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"It was a long time ago.” I glance away, not wanting her to see how her words disturb me, yet are so healing. How can she see me so clearly? How can she read what my subconscious has been trying to signal to me for years, when it never occurred to me? How can she know me so well in such a short time?
Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. She lays her fork and knife on the island, then slips off the stool and walks around to stand between my legs. "I’m sorry."
Her sweet voice is like a steady rain that wears down the barriers I’ve placed around my heart. How could I have let her get this close to me? Why is it I'm unable to walk away from her, knowing I’m setting myself up for a fall? I can’t...
I can’t bear to think of a time when she leaves me. And she will. One day, she’ll wake up and realize she could do much better than me. She’ll leave me, and I won’t be able to go on. It’s bad enough that I’m in love with her. I can’t let this passion for her turn into an obsession. I cannot allow her to get any closer. I cannot get more invested in this relationship. That would hurt her, and me, more.
When she cups my cheek, my entire body seems to leap to attention. My fingertips tingle, but I resist the urge to reach out and touch her. Instead, bastard that I am, I lock up my emotions once more in that deep, dark place inside. And in an attempt to deflect her from showing more compassion for me—which would be my downfall—I twist my lips.
"Aren’t you going to kiss me and make it better?"
She rises on tiptoe and presses her mouth to mine. It’s sweet and honeyed and tentative. And it’s so right... And so wrong.
I don’t want her love and sympathy and tenderness right now. What I want is lust and avarice and the need to feel her skin on mine. I want to treat her like the submissive she is. I want to bury myself inside her tight holes, so it drowns out all other thoughts in my head.
My muscles tighten, and when she licks my lips, it’s like a signal to my body. I grab her hips and spring to my feet. She gasps, begins to pull back, but I hitch her up. She instantly wraps her thick legs around my waist. Her bare pussy pushes into my crotch. I can feel the heat of her center through my sweatpants, and all of the blood drains to my groin. I lean into her and cover her mouth with mine.
I want her so distracted she forgets to feel sorry for me. I want her so filled with endorphins from the orgasms I’m going to wring from her that she’ll forget to look at me with sympathy. I don’t want her concern, or her warmth, or her gentleness. I don’t want her to learn any more of my secrets. I don't want her understanding. I want to reduce our connection to that of a Dom and sub. I want her to see me as someone who awakened her body to the pleasures of BDSM, and nothing more. I want to distill our relationship to purely the physical, so when I leave her, while she’ll be upset, but she’ll be able to move on.
A tightness grips my chest at the thought.
I’ll awaken her desires, and she’ll, no doubt, seek another Dominant. Another lover who’ll take advantage of her lush body and her giving nature. The thought sends a ripple of anger up my spine. It’s going to be difficult to let her go, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For now, I’ll focus on her mouth, her body, the curve of her hips, the way she melts into me. For now, I’ll focus on her pain and her pleasure.
41
Vivian
He nibbles on my lower lip, and when my lips part, he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. He deepens the kiss, until I melt into him.
He sucks on my tongue, and draws from me, until I whine and press myself closer. Then he slows the kiss. "Remember our wedding cake?"
"Wh-what?" I flutter my eyelids open.
"The wedding cake, baby." A wicked look comes into his eyes. I know then, he’s talking about something filthy. Something naughty. Something kinky involving a wedding cake? Ooh. A thrill of anticipation tightens my muscles. I manage to keep the eagerness off my features—if he realizes I’m looking forward to it, no doubt, the bastard will stop himself from sharing it with me. I know his games enough to not reveal my excitement—so instead, I scowl. "What about it?"
"You’re going to be wearing it."
Excuse me! Did he just say—? Nah, not possible. I don’t need to pretend the surprise which makes me stutter, "Y-You mean, eating it, don’t you?"
The smirk on his features widens to a grin. "I mean, wearing it,” he clarifies.
"Wait, what?" I center my scrutiny on his eyes. There’s an evil gleam there, combined with a hint of humor. Whatever this idea is, I’m not sure about it. "What are you up to?" I scowl.
"Gonna introduce you to a new kink, baby."
"A new kink?" I swallow. OMG! The thought of discovering a new kink with my new dominant husband lights up my nerve-endings like it’s the fourth of July and Christmas and my birthday, all rolled into one. But also, a new kink involving a cake? Umm… I’m not sure about that.
"Ever heard of cake sitting?"
"Eh?" My frown deepens.
"It’s exactly what it sounds like."
No… What? He doesn’t mean— I gasp as he lowers me onto our wedding cake.
"What the hell?" I writhe and try to push off the gooey, mushy mix, which rubs up against my butt and gets into the holes and crevices where it has no business being. "What are you doing, Quentin?"
