Page 90 of Gambler's Conceit
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter. “No oneownsme.” It’s such a ludicrous lie that I laugh again.
Who doesn’t have a claim on my ass at this point? Why the fuck should I not be giving it up again and again?
“Tell him if you want,” I tell Dave, then turn to Michael. “My boyfriend shares,” I say bluntly. “Guess I’m used goods, or claimed, or whatever, but he doesn’t fucking care. Only hisspies do, apparently.” I cast a withering look at Dave. “That a problem?”
Michael shrugs. “I have a wife in Florida. Isthata problem?”
I snort. “Not even a little.”
I’m sure half the people who have fucked me have their own wives and kids back home, and that hadn’t bothered them any. Why should I care?
“Let’s go,” I tell Michael, squeezing his hand.
As it turns out, Michael is all too eager to get me up to his room. He isn’t even willing to wait until we get all the way there; he pushes me against the elevator wall to kiss me and paw at me while we ride up to the eighth floor, and I fumble with his belt while he uses the keycard on the door.
As soon as we’re inside a room that’s nice, but not nearly asswankyas Caleb’s suite is, Michael grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it off of me while I undo his shirt buttons and kiss the newly exposed skin of his chest.
I can feel more than see it when he catches sight of my bare skin, and his breath draws in abruptly.
I ignore it, shoving his jacket and dress shirt to the floor.
“Hey, Seven? Is?—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt him. “I’m into… that thing. You know. BDSM? With the whips and the pain and whatever.” God, my head is swimming, and it’s hard to form coherent thoughts—especially coherent thoughts that involve explaining to someone normal why I look the way I do.
But I don’t want him to be thinking my boyfriend beats me or whatever bullshit is on his mind.
I only want him to be thinking about fucking me.
“Doesn’t hurt or anything. Fuck, just… I wanna suck you. Or you can fuck me, pound me real hard. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” Michael says. He snaps out of whatever stupid thoughts he’s having and gets the rest of his clothes off. “I have condoms… somewhere.”
I don’t understand everyone’s fucking obsession with condoms, but I guess he doesn’t want to bring home any surprises to his wife. That would give his little habit of fucking around away pretty fast.
“You’re in charge.” I wrap my arms around him and go back to kissing his throat, down to his collarbone, and I shove my pants and underwear down. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care about condoms.”
I never have, never do, and the idea of taking him bare and feeling him spill into me… I groan. Yeah. That sounds like exactly what I need right now.
Michael grabs my ass, squeezing tightly. “Fuck, that’s so hot.” He turns me around and forces me over the side of the couch.
I spread my legs for him and raise my ass so he has better access, but my head is spinning and fuzzy around the edges. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe, and I can’t wait to let all the thoughts get drowned out by the burn of his cock pounding into me.
No more wondering what Caleb is going to do next.
No more begging for them to pay attention to me.
No more of Havoc’s gentle bruises or Vortex’s forced warmth or Caleb’s authoritative voice in my ears.
Why is it so hard to let go of those thoughts, those desires, even now?
“Fuck, I don’t have lube or anything—” he begins.
“Don’t need it,” I cut him off, closing my eyes against waves of dizziness. “Just use spit or whatever.”
Michael laughs. “Damn, okay.” He spits into his hand, and I hear his groan as he wraps it around his cock.
I squirm, just wanting him to get to the good part.