“I remember everything. I remember how you always made me keep my underwear on, and that I never actually saw you”—her gaze flicks downward—”down there. I only felt you with my hand, and since I had nothing to base it on, I assumed all guys were like that.”
“Well, in that case, you’ll be sorely disappointed with this toy.” I snatch the dildo from her hand and toss it back in the open bag.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, planting a hand on her hip. “You left me hanging at the restaurant.”
“And you will stay like that until I say so.”
“You can’t be serious. I’m not allowed to masturbate?”
I shake my head. Unless she wants to perform a private show for me, no. “No touching yourself, no toys, and definitely no other men, until I say.” I take her hand. “Come on, I’ll show you how to drink Scotch.”
“Reece, stop.” Her voice makes me pause on my way from the closet.
I face her and place my finger against her plump lower lip. “You’re trying to top from the bottom, and the more you fight this, the longer it’ll take. Give up control. Go with it, okay?”
I’m not going to explain every small detail to her. Now that we covered how this works, I need some time to properly set up a scene. I won’t rush this. I’ve been waiting six years.
“Fine,” she says, her voice small.
She follows me into the living room and we sit down on the sofa, side by side. It’s not lost on me that we’re alone in my apartment. We could be fucking each other’s brains out right now. I have a drawer full of condoms, and God knows, she’s willing.
But I know myself better now than I did six years ago. I need to keep the control in this situation, separate the sex from the emotion. And the only way I know to do that is through carefully crafting a scene and performing within its parameters. And that takes planning and preparation.
I wanted to give her the world at one time, and I would have. Now I'm questioning my decision to share three sessions with her.
“Good things come to little girls who wait,” I murmur, tucking a stray lock of chestnut-colored hair behind her ear.
“You’re a confusing man,” she says, blinking those stunning baby blues up at me.
“For good reason, my pet. Trust me.”
“I do,” she says without hesitation.
Ignoring the little pang I feel in my chest, I continue. “Now, I know you drink whiskey, but what about Scotch?”
“What’s the difference?” she asks, leaning closer and watching me swirl the amber-colored liquor in my glass.
“I’ll show you. Drinking Scotch is like having a one-night stand with a grizzly bear. If you’re not careful, you’ll regret it in the morning.”
She glares at me, not amused, probably still cranky from the orgasm-denial tactic I used with her earlier. Too fucking bad. I didn’t get off either, princess.
“And for another thing,” I continue. “Scotch is whiskey made in Scotland and aged in oak barrels for at least three years.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Close your eyes.”
“Stop being ridiculous. A little bit of Scotch isn’t going to douse this need I have.”
“The sooner you cooperate, the sooner—”
“Fine.” She closes her eyes and fixes a polite smile on her face. “Happy?”
“For now.” I bring the glass under her nose. “Inhale.” She does, drawing a deep breath, and with it the distinct harsh scent. “Good. Open your eyes.”
She does, blinking them at me, clearly wondering what game we’re playing.
“Scotch is a man’s drink. The taste is raw masculinity filled with complex, biting flavors, a rich caramel color, and even a price tag that speaks of sophistication and dominance.”
“I see,” she says, her response coming out as more of an exhale than actual words.
“Scotch is a drink that’s meant to be savored and enjoyed slowly. Just like my first time with a new submissive, it’s important to use care and go slowly. Tossing it back as a shot would be a damn shame for something so exquisite.”
Her eyes follow mine as understanding dawns in them. I’m not in this for a quick fuck. We will do this, explore this thing between us, but it will be in a controlled fashion, and it’ll happen when and how I say.
“Open for me.” I bring the glass to her mouth and allow her a tiny sip, knowing the smoky flavors are burning her tongue as she swallows.
Everything I do, the core of who I am now, is all about restraint. I don’t know why it’s so important for me that she see that. It just is. I’m not that carefree, hope-filled guy of twenty she remembers. From the way I conduct my business to the scenes I share with my subs, it’s a transaction. A give and take. Goal. Set. Match.
“Reece?” She averts her eyes, her fingers toying with the hem of her dress in the most distracting way.
“Hmm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can.”
“Will you be . . . are you . . .”
“Get it out, sweetheart.”
“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”
Straightening my shoulders, I set the glass of Scotch on the low table in front of us. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” My tone is gruff and I instantly regret it. I hate how all my reactions with her make me feel as if I’ve done something wrong.