Chapter 2: Mile-High Accountability
The porcelain was cold against her knees. The engine hum vibrated up through the marble floor of the jet’s bathroom, into her bones. Willow’s eyes, reflected blurry and smudged in the fogged mirror, were locked on his. Mascara traced dark rivers down her caramel cheeks. King’s grip in her curls was unforgiving, a fistful of anchor holding her in place as he rocked his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into her throat.
“Suck my dick like you sucked that nigga’s soul in your DMs last night,” he snarled, his voice low and graveled with a rage that had been simmering since he’d seen the screenshot. Some club promoter from Houston, a nobody with a flashy watch and a smirk, had slid into her mentions. You too fine to be some man’s trophy. She’d liked the comment. Just a like. A tiny, heart-shaped spark to the dry tinder of his possessiveness.
Her throat worked around him, a practiced, willing surrender. She didn’t gag. She’d learned years ago how to take all of him, how to breathe through her nose and let the thick, musky taste of him coat her tongue. Her nails dug into the dense muscle of his tattooed thighs, feeling the tension there. She could feel the contained violence in him, the storm he would never, ever unleash on her with his fists. It all came out here. In this helpless, consuming claim.
He fucked her mouth with a steady, punishing rhythm, his other hand braced against the vanity. “This mouth,” he grunted, watching himself disappear between her lips, “is for praising me. For sucking my soul out. Not for talking back. Not for smiling at broke-ass niggas on the internet.” His thrusts grew sharper, deeper. “You understand me, Mama?”
She made a muffled sound around him, a vibration that made his eyes screw shut. A tear escaped, cutting a new path through the black smudge on her cheek.
“Show Daddy why this mouth ain’t meant for talking back,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Just for swallowing what’s yours.”
His hips stuttered. His grip tightened in her hair, a painful, delicious anchor. A guttural groan tore from his chest as he came, pulsing hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed reflexively, taking every drop, her eyes never leaving his reflected gaze in the mirror. He held her there until he was spent, soft, until she had taken the last shuddering pulse of him.
He finally released her hair, his hand coming up to wipe roughly at the tear on her cheek, smearing the mascara further. “Get up.”
She rose on shaky legs, the cold air hitting the wetness around her lips. He didn’t pull her into an embrace. He turned her to face the sink, his body a solid wall at her back. He reached around her, pumped a dollop of vanilla-scented soap into his palms, and began to wash her face with a shocking, brutal tenderness. The warm water, his rough thumbs smoothing over her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth. He was cleaning his own mess from her. When he was done, he blotted her face with a thick, white towel.
He studied her, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he slapped her ass, hard. The crack echoed in the small space. “Go sit down. We’re landing.”
Life went on like that.
The cycles bled into weeks, then months. A perpetual rhythm of separation, temptation, accusation, and obliterating reunion. King built his empire wider, deals sealed in steakhouses and on golf courses, his phone buzzing with orders and threats in equal measure. Willow built her business, her client list swelling with influencers and wives who wanted to look like her, who wanted to whisper their own dramas to her while she shaped their brows.
The distance between cities was a live wire. Her phone was a minefield. A tagged photo of King at a club in L.A., beautiful women orbiting him like eager satellites. A forwarded video from a “friend” of a girl from Dallas, drunk and boasting about how “King Carter ate my pussy in the VIP like it was his last meal.” Willow’s heart would turn to stone. She’d stare at the image, the video, until her vision blurred. She wouldn’t cry. She’d get cold. A calculated, deadly cold.
She’d wait.
She’d send him a picture of her in a new, lingerie set, sheer and lace, captioned Thinking of you, Daddy. She’d post a story of herself laughing in her studio, looking vibrant and utterly, blissfully independent. She’d let the poison of suspicion curdle inside her until he walked through her door.
The fight would start before the door closed.
“Who the fuck is Jasmine from Dallas?” she’d ask, her voice deceptively light, as she scrolled on her phone, not looking at him.
He’d drop his bag. “Who?”
“Jasmine. Says you made her sing soprano in the bathroom of The Gold Room.” She’d finally look up, her eyes glacial. “That sound familiar?”
He’d sigh, running a hand over his face. “Willow, come on. You listening to gossip now?”
“I’m looking at a fucking video, Marcellus! She’s showing your chain! The one I gave you!” Her composure would shatter. She’d launch herself at him, not to hug him, but to pummel his chest with her fists. “You let her touch my chain? You let her put her fucking mouth on what’s mine?”
