Page 113 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Will you come for me, sweetheart? Nice and messy? All over my cock?” he grunts.

“Yes,” I plead.

“Good,” he says as he increases the speed, pressing down on the mound of my pelvis and tightening the fit even more. “Come for Sir. Do it now.”

And I don’t know what kind of freakish sex magic he’s doing, but I obey. Release tackles me like a fucking linebacker and I’m suddenly so tight around him that he has to grit his teeth to force himself deeper.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he growls. “Stay just like that for me.”

I obey, happy to have him continue and extend the last tendrils of my orgasm. He gets rougher—a little meaner—grasping my neck beneath my chin as his eyelids droop and his jaw loosens. “You want my spend inside of you, sweetheart?” he grits out.

“Gods, yes,” I wheeze out.

“Beg,” he says.

“Please come inside me,” I say, like the very good girl that I am. “I want to feel your hot load leaking out onto my thighs.”

“You...” he grunts before barking out laugh. “You fucking overachiever.”

I stay tight around him as he picks up speed and thrusts, hard, three more glorious times. His breath hitches before he lets out the most lovely little trilling sound.

It’s pathetic, I think. Satisfaction pools, warm and liquid, as he collapses on top of me and whimpers out another noise next to my ear. His cock pulses inside me and I feel that hot spend I begged for push past the seal he’s made by burying himself.

There is something so incredibly intoxicating about making your dominant, sadistic boyfriend into a whimpering puddle from underneath him. I might submit to him, I might obey him, but that doesn’t mean I have no power in the dynamic.

“I’m sorry,” he pants against my throat. “I said I was going to behave, and I still bullied you a little bit.”

“Don’t be,” I say, kissing his sweat-slicked temple. “If I wanted a sweet, tender boyfriend, I would go find one.”

He turns his head so we’re almost nose to nose. “You like a bit of predicament play, don’t you?”

“I think almost as much as you like it,” I say smiling. “I like a challenge. It makes me feel more present.”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, lifting a hand to brush some hair out of my face. “Me too. More vigilant. I love watching you work so hard to please me. Frankly, I just love staring at you. All the time.”

I laugh. “Me too. I wish I could go to more of your shows so that I could stare at you drumming more.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to. Maybe we’ll learn that all the stuff with Aemon is all bark and no bite.”

“Maybe we will,” I say.

“It all starts with those journals,” he says.

I frown, knowing he’s right. There’s pit of dread in my stomach thinking about it. But knowing that I won’t have to do it by myself makes it feel a little more achievable. “When do you have to leave?” I ask him, sure he has some music thing or other to do. I haven’t really tuned in for a while.

“Well,” he says with a sigh. “We’ve all pretty much agreed that having our van incinerated by a witch warrants a little bit of a hiatus. Oren has been sort of existentially staring out the studio windows for the last five days. Fletcher is… honestly, weirdly calm. And Roxie has had to be talked off a ledge about fifteen times over the existence of ghosts.”

“Ghosts? How did ghosts come up?”

“They’re a real fucking chicken,” Damien says. “Like, Corpse Bride is a horror movie to them.”

I laugh. “Note to self, no séances for Roxie,” I say.

“Definitely no Ouija boards as Christmas gifts, or whatever.”

“You think they’ll vibe with a possessed doll?”

“Oh god, do you have one?”