck. “Fine. Give it here.”

I strode towards him, making him tilt his head back to meet my eyes. A power game, a pathetic one, but Toby just looked up at me as if he didn’t care and pulled his hand back. “I’ll do it.” His gaze flicked briefly about the room and then settled on his own knees. For a terrible moment, I thought he might have wanted me over his lap, and that might have been too much. I wasn’t sure I could do that for him…or maybe I could… I didn’t know— But then he jerked his head towards the window. “Over the desk again.”

And that, of course, had its own resonances. My body stirred a little under the memory of his touches, and I hesitated, staring at the space where I’d lain before.

Not a word from Toby. Not even an unsteady breath.

In a welter of furious ambivalence, I arranged myself for him, braced again on my elbows, legs spread, though perhaps not far enough. Not enough to seem willing.

Of course, I could have stopped him. I wasn’t restrained. Even if I was. And his little deal was nothing but a smoke screen.

I hated plugs. I hated how they made me feel. Humiliated. Out of control. Weak in the most specific of ways. Nothing like a cock.

I had trained…forced…willed myself to a kind of carelessness for scenes with strangers. I hadn’t given them this, this vulnerability, this fear, this raw shame.

But I gave it all to Toby. Because he wanted it.

There were a thousand ways this could have gone, all of them more or less annihilating. He could have made me beg, he could have made me hold myself open for him. But, instead, he came up behind me and kissed his way down my spine, soft touches that made me tremble and feel almost like weeping again.

Because he was going to do this to me.

Because he had made me want to do it for him.

He slid the thing into me easily enough, everything prepared, and I knew my own body too well to allow it to struggle or resist.

I couldn’t quite hold back a sound of distress, and Toby groaned in answer, deep and rough. Then he helped me up, turned me round, and stared at me, lust-drunk, not so urbane now.

“All right?” he asked, quite serious suddenly.

The plug wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just there, unyieldingly, undeniably there, a constant reminder of Toby, and myself, the things we did, and were, together. Damn him. It was a far-too-stirring thought.

I glared down at him. “Not remotely. I’m manipulated…violated…mortified—”

“Now you’re just trying to turn me on.”

Trying? I followed the hectic flush as it slipped down his throat and under the wing collar of his dress shirt. “Oh, yes. I’m not going to suffer alone.”

“I might’ve”—he choked on an indrawn breath—“misjudged this.”

I gave him what I hoped was a haughty look—well, as haughty a look as a man with a foreign object lodged up his arse could manage. “Live with it, Junior.”

Toby grinned and casually smoothed the breast pocket of his tux.

It must have been where he’d secreted the remote because the fucking plug began to vibrate. I was still a little sensitive, so it was on the edge of pain…but oh God…the good edge, flinging me into an intense, tingling state of full-body awareness. It made my skin dance. My head fell back, and I moaned, surrendering to sensation, to Toby’s will and caprice.

“Shit.” I felt Toby’s eyes upon me. “That seriously didn’t help. You’re not going to do that at dinner are you? Because, Jesus, it’s a little bit When Harry Met Sally.”

“No.” I smiled down at him. “That was just for you.”

He put a hand between his legs. “You fucking bastard. Fuck, you’re hot.”

I was thirty-seven years old and wearing nothing but a butt plug. But there was 1940s film-star Toby, looking about to spontaneously combust from sheer desire. It was probably hysterical, postpubescent hormones, but still, it felt so good. So ridiculously good.

We were running late, of course we were, so I had to dress in something of a rush, which meant several fraught minutes in front of the mirror, my bow tie getting worse and worse and worse as I tried to make it better. Then just make it not awful.

“Dude, what are you doing?” asked Toby, in a tone of profound pity.

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