He’d stand there, letting her hit him. Thud. Thud. Thud against the solid wall of his chest. He’d let her slap his shoulder, his arm. He’d catch her wrists when she went for his face. “You done?”
“No, I ain’t done! You disrespectful motherfucker!” She’d try to kick him, a wild, ineffectual swing of her leg.
He’d yank her into him, her back against his front, his arms like steel bands around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She’d struggle, screaming curses into the empty room.
“That chain,” he’d growl into her ear, his breath hot, “is on my neck. That means it’s where I say it is. My body is mine. And my body,” he’d grind his hardening cock against her ass, “belongs to you. That jealous shit is for little girls. You a queen. Act like it.”
“Fuck you!” she’d sob, the fight draining into a furious hurt.
“That’s the plan.”
He’d spin her around, his mouth descending on hers, a brutal, silencing kiss. She’d bite his lip. He’d grunt, sucking the blood, and kiss her harder. His hands would rip her clothes, the expensive fabrics tearing under his urgency. He’d back her into the wall of her living room, her bare skin against the cool paint.
There was never a gentle re-entry. It was always a reconquest. He’d hoist her up, her legs around his waist, and push into her with one relentless thrust. She’d be wet—anger was its own aphrodisiac—but tight, clenched around him with residual fury. He’d fuck her like that, against the wall, his rhythm jarring and deep.
“This what you want?” he’d grunt, his face buried in her neck. “You want to fight? Fight this dick. See if you can win.”
She’d moan, her head knocking back against the wall, the pain a counterpoint to the pleasure splitting her open. “It’s mine,” she’d chant, a broken record. “All mine.”
“Damn right it is. You feel it? You feel how deep this shit goes? Them hoes out there get a taste. You get the whole fucking meal.” He’d drive into her, over and over, the sound of their skin slapping together filling the room. “You gonna cry about some thirsty bitch from Dallas while I’m breaking your back in this pussy?”
He’d carry her to the floor, the plush rug abrasive against her skin. He’d flip her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up. He’d enter her from behind, one hand fisting her curls, the other digging into the soft flesh of her hip. This angle was deeper, more vulnerable. He’d own her completely.
“You see this?” he’d snarl, gesturing to the mirror across the room where their reflection was a tangled, furious knot. “Look at that. Look at you taking this dick like you were born for it. That’s what I own. That right there.”
He’d spank her, hard, the sharp crack making her jump and cry out, her inner muscles clamping down on him involuntarily. “You like that? You like when Daddy punishes this greedy little pussy for making me chase you?”
She’d be sobbing, but the sobs were tangled with cries of “Yes! Yes, Daddy! Please!”
He’d pull out, suddenly, leaving her empty and aching. “Turn over.”
She’d obey, flipping onto her back, her chest heaving. He’d kneel between her legs, spread them wide, and lower his head. His tongue would spear her, licking up the combined wetness, lapping at her clit with a focused, ruthless pressure. He’d make her cum like that, with his mouth, her back arching off the floor as she screamed. Before the tremors even subsided, he’d be sliding back into her, his weight crushing her into the rug.
He’d fuck her slowly then, deeply, his eyes locked on hers. “This is home,” he’d say, his voice stripped of all anger, just raw intensity. “Right here. My dick in this pussy. That’s my home. You understand? Everything else is just… noise.”
He’d make her come again, a slower, deeper unraveling that felt like her soul was being pulled from her body. Only then would he let himself go, pumping his release into her with a shuddering groan, collapsing on top of her so his full weight pressed her into the floor.
They’d lie there, slick and spent, for a long time. The silent apartment would settle around them. He’d roll off, pulling her with him so her head rested on his chest. He’d trace the willow tree on his neck, his other hand stroking her hair.
“My crazy-ass queen,” he’d whisper.
“My stupid-ass king,” she’d murmur back, her finger drawing circles in his sweat.
“My stupid-ass king,” she’d murmur back, her finger drawing circles in his sweat. The peace, as always, was a temporary truce written on skin still humming from his possession. It lasted three days.
On the fourth, he canceled their planned weekend. A text, not a call. Emergency in Vegas. Handle it. Back Monday. No apology. No soft Mama. Just the cold transaction of an emperor to a subject. She stared at the screen in her sterile waxing room, the vanilla scent of her oils suddenly cloying. She saw the unspoken words: the club, the women, the endless empire that comes first. Her heart didn’t break; it crystallized into something sharp and clear.
