Page 71 of Red Flag
My voice raised. “This is insane. You play this nice guy, but then you fuck around! Replying to rude tweets with insults, purposely getting photographed with women when you’re meant to be committed to Clara, posting about porn!”
“I corrected their grammar and reminded them my first language was French! Stop trying to make me boring,” he cried, head thrown back, accent strong, more nasally than usual. “I’m fucking sick of it.”
“I’m not trying to make you boring!” I shouted, tea on the side. “We just need to reign in some things.”
He held the counter tightly behind him with both hands. “I overthink every interaction with every fan I have. Every picture I like. Just because you despise me, it doesn’t mean everyone else does.”
“I don’t despise you!”
He breathed in deeply. “You do.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes remained narrowed on mine. The anger was thrumming in my hands, pulsating in my throat, my chest rising quickly with the urge to prove him wrong.
“I don’t despise you,” I said, standing straight and closer to him, chest to chest. “I really, really don’t despise you. The tweet was funny. TheJustGroupiesthing is… we have totake your image one step at a time. We can work around it. You can back out of it.” When he only looked at me with confused, narrowed eyes, I said, “I want to show the world the best version of you, the one you try to hide, that’s all. But I definitely don’t despise you. I actually quite like you even when you purposely piss me off.”
“Yeah?” he asked again, but this time with a lopsided smile that weakened my knees.
“Yeah,” I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Don’t brag about it though. I like you for your modesty.”
His grin grew even bigger. “With some things, you’re right…” he started, cupping my elbows and keeping me close. “About me. About who I should be, about what I show people of myself.”
I nodded. “I’m right with all things, but yes, continue.”
“How about…” he said as he gripped my waist under his jumper, “you control my life off the track, and, for the most part, I’ll be good. I’ll listen to everything you say, all of your reasons.” He looked up, blue eyes piercing mine. “And in the bedroom, you can take a break from all of those decisions and I take control. You’ll do as you’re told.” His voice lowered. “I’ll be yourmaître.”
“As in you’ll be mydom?”
He nodded, breath in my ear. “Maîtremeans master.”
I pressed my thighs closer together, not conscious of my tongue swiping my bottom lip until I noticed his eyes latching onto it, his own mouth slightly parted.
Yes.
Yes, sir. Yes, daddy. Whatever he wanted to be called. Yes, Nixon. Yes,Armas. Yes,Three-Time-StormSprint-Champion.Yes, maître.
“And will mymaîtrefuck me hard? Rough?” I whispered and ran my hand down his chiselled chest, slowly descending to his boxers.
“Mmm,” he moaned deep in his throat. “However you want. Whether it’s slow missionary or face suffocated in the pillow doggy-style or tied down, begging—”
“Please,” I begged, looking up into those blue, blue eyes as my finger dived into his waistband. “Please.”
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered, stepping back. His voice turned serious, dark and deep. I wanted it to groan my name.
My fingers trembled with desire as I unbuttoned my shorts. His eyes were fixed on my movement. I peeled them off, threw off his jumper, unclasped my bra and stood there in his low-lit kitchen, nearly naked.
He sat back in the armchair of the open-plan dining room and kitchen, eyes eating me up like a starved man. Wherever his gaze touched, my skin heated.
Naked in front of any man before, I felt self-conscious. But the way he looked at me… it was only with desire. Lust. Need.
“We’ll still argue,” he explained, stroking his hard cock over his boxers. “But we won’t let it impact this.Thisis far more important.”
