And now,I can’t stop thinking about her on her knees.
I can’t stop thinking about her soft, sweet moans. I can’t stop thinking about the way she didn’t even hesitate—she just took me in deeper, like her mouth was made to accept my cock. Most of all, I can’t stop thinking about those eyes.
ThoseFuck Me Up, Sireyes.
ThoseDo Your Worst, Sireyes.
ThoseGive Me What I Need, Sireyes.
I can’t stop thinking about how perfect it would be to make her mine.
I curl my fingers, nails digging into the pliable rubbery fabric coating the door handle. I want to rip it apart. I want to hear the fabric whine. I want to yank it from its home.I want to destroy it like I’ve destroyed all the progress I’ve made.
I haven’t let my dominant side out to play in years.Years. Except for that one night, that one fucked up night I swore I wouldn’t repeat again. And now it’s chasing me like an animal. This feeling is like snorting cocaine, following it with an energy drink, and then biting down on a live grenade and pulling the pin.
Fuck.
Goddammit.
Shit.
I want Dove to slap me. I want her to get me on my knees. I want her to tell me I’m her good boy. I want her to control me, because right now, if I’ve proven anything tonight, it’s this:
I can’t control myself.
Not around Dove, anyway.
I made that clear the second I flooded her mouth with pleasure and grabbed her by the back of her head to finish itmy way.
I could leave. Should leave. Politely bow out. Tell her I’ve had a great evening, go home, masturbate as many times as my dick can handle until I pass out?—
“You know I was an art student in a previous life,” Dove continues. “I could touch up your ugly owl for you.”
A wry grin slips over my mouth. I push my hand down my thigh, ironing out a wrinkle in the pants. “Look at you, touching up all my terrible mistakes.”
Dove turns her head towards the window. The city lights flash across her face, tones of yellow and blue.
“I think that’s part of getting older,” she says.
“What? Watching yourself make the same mistakes over and over again?”
“No…learning to forgive yourself. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
I have nothing to say to that.
Forgiveness instead of punishment. What a novel idea.
I watch the numbers tick upward on the cabbie’s meter. The cabbie keeps his eyes on the road. Cabbies are a bit like priests—they’ve heard everything, and they repeat nothing. Code of silence, I guess.
“It’s kind of funny,” Dove says.
“What is?”
“Well…I used to be a submissive. And you used to be a dominant. Look at us now.”
“Would you like to know a secret?” I ask her.
Dove nods.
