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I grab her toy, my sick mind wishing I wasn’t wearing gloves. I wish I’d gotten a feel of her, of her wetness.
“Do you flirt with all your patients?” I smirk unapologetically. “Only the ones that come on my fingers.”
He laughs, his eyes dipping down to my lips. “You’re playing with fire, Amara.” “Maybe I am, but you’re to blame for setting me ablaze.” He smirks, his eyes dropping to my lips. “Oh baby,” he whispers. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Sit,”
I. AM. SAT.
She’s not testing any of these toys of hers with anyone but me. Over my dead body.
“You’re going to walk around like that, baby, with your clothes stained, reminding you of who the fuck you belong to.”
“Greg,” I say, my voice soft. “I don’t need a man to provide for me. I need someone that respects me, that’ll put me first. Someone that can make me laugh with him — not at him. I need someone that understands me and that supports my dreams and ambitions. Someone that will grow with me. A man like you will never be what I want.”
She smiles at me and I sigh. I want this. I want this with her. I want to stand in the kitchen with her, doing the most mundane tasks. I want her in my house, in my space. Fucking hell. I can see Amara being my wife.
“Now that I know what your pussy feels like… what you taste like… nah, I don’t think we can be friends, baby.”
