Page 106 of Painted Scars
If I have any sense left, I should run while I still can. Escape the fallout. Dodge the coming war. Save myself from ruin and heartbreak. Sense was never my strong suit. I’m running headlong into my dark romance fantasy without a helmet, brakes, or bracing for impact. Skeletons are emerging from closets, and I want front-row seats when they chase the Romans down the street.
If I had any brains, I wouldn’t be this turned on by a man who breaks into my house and lives the way all antiheroes do, carrying me from the ice cream parlor to the arcade like I’m his prize. The size of him, the power he holds in check, the gentleness with which he handles me when I’m vulnerable makes my damn thighs clench.
To hell with it. I want to be Grumpy Daddy’s prize. Want him to fuck me like I belong to him. Ruin me worse than any missile can ever do. Shake underneath him while the world burns around us. I want to be claimed, marked, broken open, worshipped, and wrecked like I’m the war worth losing. Wet his jacket from all the dirty words he whispers in my ear.
Oops. My bad. Slick smears his jacket as he positions me on the pinball machine and steps back.
He rests his elbow on one arm, props his helmet chin on his fist, and sizes me up like the predator he is. “Still good, Glitter Bomb?”
Every muscle in my body is coiled from years of bracing for the wrong kind of touch or look. With him pressed against me, caging me like I’m a treasure, I’m not afraid. I’m in control when I let him take me.
“No more questions, Daddy.” I slide off the machine to shake off my coat. “Unless they involve dirty talk.”
“Stop!” he barks at me, and I fall still. “Hands by your side.”
Oh, dominant Daddy is here.
“Yes, Daddy.” I smile and do as he tells me.
He undresses me with unhurried motions, peeling off my layers, stripping me back to primal hunger with heated kisses and squeezes. When I’m left in nothing but my panties and bra, his hands skim my hips in a possessive yet reverent pass. Fingers drag lower, over my ass, down the back of my thighs, taking my panties with them. Soft nips of my thighs draw shivers from me.
“Good girl.” He kneels in front of me and undoes his boots, keeping his gaze pinned on me.
Fuck, my morally gray stalker on his knees, offering up his sins for me to bless them. Good God. Here comes the striptease. Shirt off. Pants next. It’s more than a religious experience.
“Did you bring me here to play naked air hockey?” I lean back on the machine.
“I brought you here to moan,” he growls, discarding his briefs, palming his cock and massaging the bead of precum into his head.
Absolved of his crime, he removes something from the interior pocket of his jacket. A condom. He stands, breaking theshort distance between us, pressing me up against the machine. Daddy lets me shred the wrapper, and he surprises me, lowering it over the joystick instead of his cock.
“Scared of germs?” I laugh, confused. “Or committed to safe gaming?”
He lets out a dark chuckle and turns it over in his palm tenderly. “This is my lucky joystick.”
“Did you steal it?” I drag my toe along his chest, teasing. “My, oh my, you’re collecting lots of orange flags.”
“I borrowed it,” he corrects, thumb reverently ghosting the globe in the same way he touches me. “Dad grounded me for a week for taking it. Marched me back to return it and apologize to the arcade owner.”
He wraps his fingers over it, treasuring his childhood possession.
“Mom found it the second time Iborrowedit. Disinfected it and let me hide it in the laundry cupboard.” His voice dips into the space he rarely lets me hear. “Warned me not to let Dad see me with it, and urged me to beat the top score at the arcade.”
An aching breath escapes him. It’s more than an old gaming tool to win a stupid arcade game. It’s the last scrap of nostalgia, comfort, and joy.
“Enough reminiscing.” He grabs my coat from the floor and folds it like a pillow, draping it over the machine.
On his return, he lifts me effortlessly onto the machine, positioning me in a crouch. His hands slide up my thighs, fingers rough and callused, made for violence, spreading me open with devastating patience.
“Lie back, Glitter Bomb.” He applies gentle pressure to press my back against my coat. “I’m going to watch you fuck the joystick, Glitter Bomb.”
Oh God. My brain glitches. Did he just say that? No one’s watching, but it feels like they are. My eyes sweep the lengthof toys along the counter. Flick to the corners, searching for cameras.
He grabs my hips. “There are no cameras. I won’t let these bastards watch you spread for me like this.” He collars my throat and forces me to look at him. “This is just for me. Now dance, cowgirl.”
This is the dirtiest and hottest thing we’ve ever done. I rock against the joystick, shameless, bold, and unapologetic, the way he described my obsession with Celine Dion songs. Every press of the small object to my clit sparks heat in me. I want him to watch. To take pleasure in mine. Dare him to do more. Once, this kind of vulnerability felt overwhelming. Now? It’s a victory I claim in full view of the only man I want to see it.
The smooth curve of the stick nudges exactly where I want it, and a moan slips out. Fuck, I feel powerful, a one-woman show, setting this arcade on fire.
