Page 7 of Take Her
Her hips slowly sank, and she released me to reach for the ground with both hands, pushing herself up, to collapse to the ground on the other side, sliding off of me to scattered applause.
I watched the realization that we weren’t alone flood her, as her lips parted with surprise, but she didn’t take her eyes off of me.
“Are you all right?” I asked her, and she nodded.
“A little lightheaded,” she said, bowing briefly down so her blood pressure could even out, all fears about her catsuit’s seams forgotten. One sleeve had rolled up, exposing a simple gray-shaded moth tattooed on her inner wrist, as delicate as she was.
“Yeah, you came pretty hard,” I told her, as she attempted to gather herself, and I realized I liked her just like that.
Wrecked by me, and kneeling.
And because unlike certain people, I hadn’t gotten the chance to come—which apparently meant that all of my sensible blood was in my cock—there was nothing left to check the urge to say so.
I leaned down to take her chin in my hand again and raise it, making her look up.
“If we ever play again, I’d want you to lick my shoes and worship me.”
Her eyes went wide, and she nodded slowly—and as my own blood redistributed itself, I let her go.
“You were brilliant, Lia,” I said, hopefully summoning both of us back to reality with the sound of her name. I stood and offered her my hand. She took it, standing upright shakily, and I carefully moved us away, making sure she didn’t trip on the step down, pulling us to a darkened corner of the room before releasing her. “How do you feel?”
She patted her herself with her hands like she was unfamiliar with her body. “Dizzy,” she said, “but good.”
I made eye contact with a circulating server who came over with two flutes of champagne, and took both, offering one over to her.
“These are on my tab, seeing as I don’t believe you actually have one. But thank you for an excellent scene,” I said, and made our glasses clink. “You should probably take some Aleve tonight, and sit on an ice pack in the morning.”
She stared at the glass and its contents like they were alien things, and then she looked at me. “Did you have a good time?”
“Yes. Of course. I only do things I enjoy,” I said, brushing her question away.
She nodded her head and smiled at me. “Then...can we talk?”
And here it came. The part of the evening where she would try to make plans with me, to create some nebulous future out of nothing more than sheer endorphins. I cursed silently. “No. You are not mine, nor do I want you.” Lia blinked, rocking back on her heels.
I’d been in this exact same situation a hundred times before, and learned that abruptness verging on rudeness was the only cure.
“I say a lot of things in a scene, and I’m willing to suffer a fair amount of carpal tunnel to get a girl off,” I admitted, before taking a sip of my drink and giving her a look of pity. “But somewhere out there I suspect you have an actual father, and I suggest you get over him.”
Little Lia stood much straighter as her sudden shame sobered her up.
And then she threw her drink at me.
I laughed half a second after the cold champagne hit my face, licking away a trail of bubbly alcohol and blotting it off with my tie before it could reach my eyes.
“That’s too bad,” I said, polishing my own glass off with a grin. “It was very expensive. You would’ve liked it.”
“Fuck you,” she said.
“You almost did,” I taunted, and watched her nostrils flare and her eyes burn. She was so spirited—no wonder I wanted to break her.
Not for any dire purpose—no—for the same reason people pulled apart daisies.
Just because I could.
Because it was the only thing I was good at.
“Get home safely, little girl—it’s probably past your curfew,” I said, taking her empty glass from her as she sputtered, putting both our glasses on a nearby table. “And think fondly of me tomorrow, when you see my handprints on your ass.”