two out of three. Ladies choice or my choice,” I whisper, taking her chin in my hand. She pulls away.
Shaking her head and taking my own face into her hands she says, “One out of one.”
Not one to waste time, I place one of my large fists on top of my flat palm. “Say when,” I say, keeping my poker face tight. She wins this fucking game more than I do; psychic powers or some other unexplainable voodoo. It’s spooky as shit.
She responds by clapping her tiny fist on her palm and starting. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” we both say at the same time. She throws rock and by the grace of God I throw paper. I fold my paper on top of her rock, and conceal her tiny hand in mine. “I win,” I say. When I look at her face, I find that she’s staring at our hands. She’s scared to lose. More, she’s fearful of losing control.
I can remedy this.
“My choice is lady’s choice,” I say, standing from the couch while pulling her up to stand. “I choose your bedroom and you choose the activity.” Hesitantly, her gray eyes meet mine.
She doesn’t say another word. She merely leads my paper hand up to her childhood bedroom—the very same bedroom where I dreamed about taking her a million different ways. I close the heavy wooden door and lean against it as I watch a very grown up version of the same girl walk toward the large white bed in the center of the room. Her hips perfectly sculpted, the sway in her walk telling me everything. This is no girl. This is a woman. One who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. For some crazy ass reason she thinks I can give it to her.
“If you’re truly shirking your winning responsibilities and want me to choose, then I want you right here in the middle of this bed. Clothing off.” She holds a finger up when she sees me trying to get a word in. I close my mouth. “No talking. I’m in control.”
Pressing my lips into a firm line, I try to control my hammering heart. I expected something along these lines, but it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. I might as well braid my hair and kneel at the foot of her bed, because that’s as much control as she’s going to give to me.
For her, I can do what makes her comfortable even if it makes me uncomfortable. I’m a fucking man. A beast. A predator in the bedroom. She’s asking me to put on a kitten suit and play by a set of unfamiliar rules.
I nod, take the back collar of my shirt into one hand, and pull it over my head and step out of my shorts and underwear in ten seconds flat. Not taking my eyes off her face, her hair, her chest, her lips, I see her nerves dancing all over the place. This is what she thinks she wants…or needs. I take a deep breath and steel all my self-control into one big pile and walk past her to flop down on the middle of her bed. Folding my arms behind my head, I shoot her my best reassuring smile and wait. My cock is hard, because it has no clue it’s not in control yet. It only heard the words “take off your clothing.”
Morganna’s gaze roams my body freely, her pillow puff lips separate in a perfect pout. I bite my lip when her knowing eyes find mine. I still don’t move. Honestly, if my hands weren’t restrained behind my head they would find a way into her pussy quicker than a trigger pull. I pray whatever she has planned lasts less than an hour or real triggers will be pulled when her daddy gets home and bears witness to us locked away in this room.
I open my mouth to urge her forward, but shut it again when I remember the rules. Obey. I can obey a few simple requests.
Morg takes off her dress, pulling it over her head and revealing the hottest— and I do mean hottest—lace lingerie I’ve ever seen. I know this because it’s the reason I purchased it. It’s Agent Provocteur, a brand I know she likes to wear. The black lace stands out in stark contrast to her creamy skin, but it matches her hair perfectly. The panties hug her curves and the sheer bra doesn’t conceal her