“I don’t want tea.” His voice is low and touched with darkness.
I stand up and walk over to him, looking down at him on the sofa. He sets the paper aside. His thick, muscular thighs are spread wide, and I want to step between them, but that would be crossing boundaries.
“What do you want, Vincent?” I whisper.
I’m not blind. I can see his cock growing harder.
“Mr. Vece, little pet. Don’t make me tell you again.” He warns me and my body throbs with need.
I nod. “Sorry, I - forgot.” I bite my lip, lowering my lashes and trying to look sweet and innocent.
Vincent’s eyes roam my body freely. He clenches his jaw, and I watch his cock grow harder, pressing against the fabric of his pants.
At first, I pretend not to notice, but after a while it’s all I can see. The thick, monstrous outline of it is stretching the fabric and begging to be freed.
Vincent lets out a low chuckle and suddenly loses interest in me. He picks up the newspaper again and continues reading as though I don’t exist.
For fuck sakes.
He isn’t like any man I’ve ever met before.
He is in full control.
Most men I know are weak, pretending to be strong.
Vincent Vece doesn’t have to pretend for a fucking second. He owns this city, and he knows it. He practically owns me, and he knows it. Not that I would let anyone own me.
Of course, I wouldn’t. I’m me. But Iwant him to own me.I want him to devour me in the most dark and delicious ways.
Letting out a small huff of frustration I return to the sofa and pick up my phone again to play and try to distract myself.
I can see the grin traced over his lips.
He is in control.
And I have to learn to be patient.
He’s going to fuck me. But he’s making me wait and I’m dying because of it.
The more I watch and wait the more certain I become that this is a BDSM game.
The taunting, the control, the power he has over me I want to deny - but can’t.
I grin as I flick through the stupid reels I’m not even watching, because I’m watching him.
The longer he makes me wait - the more of my attention he grabs, and he knows it.
It’s early evening and I’m reading a book, lying on my bed, and enjoying not being driven crazy by that man. Even though the pulse of desire never seems to quieten. It won’t. Not until he gives my body what it’s craving so desperately.
The house smells of roast lamb, rich gravy, and vegetables. The chef is almost done cooking. I hardly see him at all. He arrives, cooks, and leaves making no sound at all. It’s strange - as though the food just appears out of nowhere.
Vincent went out for a bit - a meeting or something - he doesn’t really tell me what’s going on. It’s part of the game, I think.
I hear footsteps coming down the passage, but I assume it’s the housekeeper.
Instead, Vincent arrives in the empty doorframe of my bedroom. I sit up quickly, alert, and eager to hear what he wants.
“Pour me a whisky, my pet. And one for yourself.” Then he disappears, hardly looking at me.
