Despite my apathy, Wildflower is running smoothly. Delilah and Foxy fill me in daily, and try to enlist me in decision-making, but I have little interest in anything besides brooding.
Although Delilah is never far from my most pressing thoughts.
My brooding and moping are mostly about her. I toy with the idea of sending her away. Her mere presence makes me feel small, like I’ve lost my purpose in life.
She saved me. And she risked her life to do it. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I should have been protecting her. I should be taking care of her now.
It’s not misogyny or an outdated notion. It was my role in the relationship that we forged. I lead. She follows. But some days, I can’t walk from one end of the apartment to the other without getting winded. I’m of little use to anyone. Especially Delilah.
But I can’t do it. I’m too selfish. I love her too much to send her away, like a decent man might do. I’m taking the coward’s way out instead. Acting so obnoxious that eventually she’s going to tell me to go fuck myself, and slam the door behind her. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Not at first. But when it became obvious, even to me, I didn’t stop the destructive behavior. I still haven’t stopped.
There are footsteps approaching, and I glance up from my tablet to Delilah sashaying into the bedroom. Her beauty and resilience still slay me. She has a bounce in her step, even after working all day and evening. Even knowing that she’s coming home to a cranky bastard.
“Everything’s closed up downstairs,” she says, handing me the remote to the bullet vibrator I’d made her wear in public that first night we had supper at Wildflower.
“What’s this about?”
“It’s the remote to that evil little vibrator,” she says, with the throaty voice of a vixen. “I know the app’s on your phone, but I didn’t want to mess with it. I thought we’d use the remote instead.”
“I know what it is,” I sneer. Sex had been an important part of our relationship. It had been a safe harbor for Delilah’s submission. The one time where she always let me lead, without argument. But we haven’t had sex since the plane on the way home from Amidane. I glare at the vibrator with disdain. “What exactly do you expect me to do with it?”
She steps closer to where I’m resting, and straddles my legs with her feet on the floor and her hands on the arms of the chair. She’s in my face. “What I expect,” she declares in a clear, exacting voice, “is for you to show some interest in meeting my needs. That is, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself for the ten minutes it’ll take to give me an orgasm.”
Shame washes over me, and I feel smaller and less like a man than I had already been feeling. I lash out without bothering to sugarcoat a single word. “Meet your own needs. Or have you gotten so spoiled you’ve forgotten how to take care of yourself?” I toss the remote across the room, but it doesn’t go far, because I’m still a weak sonofabitch.
Without blinking, Delilah picks the damn thing up off the floor. “Fine,” she replies, in a voice that means things are far from fine.
But I don’t give a shit.
She doesn’t spare me even a small glance before she reaches under her skirt, pushes aside the lacy thong, and dips her fingers into that pussy I once worshiped. With great aplomb, she pulls out the small toy—all while I watch, captivated by her self-assurance.
“Stand up, turn around, and bend over. Ass in the air,” she demands, grabbing a tube of lube from the nightstand.
She’s never spoken to me in this way. No one has. They wouldn’t dare. Sure, she’s been insolent and argumentative, putting me in my place when the occasion called for it, but this is different. This is a direct challenge, aimed at the very heart of who I am. “What the hell are you talking about?” The bitterness curls around each syllable.
“Since you don’t want to control the remote, I figure you must want me to shove this special Lush prototype up your ass, so I can control the remote. Works for me.”
I gape at her. The vibrations inside are the equivalent to an earth-shattering seismic event, catapulting me from the bowels of hell, and unleashing a basic, primal drive that shakes me to the core.
“It works for you, does it?” Her face tilts up, in a huffy little pout—a rebellion.
You are not staging this kind of a rebellion against me, Blue Eyes. Not while I’m still breathing.
“I’m the team leader. That kind of insolence won’t be tolerated.” My tone is firm, and unyielding. It invites no backtalk. “There will be consequences. Not just today, but ongoing.”
Her brow is raised, as she continues to test me. It’s a silent, but unmistakable prodding.
“Take your clothes off, Delilah, for me.”
A ghost of a smile forms as she undresses slowly, shaking her gorgeous ass at me more than necessary. It awakens my cock from a slumber that’s lasted too damn long.
When fully naked, she drops the vibrator and the remote into my lap, and stands waiting for instructions, with her hands behind her and her eyes lowered.
“I won’t be needing these.” I place the toys on the table next to me. “Get the leather case from the bottom shelf of my closet.” I stand, and the pain claws at me with every movement, but I don’t wince. “But first, come here.”
Delilah steps closer, so close I feel the heat emanating from her body.
With the resolve of a dying man wanting to save himself, wanting to save us, I slide my fingers through her silky hair and press my mouth to hers, feeding off her lips, her tongue, exploring every crevice of her body with eager hands and probing fingers. I’ve missed this so damn much. Missed her so much.
All I hear are the sounds of arousal. Pounding hearts, blood coursing, and Delilah’s sultry moans and purrs filling my soul until the need for more pulls us apart. “Go,” I murmur, but neither of us wants her to go. I sure as hell don’t.
Eventually she turns toward the closet, rolling back a satchel of toys that she lays at my feet. I can’t bend to rifle through the bag. The realization rattles me, and the anxiety starts to build. Aside from a few unsatisfying attempts at jacking off in the shower, my dick has been largely dormant. What if—
“Sir,” she whispers, jolting me from my fears.
Dominance isn’t about sex. For some people, it doesn’t involve sex at all. I’ve repeated this countless times to Dominants and submissives just entering the lifestyle. For most of us, it’s who we are at our center. The roles are a state of mind, not a sexual missive.
I gaze at the remarkable woman who threw me a lifeline tonight. “Take out the Hitachi.”
Her eyes shimmer at the word. The flush creeps across her chest in a web pattern, making my dick throb.
“Do you need to be bound?” It’s a challenge, because I know before I ask that she’s too damn proud to say yes.
She lifts her chin, and shakes her head. “No, Sir.”
I motion to the Tantra chair, steadying her while she drapes her prone body over the highest arch, where I can have easy access to everything that will give us both pleasure.
“I want to see my pussy,” I demand.
She spreads her legs for me, hooking her feet around the chair.