Page 35 of Watch Me

I’ve met many women who are happy to play games and who agree to a lot of things readily when they’re theoretical, only to balk at the suggestion that they actually be played out in real life.

After talking today, I suspect that this is stuff Zoë would genuinely be interested in, but I have to remember it’s a moot point, anyway. Maybe I’ll never walk her around on a leash or give her away to another man like she was my possession. But Mr. Rivera is enough for right now. I lift one hand to her throat, wrapping it around that tender column until I can feel her pulse beat under my palm, and lean in close, murmuring against her cheek.

“I want you to be a good girl for me right now, Zoë, and do what I tell you to.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivera.”

My cock surges. We just fucked, not half an hour ago, and I’m ready to go again.

“Touch yourself.”

“Yes, Mr. Rivera.”

She lowers a hand between her legs and I let go of her neck, sitting back on my heels to watch her. Her pussy looks swollen and tender, my cum still spilling out of her, but as she strokes one finger down over her clit and shivers, a surging lust rises in me as if for the first time. We’ve fucked four times today already, and I am still absolutely consumed by need for her.

“Spread your knees wider,” I huff. “Let me see your cunt.”

I can’t wait any longer. I wrap a hand around my dick and start stroking.

As she lowers her knees toward the bed, more cum slides out of her—my cum, and I’m going to fill her with it again.

“Tell me how that feels.”

“It feels so good, Mr. Rivera. I’m so wet for you, Mr. Rivera.”

Yes.

“Tell me you want my cock.”

“Please, Mr. Rivera. Please fuck me. I want to come on your big, thick cock.”

“Beg for it.”

“Please.” There’s real urgency in her tone, urgency that makes my dick twitch. “Please fuck me. I need your cock, and I want you to come inside of me.”

I lean forward and slap my dick against the inside of her thigh. I wanted to drag the game out and make it go on for a while, but I can’t. I pin one leg down, dig my fingers into her flesh, and bury my length in her warm, wet hole.

“Fuck!” she gasps.

I pin her other leg down, pushing her knees against the mattress, and slam my cock into her—hard. My impending orgasm is already clouding my vision, oblivion moving in like a gathering storm.

“I’m going to come again,” she whispers, and I groan.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” I choke out as I slam into her, barely clinging to the edge myself.

When I feel the low, quivering pulsation start inside of her, I let myself go, crying out in the darkness of my own spent lust. For one blissful moment, I’m reprieved from guilt and shame. In the black depth of orgasm, where my thundering heart is the only sensory awareness I have left, I’m at peace.

ZOË

WHEN MY MOTHER died, it was the bleakness of her death that saddened me more than the loss of her life. Her death made her too-short life meaningless. She lived an unfulfilled existence, married and pregnant with me before she ever got her shot at becoming a professional dancer, doomed to almost two decades with a man who never loved her the way she deserved. A man who left us and came back, who cheated on her—and then, in the surprise of all surprises, couldn’t live without her, it turned out, and died only two weeks after her, abandoning me again.

What was it all for?

I don’t want to live the same unrealized life. Even though ballet was always more my mother’s dream than mine, I vowed to see it through, to audition for the Regency Ballet Company and to make something of myself.

And I resolved to steer clear of men like my father—cold, distant men, incapable of real intimacy or closeness.

It feels like irony that Tate turned out to be just that, but it’s not, of course. It’s patterns repeating themselves, subconscious patterns I need to be aware of. And now, sitting across the table from his father, I find myself thinking about them again.

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