CHAPTER TWENTY - LYSSA

 

He is the most beautiful specimen of a man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And don’t get me started on his eyes.

I remember them that first night we met. Staring at me from across the dance floor. Locking with mine, then the smile and the way he turned away, like he was playing a game with me.

As a stranger Mason Macintyre is all business. He was so intriguing in those first few minutes we met. Kinda out of place, but not really. Mason is one of those guys who can fit in anywhere. Someone totally at ease with himself. He knows who he is, he’s never had an identity crisis. He is confident, and commanding, and in control.

It was a trap that night. I know that. But I see it differently now. He liked me. That me. I could tell. He liked my dress, and the way I danced, and the fight.

He liked my fight.

He liked the chase too.

But what does he think of me now that he’s caught me?

Has his opinion changed? Am I weaker now? More fragile? Something to be pitied? Or does he enjoy being the alpha male? In control of everything.

Because I like the way he does that. I like the way he takes control.

“You did a good job,” I say.

“You’re doing a good job too,” he says.

And I know he means the soap. That’s what he thought I meant too. The way he cleaned me. The way I’m cleaning him.

But that’s not what I mean.

“No,” I say. “You did a good job taming me. Because I don’t feel like that girl anymore.”

“Which girl?” he asks, narrowing his eyes a little.

“The wild one,” I say.

“Lyssa,” he says, placing a hand on my cheek. “No. I like the wild one too.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “Well, too late now. I’m all tamed up for you, Mr. Macintyre.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, his expression becoming serious. “No. You’re still her. I see it inside you.”

“Wild me?” I laugh. “Spoiled-rotten, wild me.”

“That’s not who you really are. And that’s not who you were that night. Don’t you see? That night in the club, Lyssa. You were magnificent. Like a lioness in charge of hunting food for the entire pack.”

“Hmmm.” I chuckle. “Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it. I want her. Not that little girl you morphed back into back at the estate. That’s why I brought you here. So you can be yourself.”

I just stare at him for a second. Confused. But something about that makes sense too. I was myself in that club. That was the real me. And everything since then has been some other version of me. Some older version. Some weak, confused version.

He steps under the water and rinses off, then reaches for a bottle of conditioner and begins to slowly, methodically caress it into my hair. He makes sure every end gets attention. He massages my scalp so seductively, I close my eyes and lean back into his chest.

I don’t remember ever feeling so relaxed.

Then, too soon, he says, “Rinse. Then we’ll get out and order some food.”

“Already?” I ask.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, I have more plans for you later.”

I rinse my hair, dreaming about later, as he steps out of the shower and starts toweling off. When I’m done I turn off the water and open the door to his arms open wide with a large towel.

When I step out onto the bath rug he starts drying me off. Dragging the thick cotton down my shoulders and arms. My breasts and stomach. Then he kneels and dries my legs and feet, one at a time.

He stands back up and grabs a large-tooth comb from a drawer and starts to detangle my hair. I watch him in the mirror, looking into his eyes. “I can do it,” I say, reaching for the comb.

But he pushes my hand aside and says, “I know you can. But I want to do it. So just let me.”

He is gentle with my hair. Making sure not to tug too hard. It feels just as good as when he was taking care of it in the shower. And when he’s done I want him to start all over again.

“Now,” he says. “About clothes.”

He walks out into the bedroom naked. His cock semi-hard and swinging between his legs. His large, tight balls visible from behind as he opens his closet.

How do I keep him? How can I keep this man forever? How do I fix my mess of a life and make this my future? I don’t know. I have no idea. It seems impossible.

“T-shirt? Or button-down?” Mason says, holding up two hangers.

But it isn’t impossible. It can’t be. I cannot go back to that old life. I cannot marry stupid Dickerson. I don’t even know the guy. And why the hell should I have to, anyway? Just because my stepfather says so? That’s the dumbest thing ever. Why did I even go along with it? Why didn’t I just take my chances and be true to myself instead of letting my stepfather control me?

Before Mason kidnapped me I was doing OK. And yeah, I was still living off other people, but I could get by on my own if I wanted. If I really tried. And I was planning on that. And then… and then I was in that house and in that room and…

“Lyssa,” Mason says, snapping my thoughts back to him. “Which one?”

I make a decision as I look at my choices. But then it hits me that I already made this decision. I just… forgot.

“Neither,” I say, walking towards him.

No. Stalking towards him. Like a lioness on the hunt because she has to feed her pack. Like a wild thing.

I take both hangers and throw them on the floor. My hands sliding up the sides of his stomach, relishing the tight muscles as my fingertips explore his chest.

He backs up against the wall as I drop to my knees and take his cock in both hands. Fisting and pumping him as I gaze up into his eyes.

Not the eyes in the mirror, but the real ones.

“Don’t tell me to stop,” I say. “Because I’m not going to listen. Just accept this for what it is, Mason.”

He breathes through that statement for a few seconds. Thinking. Then he says, “There you are. I was wondering if you’d be back.”

I smile as I take his cock in my mouth. Wrapping my lips around his thick, swollen head, then pulling back so I can give him a tender kiss.

His fingertips grab my wet hair and twist. Hard enough to pull on my scalp. The exact opposite of the way he so tenderly combed it just a few minutes ago. He pulls my head back away from his cock and I open my mouth. Because I know what he wants to do.

And I want to do it.

Then he thrusts me forward, his aim true, because he slides his cock straight into my waiting mouth and keeps going until it pushes against the back of my throat.

I clamp my lips around his shaft. Doing my best not to bite, but right now, I can’t make any promises. He is hard, and thick, and fills me up. So when he pulls back on my head again, my teeth do—maybe a little on purpose—drag against the sensitive skin of his cock.

He hisses, then thrust me back in, not caring that I’m not being careful. Urging me, in fact, to let go and be less careful.

I let him fuck my face. I let him gag me. I let him pool saliva in my mouth and choke me with his cock.

And when he comes, he does it in my throat. He is not careful either and that’s how I know he trusts me.

I don’t want to be babied. I don’t want to be some mindless thing that can’t make her own choices.

I want to be his strong lioness.

I swallow all of his come. Every bit. And the drips and drops I miss he swipes away with the tip of his finger and offers to me.

I take that too.

And when I’m done he whispers, “OK.”

And I whisper back, “OK.”

And then he picks me up and throws me on his bed.