Page 106 of Root

Rush pulls me in firmer against him. The heat is furnace hot and rising against my ass and back and my pussy tingles.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’m being the clingy girl, Jessie.”

I bite down on a laugh. “You’re the girl?”

“I’m not scared of labels, Jessie. I’ll do what it takes to get what I want.” His breath is warm against my ear. “You don’t cling, but I think you want to.”

“You don’t know a thing.”

“I do, I know lots of things,” he says, “Like you’re used to ruling your little corner of the world, taking control over what you can so you don’t get swallowed by things. You’re scared shitless of losing yourself if you lose control. But baby bunny, you’ll never get lost if you’re with me, I won’t let you. I’ll be here, holding you. Like a girl if that’s what you want.”

I close my eyes as his words slide down into my blood. “Not true.”

“Your voice says differently.”

He melts me down into something I don’t recognize.

“You’re hearing things.” Still I don’t move.

“There you go, reaching for control. So I’ll give you that illusion of control, by clinging to you.”

“Like a girl.”

Rush laughs and the rumble moves through me, making me warmer.

“Isn’t that what you want?” He nuzzles me. “What gets you hot? Having me at your mercy?”

It does. It should. But he’s only offering me an illusion. And I like all the games he plays, even though I shouldn’t.

I want him to be cruel, to take me hard. To use me, make me beg. To fight.

That humiliation gets me off.

A mix of real and play. A way to get out unscathed.

Like he promised.

But Rush plays dirty, he peels me open and I hate it. He leaves me naked, vulnerable, bleeding.

“Should I cut off your balls?” I ask.

He bites my ear, then sucks on the lobe, earrings and all. “You’d love that. Actually, I’m shocked you haven’t tried to put me in a pretty taffeta party dress.”

“Taffeta? Who are you?”

“Do I look like I know about fucking girly materials.”

The word yes plays through me, because he’d know how to buy beautiful things for a woman, sensuous material—not taffeta—or something that pleases him like the floral number he put me in.

I try to picture him in lipstick and his mama’s clothes, but can’t. I just don’t think he’s that. However…

No, he’d never let me.

“So you just want my balls?”

“In a jar.”

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