Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Cut,” Melissa said, the single word somehow conveying deep satisfaction. “That’s fabulous, folks. The spoon… the way she kept trying to stir… Paul, you’re a genius.”
That evening, in his apartment, in the real kitchen with no cameras and no Melissa, my master made me dinner. Just copper pots and the smell of garlic and olive oil and Master Paul in a plain gray T-shirt, moving between the counter and the stove with the easy competence of a man who actually knew how to cook.
I sat on a cushion he’d placed on one of the kitchen chairs: a thoughtful gesture that made my eyes sting, because my bottom was still a landscape of welts and bruises that made sitting on hard surfaces an exercise in careful positioning. I wore one of his T-shirts and nothing else, and I watched him cook with a feeling in my chest that I could only describe as fullness. Not the physical fullness of his body inside mine, though the memory of that was still vivid enough to make me shift on the cushion. A different kind. The fullness of being cared for by the same hands that had punished me.
He made pasta. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us—the real version of the meal I’d pretended to cook on set, prepared by the man who’d fucked me while I pretended to cook it. He moved through the kitchen with obvious skill and clear enjoyment. He sliced tomatoes with a chef’s knife, adjusted the flame beneath a pan of sautéing garlic, tasted the sauce from a wooden spoon and added a pinch of something I couldn’t identify.
“Sit,” he told me when I tried to help. “You’ve cooked enough today.”
The smile that crossed his face was private and warm and a little wicked, and I blushed and sat back down on my cushion.
CHAPTER 30
Anne
We ate at his small kitchen table. The food was so much better than anything I’d made for myself in my tiny apartment that I practically cried when I took my first bite. Our dinner conversation felt easy in a way that surprised me.
He asked about my childhood. I told him about growing up in a small town outside of Columbus, about my mother who worked two jobs and my father who’d left when I was seven, about the scholarship I’d lost and the bills that had led me to Selecta’s door. When I stumbled over the part about my father, his hand found mine across the table and held it.
“You deserved better,” he said simply.
After dinner, while he washed the dishes and I dried them—standing beside him at the sink in his T-shirt, our hips almost touching—I felt the need rise again. Heat bloomed between my thighs when for a second I thought he might put his hand on my bottom, under the T-shirt, just to hold it, as a reminder. Along with that helpless, instantaneous response came the warmth in my face, of course; shame that only reinforced the arousal.
From there it came on like weather: a darkening of the internal sky, a pressure building behind my navel, a warmth spreading further down that had nothing to do with the hot water and everything to do with the man beside me. My bare, shaved pussy throbbed with a pulse that seemed synchronized to his movements—the flex of his forearms as he scrubbed a pan, the shift of his shoulders beneath the gray cotton, the way his hands moved through the soapy water with the same competence they’d moved through everything else, including me.
I put down the dish towel. I turned toward him and pressed myself against his side, my face finding the hollow beneath his shoulder, my hips tilting forward in that embarrassing but involuntary offering.
“Sir,” I whispered against his shirt. “Please. I want you again.”
His wet hand found the back of my neck. He held me there, pressed against him, and I felt his chest expand with a slow, measured breath.
“You’re too sore, Annie.”
“I’m not,” I protested, even though I was. The tenderness between my legs was real. The deep, bruised ache pulsed with every step, reminding me that my poor little pussy had been thoroughly, comprehensively fucked twice yesterday and once today by my master’s enormous cock. But the ache felt like a door rather than a wall; something I wanted to push through, not stop at.
“You are,” he said, with the quiet certainty that I had learned to recognize as final. “Your body needs time to recover. I won’t damage what’s mine through impatience.”
The word mine sent the usual cascade through my nervous system: heat, clench, blush, want.
“But I need—” My voice cracked. The need felt urgently physical. I didn’t know how to contain it. Three days ago I’d been a girl who’d never brought herself to orgasm. Now I felt like an addict, and the drug was standing at the kitchen sink with dish soap on his hands.