8. Olivier

Suddenly I can't breathe.

"Suck."

Drew's hand is on the back of my head—I have no idea when he moved—and his cock is so far down my throat, I'm choking again.

I push at his solid thighs and try to pull my head back, but I can't. I'm trapped. Revolted. Terrified?—

"Suck."

I'm sucking his cock.

He pulls out for a short moment, long enough for me to take a gasping breath, but before I can tell him to fuck off with this shit, my lips are breached once again with his firm, spicy, salt-slicked flesh.

I gag.

He doesn't care.

"Suck."

I'm trying, I want to scream, but my mouth is too full, and talking back isn't my fucking job right now apparently, so I try to get a grip on his dick with my hand so he doesn't make me puke all over him, and I suck.

Fuck.

He growls like the animal he is, a low rumble that seems never-ending, as he pounds his dick into my mouth over and over again, barely letting me get a grip with my lips.

My drool is everywhere, pouring down my chin. Tears wet my cheeks, and my cock is still shooting out tiny spurts of cum from the aftershocks of my body-bending orgasm—and this—I guess.

"You're fucking horrible at giving head." He pulls out again and slaps my hand off his cock like he's about to tuck himself back in his pants.

I'm deeply insulted. Of all the shitty things he's ever said to me or called me, nothing pisses me off like that does. "You're the one who sucks at it, you fucking animal." I seize his wrist, pure adrenaline giving me strength, and knock his other hand off the back of my head. I plunge down on his cock again, using my new freedom of movement to prove that I am not, in fact, horrible at anything.

"Unh, fuck…goddamn…"

That's right, asshole.

I've gotten head from some of the best dick suckers in New York City. I've been getting blow jobs since I was fourteen years old. I know what feels good. And fucking someone's mouth like you're drilling a loose pussy isn't gonna feel good. Obviously. You'd think he'd know this, but maybe he's never gotten good head before.

I give myself a second to catch my breath, using my hand to rub my excess saliva over his sizeable length before wrapping my mouth around his cockhead again. I drag the tip of my tongue over the slit.

He hisses, and his hand slaps down on the side of my aching neck. The pain sends a thrilling shockwave through me, and I go after him more aggressively. Hand gripping the base, I drag him through my mouth as far as I can take him without gagging, and I suck. Hard.

"Shit—fuck—shit—I'm gonna come—shit?—"

That was fast. Maybe choking me isn't quite the "favor" he made it sound like. I'd love to laugh, but I have a blow job to finish. However, if he thinks I'm swallowing, he's the one who can go fuck himself. If he wants that, he can drag his perverted ass to the East Village or find a straight woman.

I pull off, using my hand to milk out endless spurts of jizz as his shuddering grunts of release fill the high-ceilinged penthouse. I watch his cum shoot over my shoulder. A little of it hits my upper arm, but I manage to avoid most of it. When I'm positive his cock is drained, I drop it and push myself off the floor. I put my dick back in my pants and smirk up at the shocked look on his face.

"Don't get off on it, do you?"

He averts his gaze, focused on putting himself back together. "Shut the fuck up."

I snort. "Will this be on the menu permanently, or were you just experimenting?"

"I said to?—"

"Shut the fuck up. I heard you, Jack."

That earns me a firm slap across the face, and I do, in fact, shut the fuck up.

He zips up his pants and runs both hands through his hair. I press my palm to my stinging cheek and stare at him while he glares at me. "I think that'll be all for today," he says stiffly.

"Mmhmm."

God, I just can't stop myself, can I? But I mean—anything's better than thinking about what I just did. Right?

Maybe I need another slap.

"I mean yes, sir," I say.

His glare goes from menacing to pure contempt.

How is it that he hasn't killed me yet? It's clear some part of him wants to.

"Have a nice day," he says coldly, like he would if he were holding the door for me.

I stand and fold my arms across my chest, letting him see all the fresh marks he left, which, not gonna lie, I can't wait to see for myself.

He gives me a brief once-over, then stalks back through my foyer and out the door. He doesn't slam it this time.

I am both charged with adrenaline and ready to collapse into a boneless heap. It's the imbalance alone that keeps me standing. And now I have no idea what to do with myself.

Fuck,I can't stop thinking about it. While it was happening, as a result of either hypoxia or deep, crushing arousal, I'm not sure which, I barely had a chance to fully register the fact that I was sucking a man's cock. It all happened so fast, and I guess it made sense at the time.