She powered off her phone. She didn’t call. She didn’t text. She went silent, a total void in the digital noise of his world. For forty-eight hours, she was a ghost. He called twelve times. He sent texts that went from annoyed (Answer me, Willow) to furious (This ain’t a game) to, finally, a cold command (Turn your phone on). She left them all in the void, unread.
On Saturday night, she went to Theory. She wore a dress he’d bought her—a tight, shimmery silver thing that clung to every curve and plunged deep in the back. She made sure her makeup was impeccable, her curls perfect. She posted a story on a backup account he didn’t know she had: a slow-motion video of her laughing, head thrown back, a glass of champagne in her hand, the bass thumping. The caption read: Vibes. For me. She tagged the location.
She let men buy her drinks. She let a smooth-faced basketball player, all long limbs and easy smile, rest his hand on the small of her back as they danced. She leaned into his touch, let her body sway against his, let him whisper in her ear. She made sure they were seen. A blogger, all sharp angles and sharper camera lens, caught them. The photo hit a local gossip page by 1 AM: Willow Jones, longtime muse of entrepreneur King Carter, painting the town… and it ain’t with his colors. Who’s the new MVP?
She went home with the ball player. His name was Julian. His condo smelled of lemons and new money. In his sleek, modern bedroom, under cool white lights, she let him undress her. His hands were softer than King’s, his touch more tentative. When he entered her, she winced at the foreignness of the latex. He fucked her slowly, then faster, his breath hot on her neck. “Damn, girl,” he groaned. “You feel incredible.”
She closed her eyes, her mind a thousand miles away. “Just like that,” she said, her voice flat. She thought of the cold, unread messages piling up on her nightstand. She pictured King’s face if he could see her now. The thought, sharp and vengeful, sent a illicit thrill through her. She dug her nails into Julian’s back, arching to meet his thrusts, faking the sounds he wanted to hear until he shuddered and collapsed beside her. She left before he woke up, the condom discarded in his stainless steel trash can.
King’s key turned in her lock just after noon on Monday. He didn’t call ahead. He burst in, a storm contained in black denim and fury. He found her in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his old t-shirts, calmly blending a smoothie. The scent of kale and pineapple filled the air.
He threw his phone on the counter. The screen showed the blog photo, her smiling up at Julian. “Explain this.”
Willow took a slow sip from her blender cup, her eyes meeting his over the rim. She swallowed. “Explain what?” Her voice was a bored hum.
The casual tone was a match dropped in gasoline. His jaw tightened. “Don’t fucking play with me, Willow. You ghost me for two days? Then I gotta see this? You dancing with some… some jumper?”
She shrugged one bare shoulder, turning to rinse the blender. “I went out. I danced. So what?” The nonchalance was a weapon, finely honed.
He moved so fast she flinched. He was across the kitchen in two strides, his hand slamming down on the countertop next to her, caging her in. The violence of the motion, the restraint in it, made her breath catch. The smoothie churned in her stomach, a sour contrast to the sudden, pooling heat between her legs.
“So what?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low. “You let that nigga touch you. You let him put his hands on what’s mine. You think this is a game? You think you can just get your lick back?”
She looked up at him, her gaze steady, defiant. The fear was there, a cold thread underneath, but it was drowned by a wet, aching throb that pulsed in time with his anger. “You cancel on me. You disappear. What did you expect me to do? Sit here and wait?”
He didn’t answer with words. His hand snaked out, gripping the neckline of the t-shirt. He ripped it clean open, buttons pinging against the cabinets. She stood there, exposed from the waist up, not moving. His eyes drank in the sight, a predator assessing a blatant challenge. “You want to play?” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that scraped over her skin. “Let’s play.”
He turned her around, bending her over the cold granite of the kitchen island. The shock of the stone against her bare stomach made her gasp. He didn’t bother with her shorts, just yanked them and her panties down to her knees in one brutal motion. The air was cold on her bare ass. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of his jeans being shoved down just enough.
There was no preparation. No gentle touch. He spat on his hand, slicked himself once, thick and angry, and then he was pushing into her. She was dry, tight from tension and the suddenness of it. The initial stretch burned, a sharp, punishing intrusion that forced a choked cry from her throat. He didn’t stop. He pushed through the resistance, seating himself fully inside her with a single, merciless thrust.
