Control (Songs of Submission #4)(20)

“No need.” I cleared my throat, tilted my head, and pinched the corners of my eyes. Then I smiled a customer service smile. “See? All done.”

He took my wrists and pulled me to him, gathered me up in his lap, and put my arms around his neck. “You think I’d forget you so easily?” he said, his face so close I could see the flecks of blue in his green eyes.

“L.A. is full of pretty girls. You’d find another one.” He started to say something, some petty, pithy reassurance that would make me feel even more insignificant. I put my fingers on his lips before he could get a word out and whispered, “Shh. Behave.”

He smiled under my hand, then kissed it. “We’re all forgotten. Every one of us. Even artists and rich men. Eventually.”

“My voice could survive.”

“But with what meaning? This moment, here? On this little patio? This makes us who we are, and in a week, it’s going to be a few pieces of memory. In a year… it’s gone, and everything’s changed.”

“Are you a nihilist, Jonathan?” I stroked the hair on his cheeks as I teased him with my tone.

“I believe in plenty. You, for one. Your loyalty to your friend. The way you took care of her and still take care of her.” He kissed my lips and kept his face so close to mine I felt his breath. “Will you let me take care of you?”

“To an extent.”

“I want to get someone in to put food in your fridge.”

“No.”

“Your deadbolt is broken. That day when I said the door was unlocked, it wasn’t. I opened the doorknob lock with a credit card. The deadbolt wasn’t even set right.”

“I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll get someone in.” His fingers found their way between my legs again, stroking inside my thighs.

“Jonathan, I put the first one in. I can do it again.”

“Oh, is that why it works so well?” I pursed my lips. He pulled my hand off his cheek and held it. “I’m not questioning your competence, but I don’t think you’re defining yourself by your ability to set in a deadbolt. Or are you going to become L.A.’s first singing locksmith?”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Fine. You have someone lock me up tight.”

“On all the doors.” His fingertips found a place between my legs where moisture gathered in response to his touch and his breath.

I sighed. “If it’ll make you happy.”

“It would keep unhappiness at bay.” He dragged his finger up my pu**y and across my clit. My breath hitched from the soreness and pleasure. “Open your legs for me.”

“Another go?” I murmured.

“Yes.”

We shifted so my back was to him. He released himself with the clink of a belt buckle and the purr of a zipper. I put my hands on the table as he reached around and pulled my legs farther apart.

“All the way,” he said. “I want you to feel me.” He stretched me apart to the point of pain, then pulled off my robe. Again, I found myself nude against his clothed body, exposed, vulnerable to him. His dick rolled past my ass and found the source of my wetness. I put my weight on it and groaned with how deep he went, how the soreness stung, and how the skin of my snatch felt abused and loved.

Our hands met between our legs, feeling where we were coupled, taking turns touching my clit, stroking his shaft when it was exposed and feeling it enter me. I rubbed his balls under his clothes. Our hands went wild, fingers kneading, palms rubbing. He ran his damp hand up my belly and held my breast, twisting the nipple between two fingers. I was crazy with him, a circle of hunger and desire. He pulled me toward him until the back of my head was on his shoulder, and he whispered in my ear, “You are mine, goddess.”

I groaned. Close, wrapped in a web of hands and wetness and throbbing shaft moving inside me.

“Mine,” he said, pressing my hand to where were coupled, his sliding dick against my wet flesh. “This is us together. I own it. This body is my plaything. Your ache is mine. Your orgasm is mine. Your hunger is mine. Your dirty thoughts are mine.”

“I’m going to come.”

“Say it.”

I was so close, but I wanted to say it before I exploded. I turned so my lips were close to his ear. “I’m yours. My pleasure is yours. My wet pu**y is yours. You own me, Jonathan. You are the master of my f**k.”

“Jesus, you are something else.”

He thrust his hips forward. I sat up and matched him thrust for thrust. He moved my hand between my legs, my palm rubbing his dick and my clit at the same time. It was beautiful, soaking, earthy, celestial, electric. I slammed myself on him, driving him deep as I groaned, grinding my orgasm against the base of his cock, bending my body forward, winding like a spring, and unwinding with a shout.

A few gentle rocks, and I felt his hands tighten on my hips, grabbing flesh and digging in. He’d done it. He’d found the place I wasn’t sore and bruised it, moving me up and down against him with decreasing gentleness.

He groaned, and with a final thrust forward, he yanked my hips down, coming inside me while whispering, “Monica, Monica, Monica.”

CHAPTER 11.

JONATHAN

I had a sinking uneasiness. It wasn’t necessarily about leaving her for D.C. It was about how often I left and stayed gone. I trusted her intentions, but I didn’t trust her ability to make wise decisions. She’d basically admitted Kevin had vengeful thoughts about her, and dismissed them as part of his artistic process.