Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“I guess I want what I’m not supposed to have,” she says, her voice soft but pointed. “I want to see how far it can go.” Another sip, a delicate swallow, the tip of her tongue wetting her upper lip before she speaks again. “Hunter is the first man who’s ever made me feel—” she hesitates, then, “owned. Like he actually means it. Not just in bed, but everywhere. And I don’t even know if I’m supposed to like that. I mean, aren’t women supposed to be liberated these days? We’re in charge of our own destinies now, right?”
I have to interject at that with a snort.
“You'd be surprised how many women still want to be taken care of in every way,” I rasp, my hands flat on the table. “Not just financially either. They want to be coddled, ravished, wooed, and dominated all at once. It’s quite the tricky balancing feat.”
O’Toole’s jaw flexes. He nods slowly.
“Yeah, there are a lot of paradoxes in modern life,” he says. “But tell me, Stella. You have a man already. So what do you want with me?” he asks in a low tone.
She shivers. The reaction is so honest, so unguarded, I feel my cock twitch under the table.
“With you, it’s different,” she whispers. “I don’t know if I want you to own me, or destroy me, or save me.” She laughs, a little wild. “Or maybe all three, in that order.”
The air is heavy. O’Toole’s eyes never leave hers.
I set my glass down, slow and deliberate. I don’t say anything, because this is his business. I’m waiting, too.
For a second, it looks like O’Toole is going to let it drop. But then he pushes away from the table, rises to his full, intimidating height, and crosses the few feet to the living room in three deliberate strides. The shift in the room is immediate: the scrape of his chair, the ripple of his movement, the way he just stands there at the edge of the light, waiting for her.
“Come here,” he says. “I can see that talking’s not going to be the answer. It’s time to act.”
It’s not a question.
Stella sets her glass down. Her hands shake, barely, as she rises, but the look on her face is one I’ve never seen before—not submission, not obedience, but pure, uncut anticipation. She walks to him. He cups her face in one palm, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw, and then he kisses her, slow and deliberate, like he’s making an oath on her lips. The sound of her gasp is loud in the silence. For a beat, she stands absolutely still, then melts into him, her hands climbing his chest, clutching at the starched fabric as if she can’t help herself.
I stay seated. I watch. I cross my arms and let my eyes go dark, cataloguing every detail: the way O’Toole’s massive hands find her waist, the way his fingers splay to claim as much of her as possible, the way she arches up on tiptoe to meet his mouth, hungry, almost desperate.
“Mmmm,” she moans against his lips, her eyes falling shut. “Oh yes.”
The floor lamp throws their shadows long and gold on the white wall. I can see the outline of her big breasts, nipples hard and obvious through the fabric, her dress riding up just enough to show the curve of her thighs. O’Toole slides a hand up her back, finds the zipper, and works it down in one smooth move. The dress slips, puddles at her feet, and in the hot amber light she’s left in nothing but a slip of lace panties and a bra that might as well be transparent. Her tits are huge and creamy, the nipples visible beneath the lacy fabric.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, and it’s not for their benefit, but for mine.
Stella turns her head, hair flying, and meets my eyes. There’s a challenge there, a spark I didn’t know she had. She doesn’t break the stare as O’Toole unhooks her bra, lets it fall away, and cups both of her breasts in his hands. Her nipples are a gorgeous pink, hard as candy, and when he pinches them, she moans—a long, low sound, all the more obscene for how public it is.
“Mmm!” is her cry. “Oh oh oh!”
He leans down, takes a nipple in his mouth, sucks it hard, then bites just enough to make her writhe. Her back arches, her ass sticks out, and I can see her pussy through the high-cut lace, a dark, wet triangle against the white of her skin.
I stand up. Not because I’m jealous, but because the view is too good to waste.
O’Toole slides her panties down, drops them on the floor, and steps back half a pace. He doesn’t say a word; just takes a moment to look at her, really look, his eyes traveling down the line of her body, the fullness of her tits, the curve of her belly, the impossible width of her hips that turns her into an hourglass.