“This what you wanted?” he growled, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. He pulled back and slammed into her again, the sound raw and wet. “You wanted some random dick? You got it.”
She clenched her teeth, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth stone. The pain was already melting, transforming into a deep, overwhelming fullness. Her body betrayed her, slickness starting to well from a place of pure, twisted excitement. He was fucking her with a furious, driving rhythm, each thrust punishing the granite into her hips.
“He use a rubber?” King snarled, leaning over her, his chest plastered to her back. “Huh? That motherfucker bagged up before he got a taste of my pussy?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, the lie and truth tangling.
“Good.” He punctuated the word with a particularly deep stroke. “Because this is the only dick that gets to be in here raw. You understand me? This is the only load that gets to fill you up.” He pulled almost all the way out, then surged back in, making her cry out. “You feel that? You feel how deep I own you?”
She could only moan, a string of fragmented pleas and curses. The sheer, violating possession of it, the complete absence of gentleness, was unlocking something feral in her. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, earning a sharp slap on her ass that stung and sang.
“You like this?” he taunted, his hand coming around to pinch her clit, hard. “You like when Daddy has to punish this disobedient cunt? When I have to fuck the memory of another man’s hands right out of you?”
“Yes!” The word was torn from her, ragged and true. “Daddy, yes!”
“Whose pussy is this?” he demanded, his pace becoming erratic, animalistic.
“Yours!” she screamed, her forehead pressed against the cold stone.
“Say it again.”
“Yours! It’s yours! It’s always been yours!” She was sobbing now, the climax tearing through her with a violence that matched his, her body seizing around him in frantic, pulsing waves.
He followed her over the edge with a guttural roar, his own release pumping into her, hot and claiming, as his hips jerked against her ass. He collapsed over her, his weight driving her into the counter, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken syncopation.
He stayed inside her for a long moment. Then he softened, slid out. He turned her around, his hands rough on her face, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were black, fathomless. “You pull that shit again,” he said, each word a low, deliberate punch, “and I won’t just wreck this pussy. I’ll burn his whole world down. And then I’ll rebuild yours around my fist. You hear me?”
She nodded, too shattered for words. The smoothie was a puddle on the floor. Her shirt was ruined. Her body throbbed. And deep in the wreckage, a part of her, the darkest part, preened. She had made him this feral. She had drawn this out of him. It was hers.
He picked her up, carrying her to the shower. He washed her silently, his touch now methodical, almost clinical. When he was done, he wrapped her in a towel and put her to bed. He stood in the doorway, watching her curl into the sheets. “Go to sleep,” he said, his voice finally empty of fury, just tired. “I got business.”
He left. She lay in the quiet, listening to the echo of his words, the ghost of his possession still aching between her legs. Outside, her phone, finally powered on, began to buzz. Once. Twice. A hundred times. She didn’t move. She just smiled into the pillow, a secret, victorious curve of her lips. The game was far from over.
The game was far from over.
Two months later, the board had been reset, but the players remained the same. Willow navigated her days with a calculated calm. Her business thrived. Her smile in photos was electric, unburdened. She posted for her audience, for her brand, never for him. The stream of intimate pictures to his private number ceased. Her texts were brief, informative. Studio light blew. Need electrician. Or, Deposit cleared. Thanks.
She never called him Daddy.
The omission was a deafening silence. It carved a hollow in his chest that business deals and club bottles couldn’t fill. His calls to her became perfunctory, their conversations brittle with unspoken accusations. “You good?” he’d ask, his voice flat.
“I’m perfect,” she’d reply, the smile audible in her tone.
The night it happened was a Thursday. He was in Phoenix. She wore a dress like sin itself, a blood-red latex number that molded to every curve, leaving little to imagination. She went to a warehouse party in Wynwood, the bass thumping through the concrete floor into the soles of her feet. She didn’t go alone. Malik’s cousin, Dre, was there. He was all street, with heavy-lidded eyes and gold-capped teeth, his reputation preceding him like a shadow.
He leaned against the wall next to her, smelling of weed and expensive cologne. “King ain’t gonna like you here lookin’ like that,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“King ain’t here,” she responded, sipping her drink, her eyes scanning the crowd.
Dre laughed, a sound like gravel. “Yeah, I see.”
