Control (Songs of Submission #4)(14)

“Come on. Play with me. Don’t bail.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, joking on his use of the word play. The infield moved way in, practically to where the dirt met the grass, and Jonathan’s arms tightened. His hands, now warm, draped over my crossed forearms. “I know they’re playing in to catch the guy at home plate if they have to,” I said.

“Yes.” He kissed my neck once, twice, three times, each one softer than the one before. Each lingered longer than the last. I tingled all over, and it took all my self-control to keep from bending my head back and leaning into him. I would have looked exactly like what I was: a woman in heat.

We were interrupted by the crack of a bat through the headphones we’d taken off. The white flowers scuttled across the lawn. The shortstop fielded the ball, got it to second, and then Val Renault, an unimposing fielder known for his hitting, got the ball out of his hand and to first quickly and accurately enough to complete the double play.

Inning over.

An hour and a half later, the game ended with the Dodgers winning by a run and forcing a seventh game. The six passengers on the gondola erupted at the last out. We high-fived and cheered and headed back to Carson.

CHAPTER 8.

MONICA

I was a little wobbly getting off the gondola, but Jonathan put his arm around me and pulled me close as we went back to the bike. We thanked the employees we passed as they got the blimp back into place with ropes and pulleys. If their attitudes were any indication, managing a tire company’s blimp was the most gratifying job in the world.

We approached the bike holding hands. “Thank you,” I said. “That was probably in my top five dates ever.”

“Top five?”

“Top four, maybe.”

He faced me. “What?”

I shrugged. “It was a compliment.”

He pressed his lips between his teeth. Before I could decide if he was suppressing rage or laughter, he ducked and thrust forward, throwing me over his shoulder. I squealed and kicked, bouncing as he ran. He pushed me against the side of the metal shed with a clang, pressing my shoulders to the wall.

“Name your top three. I’ll beat them.”

“With what?” I asked.

“I’ll take you to the f**king moon and have you back in time for bed.”

“Oh, Jonathan. The moon? Really?” I rolled my eyes.

He just smiled, all teeth and joy. “You’re getting such a spanking tonight.”

“Kiss me first,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get in the top three.”

He took my hands and yanked them over my head, then kissed me. Or to be more accurate, he attacked me with his body. He pinned my hands hard and pushed his c**k against me, grinding his lips against mine. His tongue filled me without finesse, as if he was f**king my mouth. I pushed myself against him in a rhythm until I groaned. I had to have him. He pushed back against me as if trying to get me, through our clothes, to beg for him.

“Hello,” came a voice. Jonathan let my arms go and looked around. It was one of the guys who had wrestled the blimp to the ground. “We’re closing up here.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said without a hint of embarrassment or shame. He popped my helmet off the bike and handed it to me. A smile spread across his face like an uncontrollable oil spill. I took the helmet with the same grin.

The ride home passed with few words. I just rested against him with my hand under his shirt, feeling his warmth. I didn’t stroke or caress him at eighty miles an hour, though the temptation was distracting.

He pulled the bike into my driveway. It was midnight, or close to it, and I was sore all over. “You coming in?” I asked, looping his finger in mine. He yanked me to him.

“We playing? Or am I just throwing you down and f**king you?”

Both options held appeal. Something hot and sweaty before an utter collapse into oblivion would be nice, and I’d be fresh and bright in the morning for work. But when he said “playing,” I felt wetness condense between my legs, and a shiver went up my spine. I let my finger drop from his and put my arms to my sides. I wanted to be under his control, under his dominance, under him. I wanted to forget myself in him and to forget the shame of wanting it so badly.

“I’d like to play again,” I said, then added, “Sir.”

“Up to the porch with you then, and wait for me.” When I turned around to go, he slapped my ass hard. I gasped and strode up the steps.

Jonathan dismounted and, instead of coming right up the porch, stood on the sidewalk. He looked up at the house, then crossed the street and did the same. He jogged back and came past my chain-link fence. “You’re wide open to the street.”

“Sir?”

“It means you have to keep your clothes on until we get inside.”

My street, partly because of the hill and partly because of the neighborhood, was dead at night. If two people passed between midnight and eight in the morning, it would be a newsworthy event. I had the feeling it didn’t matter. He stared at me, calculating. I knew that look. He was constructing the game. He faced the street and me, feet planted on my porch, and said, “Step over here, my little goddess.”

I did it, heart pounding with anticipation. My back faced the street.

“Unbutton your jeans.”

I popped them.

“Unzip, please.”