Page 59 of Valentine's Slave

“Do you remember when Emilia died?” he asks.

Great way to start a conversation.

“Get to the point, Marco,” I snap. I’m not into these games. I just want to fuck Ava senseless and not think about anything else.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock notes. “Is it because of her, or is it because of your expectations of yourself?”

He’s good, practically a mind reader.

“I don’t have time for your games,” I say. I have my own games to start planning, since I plan to make good use of every inch of Ava’s body until the contract runs out. Making her writhe and scream in pleasure will distract me from thinking about how I’d like to make her scream every single night, not just the seven nights that I’ve bought her for. Fucking her even harder will ease the fury I have at myself for letting her soft spots infiltrate my being. I don’t need her. I never have, and I never will.

“I know you’re going to hang up.” Marco reads my mind. “But when you do, just remember this—everything happens for a reason. It’s the basis of stoic teaching, and it’s what got you through your darkest moments. The death of your family couldn’t break you, so don’t let the death of your old self be the thing that pulls you under. Remember, the choice is always yours, to run or be dragged.”

Something hardens inside of me, and I chuckle, Marco seems to think my ‘old self’—my happy, independent self—is dying. Maybe he suspects or wants me to fall for Ava. He’s probably just hoping for grandchildren, or at least a woman in the family.

“Point taken.” My voice is back to the calm that it should be, and I get a grasp of my emotions.

“I believe tonight, is your last night with her, is it not?” Marco asks.

I just grunt in response.

“Let me leave you with the words of Marcus Aurelius, 'Love only what befalls you and is spun for you by fate'.”

“Goodbye, Marco.”

“Valentino.” His voice is measured, and I pause, waiting for his response. “Have you written in the journal?”

I pause. “No.”

He sighs. “Goodbye, Valentino.”

When he’s gone, I walk into my study and grab the journal the second desk drawer where I’ve left it, untouched. I feel things now. I don’t need a book to show me that. Slamming the drawer shut, I turn away and walk out of the room. It’s time to say goodbye to Ava, in the dirtiest way possible.

* * *

Ava comes home early. I knew she never wanted to leave in the first place, and I practically pushed her out the door this morning. If I’m in danger of getting too strung up in particular warm, fuzzy feelings, my little minx is already wrapped up tighter than I’ll have her later on, wearing nothing but certain metal adornments.

I’m dressed dress pants and a black dress shirt, half unbuttoned, but Ava doesn’t get the luxury of so much clothing. She smirks when she sees me. Her nails feature a new, fresh shade of black, and it looks like she went and got her hair done. Her makeup is subtle and smoky. She’s a walking dream—a dream that will soon be on her knees, moaning my name. She’s not getting any softness from me tonight, and I hold back from telling her how stunning she is.

“Your slave uniform is on the bed.” I keep my face even, and she looks at me with challenge in her eyes, roving my face for something deeper.

“YesMaster.” She still refuses to say the word with subservience, but I’ll take it out on her bratty ass later. It’s the last time she’s mine to spank, and I’ll make it worth my while.

At the beginning of this week, she seemed to feel insecure of skimpy outfits that left her so exposed, but she’s come a long way. She seems much more comfortable now being naked, fucking with the lights on, not making a face when I call her beautiful—not that I’ll be doing any of that tonight. And when she comes to me in the dungeon ten minutes later, the air leaves my lungs.

She’s wearing black fishnet leggings with the Valentines lingerie I bought her after our changeroom escapade. The black ribbon wraps around her chest, across her nipples, criss-crossing at her back and descending down the front of her hips, coming together at her pussy, covered by a pink heart, connected at the back with a black G-string. She’s perfect, scrumptious and oh so fuckable.

I walk up to her, running my fingers down the skin of her hip, up the curve of her neck, tilting her face up to mine.

“Are you going to be a good little slave tonight?”

Instead of replying, she stretches up onto her toes, trying to kiss me.

My fingers close like visors around her neck, holding her in place, not letting her come any closer, if she doesn’t want to choke. But I have a feeling that maybe she does, despite her initial hesitance. I’ll have some fun with that later.

I take the opportunity to stare down at her, eyes unblinking, waiting for her answer.

“No.” Her voice squeaks out, and I can tell she’s feeling a mix of playful and nervous, anxious perhaps, that it’s our last night. She’s also terribly horny, and she can’t hide it.

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