Page 51 of For Her Own Good

“I know. And that’s what this is. Pretend. Hell, everyone likes to pretend sometimes. And if we’re both on the same page, then it’s okay. We’re not hurting anyone, we’re not coercing anyone. I feel like there’s been pretty explicit consent here.”

The words are coming out of his mouth, and I think he’s trying to encourage me, but it feels a bit as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true too. I can’t exactly blame him for that. It took me a while to tell someone what I wanted, and longer to be at peace with the idea that there’s nothing pathological here, nothing that needs to be psychoanalyzed. We like what we like, and at the end of the day, if it’s all consenting adults and no one is being harmed, then what the fuck is the problem?

“Mmm, yes.”

“So we’ll try it, aye? See how it goes. And if it gets…what’s that word you like? Squidgy?”

“Squicky. Like, squicked out.”

“That. If either one of us gets squicked out, then we’ll stop. Go make some popcorn or something.”

“Yeah, popcorn.”

“But for now?”

“For now…”

I close my eyes and try to get that feeling back, that nervous excitement that used to surround sex. Not the jaded, wary boredom I mostly feel toward it now. It’s not hard with Lowry’s hips pressing my thighs wide—I summon the shyness I would’ve felt at being naked with a man for the first time, a touch of fear because it’s supposed to hurt, and that soul-deep vulnerability that comes with being a sexual woman.

So many expectations, so much pressure. Don’t be easy, but don’t be a tease. Nice girls don’t want to get fucked, but when you get it on, you better be a sex kitten. Maybe that’s part of why I’d like to be coaxed, cajoled. He already has my permission; he already knows I want it. What’s so terrible about putting on a facade of bashful reluctance?

I’ve got doe eyes, I know I do. It’s one of the things I like about my appearance. So I open them wide and bat my lashes while sinking my teeth into my bottom lip.

“I…I’m nervous.”

The click into his role is visible. And sexy as all hell.

“That’s okay. You’re allowed to be nervous, so long as you know I’d never hurt you. There’s a big difference between nervous and scared, isn’t there, sweetheart?”

Oh.

He scoops a hand behind my neck and bends down to kiss at the juncture of my ear and jaw.

“Yes.”

“And are you one and not the other?”

His murmur is soft, as are the kisses he’s planting down my neck, and he’s reduced me to a quivering puddle of Starla jelly. I would give anything to this man.

“Nervous. Not scared. I’m never scared of you.”

“That’s good, sweetheart. I’d never want my—” There’s the briefest pause and my stomach clutches. “I’d never want my little girl to be scared of me. I’m going to take good care of you, make you feel good. Do you trust me?”

Oh my.Sweetheart.Little girl. He’s going to take care of me. I’ve never felt like such a mushy ball of pleasure and arousal in my whole life. It’s confusing, this; I want him to fuck me hard, but also take me in his lap and tell me I’m pretty. We’re making up the rules, though. Who says I can’t have both of those things? Doesn’t sound like it’s going to be Lowry—he’s moved down to my collarbone, kissing and nipping at me, outright licking when he gets to my suprasternal notch.

“Yes, I trust you.”

“Hmm? Who do you trust? Tell me, sweetheart.”

I’m so wet between my legs, I want to squirm until he’s seated deep inside me, but my role is that of the shy ingenue and so far it’s as good as I hoped it would be. Maybe I lied when I said we wouldn’t do this often. It’s really fucking hot, stoking a fire in my belly and making my nipples ache. It’s all I can do to not buck my hips into his, grind myself against him.

“I trust you, Daddy.”

He groans and sinks his teeth into my trap, forcing a squeak from my throat. Also, if I thought I was a quivering puddle before, it had nothing on now. There’s something about saying those words. Out loud. To him. It sets me on fire, burning my own candle until I’m slippery, malleable hot wax. He releases my flesh, and licks where his teeth had sunk into me, loving away the sting. But fuck me, he could do anything other than take a bite out of me and I’d enjoy it. I hope, in fact, that he’s left a mark. An outline of his teeth marking me or a half-moon of bruises that I can pull down my shirt and admire in the days to come.

“That’s a good girl.”

The man is trying to kill me for sure. He said he’d be an amateur, but he’s proving himself willing and eager, and best of all, a quick study. I do want to be his good girl, more than anything.

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