Page 56 of He Should Be Mine
My blood is pounding. My spirit is surging. My mind is nearly dizzy. I am truly alive for the first time in forever. I don’t behave like this. No adult does. But the joy is inescapable. It’s freeing. Liberating. I think this might be what happiness feels like.
Then his phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
He breaks off, still grinning, and skips over to check it. The smile fades almost instantly. He stares at the screen for just a second too long before locking it. Without a word, he turns and walks toward his bedroom.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, trying not to sound as tense as I feel.
I was just having the most fun I think I have ever had, and now it is all crashing down around me.
Molly flashes me a too-bright smile over his shoulder. “Everything is just fine, Duckling. Bossman just wants a photo.”
He disappears into his room and shuts the door. I stand frozen, the tea towel limp in my hand.
Duckling.
He’s never called me that before. It’s new. Soft. Strange. Personal. More real than Sugar. Warmer than Daddy. It feels like I’ve earned something.
And I hate that I don’t deserve it. Not yet. I hate that he’s behind that door. Doing things for Riccardo. Things he should be doing for me, and only me.
But I can only wait. Wait, and plan.
Just as I’m starting to believe my mantra of,maybe he won’t come tonight,the front door beeps softly.
My heart sinks. He doesn’t come every night, far from it, so it wasn’t entirely stupid to hope. But now that my fragile hope has been crushed, it’s devastating.
Molly leaps off the sofa and smooths his stupidly short skirt. Running his hands over his hips. Drawing attention to them. Forcing my gaze to drop down to the flash of exposed skin between the hem of the skirt and the top of his thigh-high socks.
When he is mine, I’m going to ask him to wear this outfit all the time. I’ll buy him short skirts in all the colors. With thigh-high socks to match. Silky ones.
Riccardo strides into our living area, holding up a pair of handcuffs. There is a riding crop in his other hand.
Molly sashays over to him. He holds up his joined wrists in supplication.
“But, Daddy, I’ve been such a good boy,” he purrs.
My jaw is clenching so hard I’m going to break a tooth. Maybe that would be a good thing. The pain would be a simple thing. Cleansing and purging. A form of self-flagellation. A penance.
Riccardo’s green eyes are glowing. The smirk on his face is obscene. He snaps the handcuffs onto Molly’s slender wrists. The ratchet sound of them tightening nearly makes me vomit.
Riccardo yanks Molly towards him, pressing their bodies together. His hand lifts and he swats the riding crop across Molly’s ass. Hard. Far too hard. Molly yelps and jolts.
Suddenly, I’m on my feet. I’m taking the three strides across the living room to stand right in front of Riccardo.
“Do you know what you are doing?”
It’s the wrong thing to say, and I didn’t mean to say it at all. But it’s too late. It’s always too fucking late.
Riccardo glares at me. Rage swirls in his eyes. He pushes Molly roughly aside.
“What the fuck did you say to me?” he spits.
I lick my dry lips. “Just wondering if you knew how to do all that BDSM stuff.”
His face flushes with his growing anger. “Are you calling me stupid? Are you challenging my authority?”
I see it now, in the brightness of his eyes, in the sweat on his brow. He is high on something. Fuck. He is going to be even more unreasonable than usual.
“Of course not, Boss,” I say, holding my hands up in a placating gesture.
