Page 254 of Bad for Me

I notice the small shudder that goes through him when I call him that. If nothing else, he gets off on being demeaned and degraded. That much is genuine.

Misha steps closer again, and this time when he leans in to kiss me, he darts his tongue out to run along the seam of my mouth. It’s an almost tentative request to deepen the kiss.

I part my lips, refusing to groan, refusing to encourage him in any other way until he properly earns it, and his tongue plunges into my mouth. I grab the back of his head and pull him closer, inviting him to do more.

His body flexes like he wants to move his bound hands, and his mouth opens more. This time, he invites me in, and I take full advantage of it, hungrily exploring his mouth with my tongue. My hands slide down his body, down to his full ass, and I squeeze hard.

Misha sighs against my mouth, breathing as hard as if we’d just fucked. It’s strange, because neither of us is even semi-erect, but I still welcome it.

His eyes flutter open. His lips have a slight shimmer of saliva on them, and I’m tempted to rub it away.

Then he says, “Is that enough to earn me my hands?”

It breaks the mood, souring it even, and I stare at him for a moment as I fight back the inexplicablehurtthat runs through me. Right. He’s here as a slave, nothing more. He’s just a pet. Just a toy.

Just a slut.

“For now,” I grunt, forcing myself to seem as unaffected as I can. I unbind his wrists, though I leave the leash and collar on. “You can keep me company for a little while,” I say. “Or you can sleep.”

I know I should be bending him over the bed to fuck him. That’s what my father and brother would be doing, if Misha were female.

But I’m not in the mood after the morning I’ve had.

Misha shrugs, like he doesn’t care either way. “Sleep.” He takes a step toward the bed, but I tug on the leash.

“No. You definitely haven’t earned the bed yet.” I lead him toward the small couch. Grabbing a small tray from nearby, I set a magazine on top of it and rummage through a box until I find a pencil. Then, I sit down and pat my lap. “You can stretch out with your head here.”

Misha bristles, but apparently he wants that nap more than he wants to fight me. He awkwardly gets onto the couch and rests his head on my lap.

I arrange the tray to where I can still reach it around him, opening the magazine to a new page and starting to read the puzzle in front of me. It’s surprisingly nice. Usually when I do these logic puzzles, I’m all alone, and it’s a little embarrassing to admit what I get up to when I’m not working.

But with Misha here, it almost feels like something more adult than it is.

I alternate between making notes for the puzzle and stroking Misha’s hair. The tension in his muscles slowly eases as he relaxes for me. His eyes close, and I hear his breathing even out.

I smile when I realize he’s fallen asleep. Apparently even big, defiant men need a break now and again.

I continue to work on my logic puzzle in silence, losing myself to it. It’s nice and relaxing, and I’m switching to work on the third one when Misha suddenly says, “You got number three wrong.”

I pause, confused, until I realize he’s looking at the puzzle on the back of the folded over magazine. I turn it around and stare at it. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You completely skipped over the second clue. Look, the fifth statement doesn’t match up anymore,” Misha argues.

I reread the fifth statement and compare it to my answers, frowning when I realize he’s right. I erase the assumption I’d made, but instead of being irritated by being corrected, I’m a little fascinated despite myself. “You do logic puzzles?” I set the pencil down so I can gaze at him.

He sits up, and I pull him close to myself, feeling strangely possessive.

“Sure. They’re fun.” Misha rolls his shoulders. “And if you screw up, you just erase it and do it over.”

He makes it sound so easy, and maybe it is. It’s such a low-stakes thing. These games are nothing like real life, where every decision is the end-all, be-all, and there’s no going back.

Like setting people free when I know better; like resigning children to a life of slavery when I know what sorts of people and things they’ll face.

“Okay, then tell me what the answer to this one is,” I challenge him, showing him a different half-completed puzzle I’d gotten stuck on a few days ago.

Misha starts reading the puzzle clues, his brow furrowing adorably. His eyes scan my answers, too, and he nods as if approving of what I’d written.

“You can probably mark off Janet with the blue car,” he says.

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