Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(42)

He glanced up at me, head bent toward his tea. “The Collector’s Board at L.A. Mod. Of course.”

“Carnival is a donor, so they’re sending Eddie. They want me to go with him. It’s part of presenting me as an artist.” I saw him tense, changing the angle of the towel draped on his shoulders. “It’s business.”

“Absolutely not.”

I was silent as I stared at him over the rim of my cup.

“Monica?”

“Jonathan.”

“He wants to f**k you.”

“I don’t think you’re actually threatened by Eddie Milpas.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. You’ll go with me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh, Jonathan, I’d so much rather go with you.”

“I want you to be warned it’s all Jessica’s crowd. They’re nasty. They’re bored and rich. If you’re with me, you’re a target for their boredom.”

“I don’t care.”

He put his face to mine. I smelled the tea on his breath. “They’ll whisper about you.”

“Fuck them.”

“We found the whole audio on her phone, and we posted it online. It’s gone crazy. Everyone knows.”

I got closer, put my nose next to his, and whispered, “What part of ‘f*ck them’ was unclear?”

“That’s my goddess.” He pressed his face to mine, his mouth open only enough to move them in time with me, giving me a kiss made purely of lips and skin. There was sex in the kiss, but only the wafting hint of his breathing. Then he slipped his tongue between my lips, and my spine tingled as if some unholy spirit used my vertebrae as piano keys.

I groaned. My mouth accepted his darting tongue, the command of his lips. I arched when his hand slipped down to my breast, grazing the back of his hand against my hard nipple.

“Take me,” I whispered into his mouth.

“I’ll do as I like,” he said into mine, and I felt the force of his words in the pressure between my legs. The personality change that accompanied play was so stark that the first utterance in his stern, serious voice, made my cleft quiver like a plucked string. “Hands behind you on the counter. One on top of the other.”

I did it. He put his hand at the small of my back and pressed upward until I was arched and facing the ceiling.

“You need to go back to Bordelle.” He pulled my knees apart roughly. “This cotton shit is unworthy.” Opening two drawers, he placed my feet on the edges so my legs stayed open. I heard the clink of silverware. “This thing,” he said before I heard the soft crunch of fabric being cut. He’d sheared my panties with a steak knife. “It offends me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ran his hand over me. I couldn’t see what he was doing. I felt his dry skin awaken nerve endings, grazing over my br**sts, belly, thighs. Even the slightest pressure sent shards of pain at the black-and-blue base of my rib cage and the soft meat between my legs, a punctuation for the pleasure of his touch.

“You’re still bruised,” he said. “That’ll take time to heal.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I’m going to be gentle where you’re hurt,” he said. “But everywhere else is mine.”

“Yes.”

“Now, you want your tea?”

“Yes, sir.” Though my body was awake with desire, my voice was husky with heat and exhaustion. My vocal cords hadn’t forgotten that it was close to midnight.

He pressed my mouth open with his thumb and forefinger, as if I was a kitten taking medicine. The teabag hovered over my face, dripping hot liquid over my mouth. I felt hot fluid on my lip and the dry, waxen taste of chamomile tea on my tongue. It traveled down my chin and my throat. I swallowed it like an offering of communion.

“Thank you, sir.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of dripping tea down my chest. He must have dipped the bag back into the cup because the heat renewed on my ni**les. Lines of molten liquid dripped down around my ribs to my back. I gasped when he put the bag on my belly and dragged it down to the edge of my triangle. I quivered in anticipation. That hot thing, on me. Soft and pliant, yet firm in its burning intensity. But he didn’t. He leaned over, kissing and licking the tea from me. He sucked my nipple gently as his hand stayed on the teabag, which felt as though it was cooling too fast.

I groaned. I had never thought to put a hot teabag on my clit, but it was all I could think about. He had to do it. Had to. Before it got cold.

When he moved his mouth to the other nipple, cleaning it with his tongue and lips, he slid the bag down, pressing it against my clit with the heel of his hand while putting two fingers in me. I yelled. Hot. Not straight-from-the-pot hot, but hot enough. Ten times hotter on my clit than anywhere else, and the fire added exponentially to my desire. Hot tea dripped down my cleft. I shuddered everywhere, spreading my legs wider, pushing into his fingers. His tongue was still at my nipple, and I was bruised, yes, but I wanted him to bite it. I wanted him to hurt me. I was addicted to it.

He pushed his hand against me, heel on hot teabag on clit, fingers in cunt, and he rubbed them in circles. My pu**y drank it. The bag got drier as the tea was squeezed out of it, making it rougher, like crackling leaves in the fall. The little scratches from hot, sticklike herbs drove me to the edge.