Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(44)

“I can’t—”

He puts a finger against my lips. “You can talk later. Right now you need to unbutton your shirt. Show yourself to me.”

It’s a power game. Pride kicks in, and I almost refuse.

But I don’t.

Something in the way he’s looking at me, something in his tone . . .

My fingers fumble with the buttons of the shirt. It had been so easy to refuse Dave, but Robert . . . it’s different.

The shirt is now undone, but it still covers me. A small strip of skin is revealed between my breasts.

He leans over, gently pulls the fabric back so that it lays on my shoulders and spreads out at my sides like the closed wing of a moth. He straightens his posture, stands over me as he studies the nuances of my figure. My breathing is irregular and I look away from him. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want to follow a man’s commands. Not after what I’ve been through with Dave.

And yet.

“Spread your legs, Kasie.”

I close my eyes. “I have to go to work,” I whisper.

“Later. Spread your legs.”

Is it because I know what it’s like to have this man inside me? Am I like any addict, willing to humble myself for one more fix? Or is there a part of me that really isn’t ready to face the music of the day? Am I using a convenient sense of subservience to justify this small procrastination?

Does it matter?

Slowly, I open my legs. I expect him to touch me but he doesn’t. Instead he circles the bed, wolfish in his movements.

“You want to handle things in your own way,” Robert says, his eyes moving up and down my body with an unapologetic appetite. “I respect that. I will allow that.”

Allow . . . I open my mouth to object but again he leans over, puts his finger against my lips. “As I said, you can talk later. But right now, I want you to listen. And you will do what I want, won’t you, Kasie?”

My heart is pounding so loud, I wonder if he can hear it. He removes his finger and I remain silent.

Again his eyes roam over me, caressing my thighs and stopping there, right there between my legs.

“Are you wet, Kasie?”

I don’t answer, partially because I don’t know if he wants me to speak, partially because I’m embarrassed to admit that I am.

“Touch yourself,” he says; his tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Reach between your legs; tell me if you’re wet.”

My hand twitches at my side, almost as if it’s battling with itself, but my urge to yield is overwhelming. With an odd mixture of reluctance and anticipation I move my hand between my legs. My fingers slide over my clit and I jump, surprised by my own sensitivity. But I know he wants more. I slip one finger inside myself as he watches.

“Yes,” I say quietly, almost meekly, “I’m wet.”

He nods, satisfied with my answer. He reaches down, gently directs the movement of my hand. “Use two fingers,” he says; his voice is kinder now but the air of authority is still prominent, “and use your thumb to rub your clit. When I tell you to masturbate, this is what I want you to do, unless I tell you otherwise.”

And as he pulls his hand away, I do as I’ve been asked. My fingers plunging inside of myself as I further stimulate myself with my thumb.

“As I was saying before,” he says, his eyes glued to me as I being to writhe on the sheets beneath me, “I will allow it.” He puts special emphasis on the word he knows will get under my skin but I don’t think I have even the slightest ability to challenge him. I try to focus but my mind is clouded with confusion and ecstasy. Why am I doing this for him? Why does it incite me?

“However,” he continues, his voice still calm, “if he tries to hurt you, if he tries to lay a single hand on you, I will step in. I will take care of him and I will decide how to do that. If there are lines that can’t be crossed, I will erase those lines. I will keep you safe. You will not stand in the way of that.”

I’m coming dangerously close to an orgasm, and somehow the thought of coming in front of him while he is fully dressed, so calm and so commanding, intensifies my agitation. I look away but he reaches over, guides my chin back in his direction. “Do you understand, Kasie?”

I nod but it’s not enough.

“I need more than that. No, no, don’t come yet,” he says as I arch my back, the little control I have left slipping away. “I need you to answer me first. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand—” I gasp.

“. . . and you will not stand in my way.”

“I will not stand in your way,” I parrot. It’s all I can manage.

“That’s good.” He sits on the side of the bed; he watches the movement of my hand with almost scholarly interest. “How close are you to coming, Kasie?”