Chapter 110 Operas
“I expect gratitude.” Mordaine turned towards the Chesterfield couch. “You should not be enjoying my treat all the way in Tokyo.”
“So… you will not let me speak with her?”
“Another time.” He lowered into the seat with an exaggerated sigh. “Right now, we have business to get to. Au revoir, Mon cœur.”
He raised his finger slowly as Hale called him names that made my ears burn, and tapped the screen. The call ended with a flat electronic blip.
Immediately, the electric sparkle in the air fizzled out. And when he looked up from the screen, there were zero traces of the playful warmth from earlier in his face.
The air thinned around me.
The dragon was mad at me. He could deny all he wanted, but this was proof that something had shifted between us.
However, when he wordlessly gestured for me to return to my knee and grip my elbows behind me, opened his fly and shoved his cock in my mouth, all my worries narrowed to a single fear. Choking.
He flipped his laptop in reverse, holding it like a tablet in one large hand, and hopped on a business call with the P. A. I never knew he had.
The wooden floor was uncomfortable under my knees, my hands were beginning to cramp from crossing them behind me, and my eyes were wet, but Mordaine appeared completely unaffected above me.
His voice was stable, face neutral as he worked through upcoming projects I would never have heard about. Campaign investment for a governor. A charity ball for displaced immigrants. Acquisition of a tech company.
I licked his underside, flapped my tongue and flattened it under him, hungrily sucked on his crown, but he did not stop speaking, approving projects, declining requests, suggesting reviews.
This was the humiliation I signed up for, but it stung. Not the action, but the realization that I was not pleasing him, could not please him.
It was an enigma, illogical, this obsessive need of mine to please this dragon. To do anything he wanted. But it was real.
The fact that I could not make sense of it did not make it go away. And now I was failing. My tears were no longer because an eight-inch shaft was stretching my mouth, but because he remained nonchalant despite my efforts.
He touched me then, cupping and caressing my neck from behind. And when our eyes met, there was a new kindness in his. My heartbeat steadied just as a tickling sensation ran down my spine.
Just then, his eyes flashed as he ran his tongue across his upper teeth, and grabbed my hair.
My eyes burned as he moved my head up and down, fucking my mouth, using my mouth, helping me suck his dick thoroughly.
Through my thumping heart and blurry vision and gag reflexes, I struggled not to make a sound. He was still on the call, listening rather than speaking, and his eyes held the warning to be quiet.
I was so wet. It was likely an uncommon reaction to being used like this, but my body did not care.
Maybe it was the silk binding my breasts, making me painfully aware of their weight and softness, maybe it was the fact that I occasionally caught his jaw working, or my nearness to him like this, access to the creature very few people had seen his real face, but I was wet, aching.
And this ache, deep, deep in my pussy needed soothing. But I held out little hope that I would get that soothe from the nonchalant man above me.
Finally, he ended the call, shoved his laptop away and grabbed my head with both hands.
“You’re a fast learner.” His eyes flashed. “We will have a nice little surprise for your husband when he returns.” He was thrusting up into my mouth, stealing my breath with every flex of his hips. Rough. So rough.
I made little whinny noises, and he pulled out every couple seconds for me to breathe, and then thrust up into me again.
“That tiny mouth, so warm. So wet for me.”
I moaned around him because his words were fanning my lust, engorging my clit. And those powerful thighs flexed around my head.
“Is this turning you on?” It was rhetorical, but I gave a small nod anyway, with his dick deep in my throat, and he hissed.
“That’s so slutty.” His words were broken, his breath coming in heavy. “I’m going to come in your mouth now, and by the time I have my zipper on, I don’t want a trace of it on your lips or tongue.”
I gave another nod and he cursed. He made a single shove, hitting the back of my throat and then he stilled.
Hot ribbons punched my throat, a lengthy surge that seemed to go on and on.
In my haste to gulp it all down, give myself a head start and get my mouth clean, I was swallowing around him.
This sent him feral. Those dragon eyes flickered between silver and gold, and he started to jerk up into me, milking out every last bit of his pleasure.
Finally, he pulled away, and I brought my fingers up to my lips, my hands shaking in my hurry to shove every last drop of his liquid in my mouth, licking my fingers and lips clean with a keen awareness of fructose aftertaste at the back of my throat.
The whole time, he quietly watched me with sadistic enjoyment as he zipped his pants and arranged his clothes. Then he made me open my mouth up.
His lips curled up in a smirk before he leaned in and pressed a long kiss to my forehead.
After rising to his feet, he held his hand out. I placed my hand in his, and he pulled me up.
He made good on his threat of getting me fed. Threat because, in that kitchen, we were equals again.
Equally useless.
Just one person in this household could cook, and it was neither of us. I, at least, had the humility to recognize this, but Mordaine marched confidently to the stove, and turned it all the way up.
I gasped as the fire leaped, licking towards the ceiling. He, on the other hand, looked genuinely surprised.
And if I was not in torment, I might have laughed. These breast binding were technically torture devices. Torture devices that were making me delirious with erotic daydreams. I ached to hump something, anything.
“You are feeding the flames,” I finally whispered, still standing at the doorway.
His head jerked towards me in surprise. Whether at my suggestion, or the realization that I could speak without being spoken to, I had no idea.
So I swallowed my follow-up suggestion to simply order in, or have the Ashbounds make us breakfast like they did yesterday.
“Cooking cannot be that difficult, doll.” I heaved a sigh of relief to see him walk away from the stove. “But perhaps you’re correct. I will leave the stove to you. Just don’t burn your tits.”
My cheeks heated up. But I crossed the kitchen and turned the stove off.
“What do you say,” his eyes wandered from my exposed breasts to my skirt, and he lingered. “We watch a tutorial? I ordered the ingredients.”
I moved my knees together, biting my lips hard as a shock wave seemed to go through me. Then I gave a quiet nod. He walked around the island, pulled out a drawer and pulled up a paper bag.
“How are you feeling?” His whole attention was on the bag as he unloaded it.
I swallowed over my intimate ache. “Fine.”
“You look stunning.” His eyes swept up to me. My heart stopped.
It was the way he said it, so casual, so sudden. He was not trying to impress or woo me, just stating a fact. My knees wobbled.
“Thank you.”
He waved me over as he set his phone down, and I moved to stand beside him near the island, waiting to watch the tutorial.
But he turned suddenly and clutched my breasts. I gasped.
His eyes met mine, and then traveled down to where my lips were parted as he felt around my breasts, more like he was weighing them than he was playing with them.
I could no longer resist pressing my legs together even as I struggled to stand still and not make a sound.
He pulled away then. “You seem fine.”
I blinked, confused.
“I had to make sure you were not hurting.”
“Oh.” My nipples ached, so hard from the exposure, the stimulation, the awareness that my breasts were bare as we went about our day.
Frankly, I barely heard anything from the tutorial. But then watching it alone made me feel dismayed.
We could have simply had crackers and tea. Or if we were feeling ambitious, toasts and scrambled eggs.
But Mordaine chose Shakshouka, a meal I have only ever tasted one time during my travels, a meal no one in America probably ate.
He turned to me now, tapping his screen asleep. “Do you like operas?”
“What?”