Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
“Do you want me to feed you?”
And there it is. Ball in my court. And I’m the one who came up with the idea. I mean, not really. He planted it, didn’t he? Fed me a strawberry. Hinted at a dom-sub relationship. Served me a miniscule dish of ice cream. The long talk that led to freedom, and choices, and games.
And here I sit. Right where he wants me.
Do I want him to feed me?
It’s so much easier to open my mouth when he tells me to than it is to present my open mouth to him. And the time between his question and right now feels like a lifetime. He doesn’t prompt me. And every second that ticks off, as I wrestle with this answer, feels like another eternity.
But we both know what I’m going to say. He’s so sure of it, he doesn’t mind waiting as I finally come to the same realization. “Yes.”
His smile is immediate. His head tilts and I would give anything—anything—to be able to read his mind right now. “Ice cream is difficult,” he finally says. “Spoons. They drip. But how about this.” He gets up, steps across the aisle where there is one massive, luxurious seat, and sits down. Then he pats his thigh. “Bring it here, Nova. And I’ll feed you.”
Holy shit. I’m not ready for this. So I don’t automatically get up. I wait.
He doesn’t ask me again.
What happens if I say no?
What happens if I say yes?
Which one would I prefer?
I mean, it’s one thing to lie to others, but it’s stupid to lie to myself. I want him to feed me. It’s fucking erotic. Just thinking about it—
I stand up, pick up the tiny dish of ice cream, and cross the aisle. I’m about to sit on his lap, but apparently this is presumptuous.
Because Mercer puts up a hand, opens his legs, and points to the space between them. “You can sit right there, Nova.”
And that’s when I notice that there’s a sheepskin rug at his feet.
No. Not a rug. More like a… mat. It’s small. Just big enough for me to kneel on comfortably.
This is the moment when I realize I’m playing against a master.
In both meanings of the word.
But I’m here, holding the dish of ice cream, standing right in front of him, and so the next part is actually much easier than the first.
I kneel between his legs and look up to meet his gaze. Then offer him the dish of ice cream.
He leans back—pushing his hips a little bit forward—and his smile lights me up when he takes it. “Do you need to talk about this before we begin?”
I shake my head no, and say nothing.
He plays with the spoon for a moment. Swirling it around in the melting ice cream. Then he offers it to me. I open my mouth, looking him in the eyes for the whole thing, and when he sets the tiny spoon on my tongue, I close my lips around it and swallow down the ice cream.
He does this over and over again. There are actually fourteen spoonfuls of ice cream in that dish, and he feeds me every last one.
Finally, there is nothing left but the three slices of peach.
He picks them up with his fingers and when he offers them to me, he sticks his fingers all the way inside my mouth. I close my lips around them and suck.
He smiles and uses his other hand to pet my head. And when he finally speaks again, he says, “You’re going to be a lot of fun, Nova.”
The seatbelt light dings above us and Mercer withdraws his fingers from my mouth. He wipes them on a napkin, then pats his thigh. “Rest here, Nova. Put your head right here.”
I have to scoot in to do this. So I do that. And when I put my head on his thigh, I can feel his dick under his pants. He pets me, his fingers lightly threading through my hair.
Then there’s a voice. The flight attendant clears his throat. “Mr. Mercer. We’re about to land.” He doesn’t demand that Mercer get me up off the floor and put my seatbelt on, but he does imply it.
“Thank you, William. Miss Ryan is comfortable here. I trust the pilot will not crash us and hurt her on the landing?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. But tell him that I have Miss Ryan on the floor and he should put us down gently.”
“Yes, sir.”
I look up at Mercer, but he makes a “Shhh,” sound, then repositions my head sideways on his thigh. “You’ll be fine, Nova. The pilot will put us down so gently, you won’t even notice it.”
He strokes me as this happens just the way he predicted.
I stay there—between his legs, my head in his lap, his dick hard under my cheek—as the plane taxis, then comes to a stop.