However, the muscle memory is now embedded in my jaw, on my tongue and my lips as they dragged the skin of his dick back and forth in their grip. He was big—which, I mean—he's tall, so—anyway, my jaw is sore. The scent of him, too, still lingers in my nostrils, hours later. Musk and soap. The taste—salty and dark. I can't decide whether I like it or not. Not just the taste, that had been tolerable, but the whole thing. I've never so much as glanced at another man before in a flirtatious way.

Drew made things harder than they needed to be, forcing himself on me and everything, but it's not like I sent him away or told him to stop. Once he'd taken his hand off my head, the rest had been all me. I made him come with my mouth. On purpose. Like I had a goddamned point to make.

I proved it, I guess, but at what cost? What does this mean about me, if anything? What about him?

Fuck, what's it gonna be like the next time I have to see him? Tonight.

Simple, I'm sure. He'll pretend it never happened, and so will I. But then there was that thing I'd said—about wanting it every day.

Not the cock-sucking part—just the marks. Fresh, pink and purple bruises I can't explain away. That belong to me and that no one else paid for. I earned them all on my own. Maybe it shouldn't surprise me that the thought appeals to me so much, but it does. After all, I wasn't even allowed to find my own wife. I've been gifted one. One I promised to have sex with Saturday night—oh fuck—how did I wind up here?

Three weeks ago, I had the world at my feet. I was practically dancing on tables, or at the very least, looking up the skirts of women dancing on tables. And now I'm shunned. Betrothed.

Trapped.

Makes me want to claw at the walls.

I manage to find Drew Riley on Instagram. His portfolio is extensive, going back to the dawn of the app itself, I swear.

I was wrong about him moving here to be an actor. He's a model. I huff a laugh at that, although his looks aren't really a laughing matter, but I can see why he didn't make it here. He's too well-built. Too ruggedly handsome. And unlike the collegiate all-American look he used to sport, with all his tattoos now and his perfectly defined muscles, he's got no place on the New York fashion scene, which prefers men who look like me. Slim, nearly skinny. Pale. More delicately-featured—androgynous, I guess, though I don't identify as anything other than masculine. Still, my nanny always said I have the face of an angel.

Drew should have gone to LA. Australia, even. He doesn't fit here. Not with what he's trying to achieve. Great, now I feel sorry for him. Or maybe not him—the dude could snap my neck with his hand—but I do sort of feel bad for the shit I've said to him.

Maybe that's what I'll tell him the next time I see him. That I looked him up. That I'm sorry he couldn't cut it in New York.

God, I'm fucking depraved. What is Elodie doing to me? In a month I'll be as weird and kinky as she is. Maybe my dad and Mr. Lafayette knew what they were doing after all.

Ugh. The thought makes me physically ill.

I reluctantly dress for yet another dinner out. In the mirror, I run my finger down my throat, my fingertips lightly tracing the spot where the ring Drew wears on his index finger left a darker, more distinctive mark. I bite the corner of my lip as I realize I'm about to see him.

I wish I could say how I felt about it besides apprehensive, whether I like this feeling, or I'm disgusted by it, but the jury's out.

"Off to see your young lady again?" Drew asks semi-politely as I pretend to adjust my cuffs when I get off the elevator in the lobby.

I glance up to find him ready to escort me to the door, a hand indicating the well-worn path. It's a weird job—right? Doorman-ing? It's not like he's performing tasks I don't do by myself all the time—leading me out of a familiar building, opening a door, pressing an elevator button. While I'm sure there's a bit more to it than that, I can't see how much to it there could possibly be. I wonder if it pays well. Whether he can afford to live in Manhattan, or if he commutes from somewhere like the Bronx.

Not that I give a shit.

Not that I find doormen in general all that interesting except for sometimes.

But a doorman who chokes me while I get off? I mean, I guess he's upped the interest factor.

"I'm meeting her for dinner," I say.

"The snow finally stopped," he says. He's never been this conversational before.

I scowl at him and drop my arms to my sides. He beats me to the door as always. "Have a lovely meal," he says and his voice—the low rumble of it, stirs a memory.

Suck.

I swallow a small gathering of drool in my mouth. "I won't be out late," I say, not that it's his business. Or he cares.

Our gazes catch, and I freeze halfway out the door. Something flares behind his cool blue eyes. Rage? Authority? Desire?

Whatever it is has a confusing spark igniting in my core.

He clears his throat and nods to the sidewalk. I take the hint and leave.

This is definitely new territory.