Page 23 of The Southern Submission

“Help yourself.”

I pick up an olive and pop it into my mouth before creating a sandwich, not waiting for her to make up her mind if she’s going to join me. I take a bite and will myself to ignore her as she gets up and makes her way over to me, wearing her button-down shirt over her bikini, the middle open so I can see her perky, palm-sized tits bounce with each step, the ends of the shirt hitting her high on the thighs, not doing much toact as a poolside cover-up and giving me plenty to look at. I blink at the beautiful sight and go back to eating so I don’t end up needing to adjust my hardening cock in front of her.

She sits on the other side of the lounger, grabs a water bottle, untwists the cap, and takes a drink. She pops a chocolate truffle in her mouth as she inspects the charcuterie spread and begins to build her own sandwich.

“What, no comment about eating dessert first?” she asks wryly, grabbing another truffle and eating it in between words.

“None at all. I call that a dessert-itizer. You’re smart to start with the sweetest bite so you’re sure to enjoy it before you get full off the main meal.” I resolutely keep my attention on my own food, grabbing a fork and turning to my pasta salad while she quietly stews next to me as I eat. I’m just happy to see her eating what I’ve prepared, letting me take care of her in this small way.

I keep her guessing the rest of the day. We eat, swim, and take my sailboat around the lake for a few hours. Not once do I touch her. I don't slip sex into the conversation. I don't flirt. She’s on edge by the time we’re driving back to Atlanta, shoulders slightly sunburnt, and tired from spending the day outside.

“What are you doing?” she snaps when we’re nearly back to the city.

“What do you mean?” I ask, keeping my attention on the road, but I can see her arms are crossed and she’s staring at my profile. It’s cute watching her work out this change.

“You’re not flirting. You’re acting like a normal human. You haven’t touched me since we got out of the lake.” She ticks off her accusations on her fingers. “What are you up to?”

I spare her a glance before returning my attention to the road. “I’m respecting your boundaries. You wanted me to stop,so I have.”

“Is this another way to mess with my head because you’re a master manipulator? You changed it up to keep me guessing?”

“You give me too much credit. Thank you for thinking me devious enough to execute that successfully with you,” I say sincerely.

“That’s it? You’re just going to…stop? It’s that easy? Why didn’t you stop the other times I asked?”

“You actually meant it this time, and I told you I’d show you I’ll respect your boundaries. I’m a man of my word, and even though I really enjoy flirting with you, I’m doing as you asked. Don't you like it better this way? It’s what you wanted, after all.” I keep my eyes ahead, but I feel her processing this information, warring with her natural distrust.

“So if I flirted with you, or touched you, you wouldn’t do anything back?”

“Do you want to flirt with and touch me?”

“Of course not. I was asking about your response. Like, if I put my hand on your thigh right now, or turned the tables and started talking like you’ve been, you’d respect my boundaries?”

“Oh, little Spitfire, make no mistake. That’s not at all what I’m saying,” I tell her, glancing over quickly and catching a calculating look on her face, wishing I could see beneath her sunglasses. “If you initiate, I’ll follow your signals, but I won't follow for long. I’ll take control and then we’ll see what you’re hiding under that hostility and anger and how fun you can be.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. Why can’t I torture you the same way you’ve been driving me insane the last twenty-four hours? I should be able to get payback, right? You need to know how annoying you are and how awful it is to have someone not only pick you apart but not listen when you beg them to stop.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat and glance her way again,debating if I give her what she’s asking for or not. Honestyisthe best policy in the early stages of any relationship, I guess, and strong communication will be the only way we make this work.

“You are torturing me. It’s pretty fucking hard not to flirt with you when that’s my default. It sucks not touching you when I want because I like how you feel under my hands and despite what you say, your body’s reactions tell me you enjoy it when I touch you, too. I read people, so not calling out everything I see that you blatantly ignore is driving me crazy.”

I glance her way, seeing her attention riveted on me, her thighs pressed together like she can feel my words on her skin even if my hands aren’t. She’s definitely a words girl, and mine are doing it for her. I return my attention back to the road, but I lower my voice and slow my cadence, aware it’ll get to her even more.

“It’s absolutely excruciating knowing I can use a certain tone, say a few dirty words, look at you a certain way, and you’d be rubbing your thighs together for me, looking for something only I can give you, but I have to keep that locked up when I'm certain it would feel so fucking good for both of us to play.”

I rub a palm down my face instead of reaching for her thigh like I want to. I drop my hand to my shorts, where my cock is making a valiant effort to strain against the bonds of the fabric in this position, and adjust myself for her to see.

“Is that what you want, Ainsley? For me to suffer as long as you want me to because I’m willing to respect your boundaries?”

“How do you manage to infuse sex into an answer like that?” she asks, her voice husky and tremulous, unable to take her eyes off my cock. My body. Me.

Yes, Princess, look at Daddy and see what you do to me. Wantme and everything I can give you. Trust me to take care of you.

“It’s a talent of mine,” I muse, focusing again on the road.

She clears her throat and shifts in her seat, leaving the conversation there. I swallow and settle myself the fuck down. There’s no need to get us worked up over nothing. She has boundaries and I’m perfectly fine staying on my side of them, even if I have no problem telling her how I feel about it. I change the subject, wanting to know more about her if I can’t have her the way I really want to.

“Tell me about Charleston and your family. Do they still live there?”

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