Page 77 of Crushing Clover

Despite my objection, I could feel myself caving.

“What if licking your dirty boot makes me sick?”

“Do it, you little fuck. Quit stalling.”

Disgusted, I stuck out my tongue and touched the tip of it to the leather.

“No,” he growled in my ear. “Lick it.” His tone suggested he was thinking of something other than his boot. Fucking creep. All he needed to do was tell me he wanted a blowjob, and I would do it, but no. He had to make things weird.

Steeling myself, I dragged my tongue over the toe of his boot, unable to ignore the convulsive tightening of his grip in my hair.

“Like this?” I whispered, feeling him shudder against my back. “Is this what you want?”

“Yesss,” he hissed.

I dragged my tongue over it again, feeling the grit. I was glad he didn’t use shoe polish.

“Clean my boots, you dirty little whore. This is the only thing you should be using that tongue for. Nobody wants to hear you talk.” His words were trying to worm their way into my head, but the part of me that might have believed him, once upon a time, had shrunk. I knew damned well that both Lucky and Rush wanted me, even if Saint didn’t, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to please him—and yet I never managed to do it.

“The only reason you’re still here is because you look like someone I used to love.”

I didn’t even like the man, so why did his words hurt?

He hated me, and there probably wasn’t anything I could do to change his mind, but I’d always been a people-pleaser. No matter what I tried to tell myself, his constant rejection stung.

“That’s right,” he muttered, watching with avid attention. I was so focused on not wanting to do what I was doing, that I didn’t immediately catch on to the fact that the uncomfortable bar against my ass wasn’t my imagination—it was a cock in need of attention.

I licked his boot again. My body eagerly pointed out how interested he was in making me do it. His groan was quiet, muffled in the hair behind my ear, but the quiet arousal of it made me gasp.

“You fucking love this, don’t you,” he said, his words thick with lust. “You want to make me happy, no matter what disgusting, humiliating task I give you.”

I took another long lick of his boot, the entire top of it glistening with my spit. I wished this was only making me angry instead of turning me on, but I was completely lost in his words, doing what he said not only because I was afraid of reprisal, but also because it was true.

I wanted to please him—I needed to.

If I could seduce him, he might be nicer.

If I could convince them to keep me, I would be safe.

That was the only reason, though, right? There was nothing more to this than self-preservation.

But as he pressed against my ass, I knew it wasn’t only that. Despite his twisted, fucked-up way of treating me, I wanted him. It was hot when he was a little mean.

Bossing me around. Hurting me.

Was it Stockholm Syndrome? Maybe, but I trembled with lust anyway. I wanted him to pull aside my panties and sink his cock into me. My skirt was so short that washing the floor had turned it into a belt.

Unable to resist, I pushed back against him. My head was a mess, but my body was in control, ignoring my brain’s objections. Part of me liked the mean shit he did far too much.

He grabbed my hips with cruel fingers and held me in place so he could grind against my ass.

He hated me, but part of him wanted me anyway, and that knowledge filled me with a weird sense of power.

As if he could read my mind, he hooked a finger into the edge of my panties and tugged them aside, the fabric biting into my skin. I gasped, but froze in place, embarrassingly ready for whatever came next.

“Did I tell you to fucking stop?”

“No, Saint.” I took a deliberately suggestive lick of his other boot as he ran shaking fingers over my pussy.

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