He was taller than King, but leaner. All coiled tension and sharp angles. He danced with her, his hands settling on her hips with a proprietary ease that made her skin prickle. She let him. She leaned into the solid heat of his body, let him whisper in her ear, let his lips brush her temple. The music was a pulse. Her own heartbeat was a rebellion.
Later, in the dim hallway near the bathrooms, he backed her against the stained brick. His hand slid up her thigh, the latex squeaking under his palm. “You know what you doin’?” he asked, his thumb tracing the edge of her dress.
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she breathed.
His place was a penthouse with a view of the city, all cold marble and minimalist art. He undressed her slowly, his eyes hungry. He was thick, impressively so, a heavy weight in his hand that made her breath catch. He rolled the condom on with a deliberate slowness, watching her face. When he pushed into her, she gasped. It was a different kind of stretch, unfamiliar and shocking. She closed her eyes.
“Fuck,” Dre groaned, his hands gripping her ass, spreading her wider. “You tight as hell. He ain’t hittin’ it right.”
She didn’t think of King. She focused on the sensation, the raw, physical invasion of it. She met his thrusts, her nails digging into his shoulders, her moans loud and unfeigned. She came hard, her body arching off his black silk sheets, a scream torn from her throat. It was a purely animal release, devoid of history or heart. He followed soon after, collapsing with a satisfied grunt. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, a cold clarity settling in her veins. She took a shower in his rainfall showerhead, dressed in silence, and left without a word.
The blog post hit the next afternoon. A grainy, dark video from the warehouse party. It showed a woman in a red dress, her back to the camera, pressed against a tall, thuggish-looking man. His hands were unmistakably on her ass. Her head was thrown back in laughter. The caption read: Looks like King Carter’s throne might have a vacant spot. Who’s warming his queen?
The faces were obscured, but the dress was hers. The body was hers.
King saw it on his way to the airport. The text from Malik was just a link. No commentary needed. The hollow in his chest filled with molten lead. He stared out at the Phoenix tarmac, his reflection a grim statue in the jet window. His fingers typed out three words to her: Be home tonight.
Her reply was instantaneous. I have a late client. Might be in late.
He landed just after ten. His house was dark, silent, and empty. He poured three fingers of whiskey, swallowed them neat, and waited in the living room chair like a king holding court in an empty hall. The click of her key in the door echoed at one AM. She moved through the foyer, her heels sharp on the marble. She saw him sitting in the dark, the amber liquid in his glass catching the city lights.
She didn’t jump. She placed her bag on the console. “You’re back early.”
“Sit down,” he said. His voice was quiet, so calm it vibrated with latent violence.
“I’m tired, Marcellus.”
“Sit. The fuck. Down.” Each word was a nail.
She sat on the edge of the sofa opposite him, crossing her legs. The red latex dress gleamed in the low light. She looked like victory incarnate.
“You see this?” He didn’t move, just lifted his phone, the blog post glowing on the screen.
She glanced at it. She shrugged. A slow, deliberate lift and drop of one shoulder. “Looks like a party. Could be anyone.”
The glass in his hand cracked. A single, sharp line webbed through the crystal. Whiskey seeped over his fingers. He placed the ruined glass on the table with a deliberate softness that was more terrifying than a slam. “You think this is funny?”
“I think,” she said, smoothing the latex over her thigh, “you’re getting worked up over a blurry video. You’ve been in clearer ones.”
His laugh was a short, harsh bark. “So this is payback.”
“This is me living my life.” She uncrossed her legs. The sound was obscenely loud. “You don’t call. You don’t visit. You cancel. I’m supposed to sit here, smelling your cologne on the pillows, waiting for my lord to return?” She shook her head, a slow smile playing on her lips. “No, Daddy. That game got old.”
The word. Daddy. It wasn’t a surrender. It was a taunt. A spark thrown onto gasoline.
He was on her before she could blink. He moved with a speed that defied his size, one hand locking around her throat, pushing her back into the plush cushions. He didn’t squeeze to cut off air, not yet. He pinned her, his face inches from hers, his eyes black pits of fury. “You went out. You let a nigga put his hands on you. You fucked him.”
Her breath hitched, but her gaze was fearless. Wetness bloomed instantly between her legs, a hot, shameless flood. “Maybe I did.” The challenge was a whisper.
