Chapter 20
That guy, lying on the bed, jerking off to me so calmly and intently, lit something inside me I didn’t even know was there. It was in that instinctive sway that I noticed it—a wetness between my legs, hot, building, throbbing. My body had reacted before I even could. I was horny. For real.
On the path to madness, I let myself go. I relaxed my shoulders, turned my back to him, and in a serpentine move, brought my hands to the back of my neck. Eyes closed, like I was listening to music that only played in my head. My body followed the nonexistent rhythm, dancing on pure instinct. I slid my hands over my own skin, feeling the softness, the goosebumps, the heat rising in waves. It was like I was discovering myself right there, in front of him, naked in a way that wasn’t just the clothes—it was surrender.
But then his voice pulled me back.
“Come here to the bed,” he ordered, his voice firm, low.
And I obeyed. Without hesitation.
I put one knee on the bed and, like a cat, crawled toward him, seeking his mouth, wanting a hot, wet kiss full of everything already boiling inside me. But he didn’t let me. He intercepted me halfway with a firm, rough hand that grabbed a fistful of my hair in a sharp yank.
“Ow…” it slipped from my mouth, half complaint, half moan. The sound that came out was pleasure disguised as surprise, or maybe the other way around.
“Go on, slut. Suck me. I want you to suck me.”
His voice now sounded harder, rawer, more commanding. It hit me like a shock that mixed horniness and warning. He was slipping into a role, obviously. A dominator maybe. An alpha male from a porn script. But deep in my head, something was starting to remind me—with little nudges, with almost imperceptible signals—that he wasn’t just some turned-on guy in a room. He was a client. And worse: one who’d paid a pretty penny.
I pulled back a bit, letting my body slip from his hands carefully, and positioned myself between his legs. He spread them naturally, in a wide, almost feminine gesture, like he was saying without words: “This space is yours.”
And that’s where I nestled, between his legs.
The feeling of being in that position—kneeling, facing him, knowing there was a price tag on what was coming—made me lose my thread a little. I was vulnerable again. The shame creeping back slowly, like a timid tide. I ran my hands over his thighs with my fingernails, in a light, instinctive caress, more to calm myself than to tease.
His skin was hot. Strong. It smelled like a put-together guy, clean, but still raw. Me scratching slowly, feeling the hair under my fingers, tracing invisible paths just to delay the inevitable.
He let out a heavy sigh—a mix of pleasure and impatience.
“Enough, fuck… get on with it,” his voice came thicker, lower, in a tone that cut through the air.
My heart jumped in my chest. The delicate charm of the situation shattered right there. No more room for finesse, for subtlety, for doubt. He wanted what he’d paid for.
I went straight for it. He wanted it that way, I knew. I wrapped my hands around his cock and was already leaning in, feeling the heat of his body on my face and my parted lips, ready to start, when he interrupted me again. His palm came firm against my forehead, stopping me like I was just some nobody.
“Spit on it first.”
I froze mid-motion. The words caught me in the act. I furrowed my brow, not hiding the annoyance.
“Spit? Isn’t that kinda gross?” my voice came out weak, slightly disgusted.
He rolled his eyes, his tone shifting a bit.
“You’re not gonna get all prissy now, are you?” He barked in a tone totally different from the guy he’d been at the restaurant hours earlier.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, ironically dry, like it understood the order before I did. I knew what guys liked. A sloppy, wet blowjob, with that over-the-top porn exaggeration I always found kinda grotesque. That whole idea of spitting to show you’re turned on never sat right with me. It seemed dirty, not in the good way—just dirty.
But it wasn’t time to argue.
I brought my palm to my lips, forced the saliva as best I could, and let it drip between my fingers. I moistened slowly, feeling the shame build in the back of my throat. I slid my hand down to his cock, spreading it carefully, trying to keep some dignity in that act that wasn’t mine.
He watched me in silence, like he was testing a new toy and checking if it had any defects. His expression was almost bored, but his gaze… his gaze weighed heavy.
“Are you deaf? I said spit.” He said it dryly.
My eyes widened, more surprised by the tone than the command. I tried to mask the discomfort with a quick, automatic smile, but inside I was swallowing hard—literally. Mouth dry, stomach churning. Even so, I forced my lips to moisten, gathered what little I could, and let it drip, aiming carefully. I did the mechanical motion, without any enthusiasm, trying not to think too much.
The discomfort was as real as the heat between my thighs, and that absurd mix left me confused.
“There you go,” he murmured, satisfied. “See? Didn’t hurt. Now suck it right. You have that sneaky look like you must suck cock like a pro.”
“Sneaky, me?” I shot back, swallowing the insult with a crooked smile. “You’re nuts.”
But he didn’t leave room for a comeback. He pulled me firmly, directly, like he was reminding me without saying it—of the role I was accepting there: paid whore. And even though part of me screamed that no one, ever, had treated me like that—and that I wouldn’t take it from any guy—another part just thought about the money that had just hit my account. I took a deep breath. Fine. So I’d just be that. At least for that night.
I looked at him, trying to hide my discomfort and this huge urge to curse out that idiot, but all that came out of my mouth was,
“Yes, okay!”