Page 17 of A New Year's Toy

With my attention fixed on his mouth, uncontrollably aroused by his French, I failed to notice him lifting my leg to round his waist and his deft fingers parting my folds.

The wet tip of the butt plug in my ass wakes me up.

“Hold your leg up.”

“Okay.” I do, and he frees his hand to rub my clit.

“I told her you’re pumping milk.” He supplies an answer I haven’t asked for. Even during the emotional rollercoaster we’re on, he doesn’t let me feel left out. “That if she embarrasses you by telling anyone, I’ll bring her lack of humanity to the attention of her bosses.”

“Oh, my God—” The rest of my sentence is You’re the worst. Supposed to be, anyway.

Alistair’s fingers extract the wetness from my pussy, dragging it down to my pucker. The tip of the butt plug makes way for Alistair’s middle finger to penetrate me, to lube my ass in slow thrusts.

“Oh, my God,” I repeat, banging my head on the wall.

“Do you need your safeword?”

It sounds like a simple question. What he’s really asking is, Do you want to do this, here and now? Are you ready to listen? Will you take what I give you like a good little girl?

“No, so long as we do it fast.”

The side of his lips quirks up. “As you wish, sweetheart.”

His words float in the air while the butt plug plunges into my ass in a swift, circular motion. I claw at Alistair’s jacket, biting my bottom lip to restrain a scream. He’s quick to free his cock, even quicker to ram it into my pussy.

I balance on a thin heel; my back is hammered into the wall. My insides are unstable as well. Alistair executes his reign over me, his hand at my nape commanding me as his.

“Are you ready to listen to what they said?”

His glare requires me to tell him and myself the truth. Looking deep inside for whether I’m ready or not isn’t necessary anymore.

I’m Alistair’s. I’m Daddy’s. Each of his strokes reaffirms what I already know and should never forget: I’m his number one priority. I always ought to, at the very least, carve space in my heart to hear him out.

“I…” The base of his cock slams against my cunt. “Do.”

“They’re ripping you off.” His measured rocking in and out of me runs slower and somehow deeper. “They offer the French one at a lower price. To you, they created a personal, higher price list. They’re happy to screw you over.”

My lust-filled brain rewinds itself to the meeting. I chalked off their conversations in French to casual, family talk. I avoided being rude by not staring at them. Didn’t so much as suspect.

The icing on the cake though, the height of my stupidity, is doubting Alistair. It shouldn’t have taken me forever to realize that he might’ve picked up on something I couldn’t.

“None of this.” His voice is in my ear, his fingers searing into my fresh bruises. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Not your beautiful heart,”—he dips his lips to my chest, kissing it—“not your calculated brain.”

He kisses my temple, and fucks and fucks and fucks my worries away.

The pain and pleasure, his rough version of affection and mounds of unyielding concern, they surround me. Engulf me.

I stop hating myself.

Love steps into the space self-reproach vacated—for Alistair, for me, for us.

“I’m coming.”

It’s a plea. The need for his approval, at this point in time, tops the all-consuming orgasm. I just need to be told I please him.

A blessing he doesn’t hesitate to give me.

“My fierce, valiant queen.” His scruff tickles my jaw, his lips ghosting my cheek. “Yes.”

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