And yet here I am, embracing my sexuality, embracing the effect I’m having on Artem.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I want to be in charge.”
A rumbling noise from the back of his throat, a savage’s snarl escapes him.
“Jesus,” he growls. “Why the fuck is that so attractive? Okay, my Bratva queen, you’re in charge. What do you want me to do?”
A thrill catapults through me.
I’m in charge.
But how should I play this?
Yesterday, Artem was in charge every step of the way.
Each time our bodies came together in sizzling lust, he was the one who led the dance, who bent me over and took me raw, or who guided me onto my back and pushed my breasts together as he hammered into me.
“Start cutting some peppers, please,” I say. “I feel like something spicy. I think we’ll make fajitas.”
“That wasn’t what I was expecting, I’ll admit.”
“I’m the head chef, remember?”
“Then your wish is my command. Now, where exactly would an esteemed, obedient gentleman like myself find peppers?”
I giggle, mind returning to last night again, when he was the furthest thing from esteemed and obedient as it’s possible to get.
I remember the second time we had sex, after we’d recovered from him bending me over, when he told me, “I need to see those luscious fucking tits, Anna. I’ll die if I don’t.”
I gasped when he tore down my shirt to reveal my breasts, and then my nipples started to tingle and dance with sensation as he dedicated himself to sucking them.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“You,” I say. “Pretending to be a gentleman. You know what, Artem? Are you sure nobody’s going to interrupt us?”
“I’ve given strict orders,” he says. “And they tend to be obeyed.”
“Fine, then,” I say. “Then forget the fucking peppers. What I really want is for you to stand there fully clothed, but with your cock out, you know, between the zipper. I want you there handsome as fuck in your suit but stroking your cock at the same time. I want to be naked, just me, like I’m your plaything, like you’re so busy you don’t even have time to take your suit off. That’s what I want.”
I stop, breathless, ears burning red as embarrassment tries to niggle at me.
I’ve never allowed myself to explore my sexuality in such detail, even to myself.
I’m stunned by my own desire, by my capacity to outline it, to breathe life into it. I’m stunned by how badly I want to lose myself in this exploration, with him, only him, forever.
“Your wish …”
I hear the zzz of his zipper and then the fleshy sound of his palm against his manhood, and I know he must already be slick with precome if it’s making that sound.
My sex gets tight and hot as I wriggle out of my jeans and my panties, standing naked on the other side of the refrigerator door, glad for the cold now so that I don’t overheat under the weight of this moment.
“Are you doing it?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he snarls.
“Can you …”
I trail off.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says.
“Can you tell me?” I whisper. “Can you describe what you’re doing, what you’re thinking?”
“If it’s what you want, then yes, yes I fucking can. You’re a queen, Anna. Just because those idiots in high school never noticed it, just because the world was blind to it before I laid my eyes on you, never forget that.”
Thrill after thrill courses through me, combining with the lust to make an intoxicating combination.
“I’m thinking about treating you like my plaything, because even if you’re a queen, you’re still mine. I’m thinking about how tight and hot your pussy is. I’m thinking about how beautifully tangy it tastes. I’m thinking a thousand things and each of them involve you naked and gasping and squirting all over my fucking cock.”
“What do you want me to do?” I whisper. “I’m naked now.”
“Oh no,” he growls. “You said you wanted to be in charge, so I’m not letting you off the hook that easily. What do you want to do, my queen?”
I imagine approaching the version of me who blindly walked into that so-called interview a few weeks ago, thinking she was going to get a job, and then ended up in the back of a van with the certainty that she was going to die implanted like a virus in her mind.
I imagine telling that version of myself that, actually, it was the best thing that could ever happen to her. In the long run, it would lead her to the path that would actually make her happy, truly happy, for the first time in her – my – life.
Would I have believed it?
The answer is definitely no.
And yet it’s the truth.
“I want to be your plaything,” I whisper. “I want to do what you tell me to do. That’s the truth. But you have to keep the suit on.”