“I like you doing things for me too.”
That gooey, warm feeling is back as I stare up at him.
“How did I do?” I ask in a breathless pant. I’m fishing for compliments, and it’s obvious to both of us, but he likes to give them out, so I’m going to take them.
Reaching out, he touches my chin. “You did so good,” he replies in a gravelly tone I can feel from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “You like me telling you that, don’t you?”
“Mm-hm.”
His thumb strokes my chin. “That’s what I thought.”
When his fingers leave my face, I let the familiar disappointment wash over me like it does every day. Every time I have to turn away from Emerson without another touch, I feel it. It doesn’t get any easier, but there’s really no way around it.
Leaving his house, I tell myself the same thing I do every day: I’ll never have Emerson the way I want, so I might as well get used to it.
RULE #17: GET HER OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM.
Emerson
My reflection stares back at me in the bathroom, but my eyes won’t focus on the man in front of me. All I see is her on her knees in the middle of my office. The image plays over and over in my mind. How did this happen?
Is it too far? Have I royally fucked things up already?
But there’s no room in my mind for regret when it’s so damn overwhelmed with desire. The things I wanted to do to her. God, I wanted to remove her clothes, touch her face, sit her on my lap, and stroke her perfect body while I worked. With any other girl, that’s what I would have done, but I’ve never wanted it the way I want it now.
For years, I’ve accepted that these dominant cravings were just a part of who I am. I was happy with that, but never fully satisfied with anyone who came along. Now, the craving is stronger than ever, and I have the terrifying notion that Charlotte might actually be perfect for me, and that’s a real problem.
She’s Beau’s girl. I can’t possibly keep doing this.
Fuck, my brain still can’t process no, so I strip off my clothes and start the shower. This day fucked with my head and I need to wash it all off so I can refocus on getting my son back.
Apparently, my cock can’t process no either because it’s at full attention, still thinking about the way she hummed with pleasure while I stroked her head during the call.
Not to mention, it’s still thinking about what happened Saturday night in the voyeur hall. That’s what started all this. I never should have taken her to the club opening, and I definitely shouldn’t have followed her into that hall. And I really shouldn’t have fucking touched her the way I did.
But it was impersonal. I touched her, tasted her, but that’s what we do at the club. We shed the personal ties and hang-ups from our daily lives and we experience freely what our body craves to experience. If I hadn’t gone back there with her, she never would have had the nerve to touch herself and make herself come the way she did.
My cock twitches at the memory. The way she rubbed herself, the sounds she made, the taste of her arousal, and how good she felt in my arms. Like she belonged there.
I give my dick an easy stroke, but it won’t let me let go. And it won’t let me think of anything other than Charlotte, conjuring up images of her in my head. Those perfect lips wrapped around my cock.
In my imagination, she’s between my legs at my desk, swallowing me down while I work. My perfect little secretary.
Fuck. My hand slaps against the tile wall as my other hand picks up speed. This is so wrong, but maybe this will help me get her out of my system. This is the only way I’ll ever have her like this—in my mind. If people knew I was jacking off to my son’s girlfriend…
But I’m already too lost to the fantasy. The way she loves my cock. The way she calls me Sir. That smile as I unload warm jets of cum all over her face, and she licks it up like the good girl she is.
An illicit groan vibrates from my chest as I come onto my hand. My heart is hammering like crazy in my chest and my cock just won’t stop. I obviously need to get laid or something because this is fucking ridiculous.
Tomorrow, I have to tell Charlotte that I can’t be the Dom she wants. It’s inappropriate, and I need to focus on work and getting my son back. But when I towel off after my shower, I find a message from her on my phone. My eyes nearly bug out of my head when I see a photo come through.
It’s a picture of a St. Andrew’s cross, a giant wooden frame in the shape of an X with restraints on the end of each post.