His other hand gripped the neckline of the dress. He ripped it. The latex tore with a shriek, baring her to the waist. His hand left her throat, grabbing her breast, squeezing hard. “His dick good? Huh? He fill you up better than I do?”
She moaned, her head falling back. “He was… sufficient.”
The word was a detonation. A guttural sound ripped from his chest. He tore the rest of the dress from her body, leaving her naked on his sofa. He fumbled with his belt, his jeans, his movements jerky with rage. He didn’t undress. He just freed himself, thick and already leaking, angrier than she’d ever seen him.
He shoved her legs apart, his body coming down over hers. There was no spit, no preamble. He notched the head of his cock against her entrance, finding her soaking wet. “You’re a fucking liar,” he snarled, and plunged into her in one brutal stroke.
She cried out, a sound of pure, shocked pleasure. He was impossibly deep, a burning, perfect invasion. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He set a punishing pace, each thrust slamming her body into the couch, the friction of the upholstery burning her back.
“Sufficient?” he roared, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. “This sufficient for you?” He drilled into her, his balls slapping against her skin. “You think about his sufficient dick while I’m burying mine in this cheating cunt?”
“Yes!” she screamed, her body already coiling, the mix of his anger and his possession a drug. “I thought about it! I thought about his big, thick dick while I was coming on it!”
He choked her then. For real. His hand returned to her throat, his fingers applying actual pressure. The edges of her vision spotted. Her lungs screamed. A fresh, violent wave of pleasure crashed through her, dragging a orgasm from her depths so intense her body bowed off the couch. He felt her convulse around him, saw her eyes roll back, and he released her throat just as the blackness began to crowd in.
She gasped, sucking in air, her climax still rippling through her. He hadn’t stopped fucking her. “You gonna die on this dick,” he promised, his voice ragged. “You understand? You’re gonna die for it.”
He flipped her over onto her knees, yanking her hips up. He entered her from behind, one hand back on her throat, pulling her head back, the other digging into her hip. The angle was devastating. He hit a place that made her see white. “Who owns this?” he demanded, thrusting so hard the couch scraped across the floor.
“You! You, Daddy!”
“Louder.”
“YOU!” she shrieked, her voice raw.
He pulled out, turning her onto her back again. His face was savage, sweat-drenched. “Ride it,” he commanded, laying back on the ruined cushions. “Show me why you keep coming back. Show me why my dick is a fucking addiction.”
She climbed onto him, sinking down slowly, taking all of him. She rolled her hips, a slow, grinding torture. She leaned forward, her hands on his chest, her breasts swaying in his face. “You want to know why?” she panted, riding him with a deliberate, sensual rhythm. “Because you ruin me. You see that shit on a blog and you come in here and you try to kill me with this dick.”
She picked up speed, bouncing on him, her inner muscles clenching. “You make it hurt so good. You make me feel so owned I forget my own name.” She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. “That other dick? It was just a dick. This,” she slammed down onto him, making him grunt, “this is a fucking altar. And I’m your sacrifice.”
Her words unleashed something in him. He grabbed her hips, taking over, pounding up into her with frenzied, upward strokes. She screamed, another orgasm tearing through her, so intense her vision tunneled. He followed her, his release a hot, endless flood inside her, his roar filling the cavernous room.
They collapsed, a tangled, sweaty, bruised heap on the displaced couch. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. Minutes passed.
Her voice, when it came, was hoarse but clear. “You keep making me look stupid,” she said into the silence, her cheek against his pounding chest. “You keep letting those bitches have receipts. You do it again…”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of exhausted fury. She traced the willow tree on his neck. “I’ll make sure you look worse. I’ll find the baddest, most connected motherfucker I can. I’ll let him fuck me on the fifty-yard line at your sponsored charity game. I’ll make sure the whole world sees.”
His eyes flew open. The hand that had choked her shot up, clamping around her throat again. This time, it was pure reflex, pure threat. Her airway constricted. Her pulse hammered against his palm.
And a slow, wicked smile spread across her swollen lips. Her hips, still straddling him, began to move again. He was still semi-hard inside her. She ground down, a slow, dirty circle.
“You see?” she rasped, her voice strained but triumphant, as she began to ride him again, his hand still locked on her throat. “This is what you made. You can’t scare me. You can only fuck me. And you’ll always,” she pressed down, taking him deeper, “always come back for more.”
She leaned forward, her lips almost touching his, her breath mingling with his. “Now choke me again, Daddy. And finish what you started.”