Page 56 of Gunnar

“And it’s mine to use whenever I please, isn’t it?” He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, driving his fingers deep.

I moan, the sound embarrassingly loud in the confined space. “Yes, Daddy. Yes, it’s yours.”

He settles into a rhythm, moving inside me with practiced precision, his thumb circling my clit with every other stroke. It’s devastating, this combination of fullness and friction, and I feel myself climbing toward the edge with terrifying speed. Just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he stills his fingers. Holding them inside me, motionless, Gunnar denies me the final thrusts I need to come.

“Please,” I whimper, trying to grind my hips against his hand, seeking completion.

“No,” he states simply before starting again. He works his fingers in slow, teasing strokes that bring me back to the precipice, only to deny me again. And again. And again.

The limo glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the city lights painting patterns across the tinted windows as Gunnar leisurely finger-fucks me for the entirety of the journey. An hour of torture, of being brought to the edge of orgasm and then denied while I beg and plead, receiving only his dark stare in response.

By the time we enter the drop-off line, I’m a mess. Wetness coats my upper thighs. My cheeks are flushed, my breathing is ragged, and my body is trembling with unfulfilled need. “Please,” I try one more time, my voice breaking. “Please, Daddy. I need to come.”

He pulls his fingers from me with a wet sound that makes me blush even harder. With them in his mouth, he licks them clean with obvious enjoyment. “No, baby girl,” he denies, his eyes dark with his own arousal. “This is your punishment. You’re going to spend the night with flushed cheeks and a needy pussy. And if you can be a good girl for me—smiling for the cameras, making nice with the industry vultures, and pretending that you’re not distracted with thoughts of my cock buried inside you—I’ll think about letting you come on the way home.”

The car creeps forward, the velvet ropes visible through the windshield, and the crowd of photographers waiting like a pack of hungry wolves.

“My panties,” I blurt, realizing I can’t exit the car without them. I can’t walk the red carpet commando and dripping for him.

Gunnar reaches over, swiping the discarded lace from the seat. He uses them to dry his fingers with deliberate slowness. His eyes holding mine, he proceeds to tuck them into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “You also don’t get the pleasure of these.” He pats his pocket. “I plan to keep that pussy wet and aching all night while you remember who you belong to.”

The door opens, and Damon’s hand appears to help me out. I have no choice but to compose myself, fix my expression, and step out into the blinding flash of cameras with my arousal slick on my thighs and my panties in my date’s pocket.

Gunnar follows, his hand resting on the small of my back. To the public, the gesture looks supportive—which it is—but I also know that, right now, it’s about control. He is owning me, reminding me with every touch that I’m his, even as the world watches.

“Smile, baby girl,” he whispers against my ear as we face the first wall of photographers. “Show them what a good girl you are.”

I smile. I pose. I answer questions from reporters about my dress, my next project, and my handsome date. And all the while, I feel the absence of him between my legs. It’s a constant thrum of need that Gunnar orchestrates with nothing more than his proximity and occasional heated glances.

He stands beside me, looking every inch the distinguished escort, the supportive boyfriend, and the man proud to be on my arm. But I know the truth. I know that beneath that tuxedo, he’s aching to punish me. He’s enjoying every moment of my discomfort. And I know that when we get back in that limo, he’ll either reward me or deny me further, depending on his whim and my behavior.

As we walk the red carpet, the cameras flash and the crowd screams, the world watching the perfect image of Hollywood glamour. They are all oblivious to the game of dominance and submission we are playing out between these public, performative moments.

I pause for a photo, turning to face Gunnar, who puts his arm around my waist. With his hand low on my hip, he pulls me close, and his fingers dig into my flesh just enough to cause my pussy to flutter.

“Having fun?” he asks, too soft for anyone else to overhear.

I look up at him, finding the blue eyes that hold my entire world. While I feel love when I stare into them, at this moment, frustration and the desperate need to come are coiled so tightly they trump my true feelings. “I hate you,” I whisper with a smile.

He laughs, the gesture crinkling the corners of his eyes and making him even more handsome. “No, you don’t,” he counters. “You love that I own you. You love that I can do this to you. And I love that, right now, surrounded by all these people, you’re thinking about nothing but me.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. I am thinking about nothing but him.

His fingers inside me. His mouth on my skin. His cock stretching me. The release he’ll hopefully grant me when this night is over.

We reach the end of the carpet, the entrance to the theater looming ahead, and Gunnar’s hand slides lower. His palm momentarily cups my ass through my dress before sliding up to my hip as we step into the lobby, the noise of the crowd fading behind us.

The usher escorts us to our seats. When the lights in the theater dim, Gunnar slides his hand obscenely high up my thigh. His pinky dusts against my pussy, the contact causing my toes to curl in my shoes.

“If you want to come tonight, not a peep,” he warns. “I don’t want to hear so much as a sputtered breath pass over those lips as I play with my pussy.”

I nod, answering him silently, hoping I’m ready for whatever he is going to demand of me, and that I’m strong enough to endure his playful brand of torment.

I spend the evening edging Devyn. It might be under the guise of punishment, but in that fucking dress, there’s not a chance in hell I could have kept my hands off her. Her little denial punishment only gave me an excuse—one I am thoroughly enjoying.

The theater is dark, the film playing on the massive screen, something I couldn’t name or describe if my life depended on it. My attention is entirely consumed by the woman beside me and the heat radiating from her body; only the two of us are imparted with the knowledge that beneath that silk, she’s bare, wet, and aching for me to make her come.

With my hand resting on her thigh, exposed by the slit that runs up to her hip, my pinky dusts against her pussy. The touch ranges from featherlight over her lips to teasingly flicking over her clit. I feel every contact like an electric shock running through my body. She’s so fucking wet, dripping thanks to hours of denial. I love the way she tries to suppress her reactions, biting her lip to keep from moaning in a room full of her peers.