Page 93 of For Her Own Good

And now I’m a sex-crazed lamprey, having latched onto his neck with my mouth. Good thing he can rock the Mr. Rogers look, because the man is going to need some high-necked cardigans or some shit to cover up the hickey I’m going to leave him with.

I do, however, manage to quiet my body enough for him to part my labia with his finger and skate over my clit before delving back to my entrance to gather up some of my copious wetness, and come back to slick it over my clit and start rubbing in small, tight circles.

I gasp and moan against his neck, the tension inside me building until I feel as though it’s going to spill out of me and gush all over the flagstones. That would be embarrassing; don’t need anyone on what I guess is now technically my staff cleaning that up.

“Please, Daddy, please, please.”

Have I ever been this desperate? I don’t think so. It’s something about him that makes me able to hand over control, to entrust him with my pleasure that I’ve always held so tightly with both fists because I know he’s not going to let me down. Lowry has the capacity, and perhaps more importantly, the desire to provide for me, to care for and nurture me, and yes—as he slides two fingers into my very core—fulfill me.

I cry out and press my heels to the edge of the seat we’re in to get better leverage.

“Yes, Star, yes. Just like that. I want to you to ride my fingers till you come. Think about how when we get home, I’ll peel you out of these clothes and fuck you. You’re going to sit on my lap and ride my cock like this, aren’t you, little girl? Hmm?”

“Yes, Daddy. Oh, god.”

That’s what finally launches me into the throes of orgasm, is thinking about straddling Lowry with his big cock stuffed inside me and rocking up against him, my hard nipples grazing his coarse chest hair, his hands gripping my freshly spanked bottom as he urges me up and down on his thick, hard shaft.

I come hard around his fingers, bite his shoulder, and get a stranglehold on the cotton between my fingers. He’s lucky I haven’t ripped the thing to shreds. No, that’s just how I feel, clinging to him with my legs splayed, buzzing on the downslope of my climax while still clad in my darling outfit, complete with knee socks and Mary Janes: shredded.

He’s torn me into a million pieces with his patience, understanding, acceptance, and dare I say, love. It’s the making me come like the Fourth of July fireworks over the Charles, sure, but it’s more than that. He’s right in this with me, not doing it solely to please me and otherwise grimacing while we play these games.

And while it’s kind of fucked up—okay, very fucked up and I would never admit it, not even to him because he’d be horrified—I like to think we could’ve always been like this. It would’ve been wrong no doubt, and it’s better this way, but god, I could’ve saved myself so much torture and angst over the things I wanted if I’d known there was a man like Lowry who would want them with me.

Chapter 31

Lowry

On the ride home,I’ve been thinking about Starla riding my cock.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye.

Her hands are folded neatly in her lap and I’m gripped by regret because she must have been fretting. I need to be careful. Not that she isn’t an incredibly strong and capable person—she is—but when she’s allowed herself to sink into that little girl headspace, it renders her more vulnerable. And I’ve asked that of her, encouraged it, coaxed it out of her. If I want to be worthy of her trust in me, then I need to do better.

I put a hand over hers and give her a smile.

“Just thinking about what I’m going to do with you when we get inside, that’s all.”

Her answering blush is so lovely.

I guide the car into my spot in the parking garage under my building and lean over the center console to kiss her cheek, take in the sweet smell of her. It might be my imagination, but I swear I can smell the slightly musky scent of her climax lingering on her skin.

“Come on you, I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

The ride up to my apartment feels as though it takes for-goddamn-ever. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to heft her over my shoulder and smack her on the bottom while I hauled her into her childhood home? To have climbed the stairs until I reached her bedroom and then tossed her onto the bed to have my way with her?So, there was a car ride in between. Don’t be a selfish git, Campbell.

And now we’re here. I close the door behind us and turn on her.

I thought before I’d wanted her. Indeed, left because I did and that was a far distance from okay. While I’d like to think that I did love her then, I had no idea I could be consumed by how I feel for her. I knew her struggles, I knew her fortitude and strength, I knew she was beautiful and intelligent, but I had no idea…

Can’t even say for sure what it is about her. Yes, the sex is incredible, but it’s not only that. She’s funny and sly and stubborn and kind and I think I might like to spend the rest of my life figuring out what else she is. And yes, because I can’t help myself, supporting her in the hard times so she can have more joy and freedom and energy to use on things other than simply being alive. She’s taken care of herself and I wouldn’t go so far as to say she needs me—probably would feel uneasy being here with her if I thought she did—but I like to think I make her life better and that my understanding means she doesn’t have to work so damn hard to explain on top of everything else.

Aye, Maeve and I made a promise to be that for each other and then we broke it. Had promised to love and cherish each other until death, but I feel as though even when we were standing up at that altar making our vows to each other, it was more like we were swearing to enjoy each other’s company to the fullest and hold each other in the highest esteem. A recipe for a respectful and fond relationship, certainly, but perhaps not what I would call being in love. I suppose I know better now and I hope she will someday as well. Perhaps Denny will be the one to give her that?

Would Starla want to marry me? I suppose I don’t need the legal documents and the rings and all that—may be a bit much to ask of her anyhow. Especially yet. And if she did, would she want to live here? Or, no, someplace bigger than her studio but that we both could enjoy. I don’t need to live in that grand old place we were at today—maybe would be better for Star if we didn’t, actually—but perhaps somewhere with a bit more space. Whatever happens, I won’t be an arse and ask her about that house again.

She’s right; she can afford to be a bit eccentric—hell, she could be hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of eccentric and still be obscenely wealthy—and what does it matter that she’s chosen to spend a minuscule bit of her fortune keeping a house she doesn’t live in? Wasteful? Sure, but as she pointed out, if it lets her sleep at night then I can hardly call it a waste.

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