Leashed by Luxury

XI. Queen Size Bed

Showered free of body glitter and my other pastie, I lay on my side in my childhood bed. Can hear Joles downstairs, playing Minecraft on some dorky john's server for overtime coin. Every so often, she shrieks when a LEGOy spider jumps at her or a skeleton tries to snipe her sandcastle fortress. Daddy slides in behind me, draping an arm over my waist. It's like old times. My lids lower.

"You did good, bambina. Like I knew you would," he whispers into my conditioner-misted curls. "Ra said that you move like a dream. That's rare from him. I never even hear him say much about Emmi."

"Mmm. I bet you have a lot to ask him about Emmi."

He pinches the crook of my silk robe. "Don't turn a nice moment bitter."

I bear my teeth since I can't my pearls anymore. "She's so pretty though, like a Pantene model, and she's never come up?"

"She's Ra's."

"Look at you, respecting people's property. You're really growing up." I turn over and rub his chest to let him know I'm just ribbing. "I didn't know if I was respecting his place, though. I didn't anticipate a nude show after all his talk about being 'discrete.'"

"Ah, but that's what sold the show. Made you stand out." His hands move to my breasts, thumbs circling the black lapels hiding my clevage. "It did seem kind of intentional though, a Janet Jackson stunt."

"Maybe on your part. It's your fault my censor didn't stay put."

"Still sticky," he observes as the side of one thumb slips through semi-sheer folds to inspect the tender areola.

"Can never keep your paws to yourself, after all," I yawn. "One day, you're gonna get in a lotta trouble for that."

"It woulda happened already, I think." He shrugs. "But stop accusing me of stuff with other women. Emmi is off limits. Like Joles would be to Ra."

I raise a brow. "And why is that?"

"Oh, don't get a tone. It's not a playing favorites thing. She simply doesn't like him. She calls him Nosferatu."

"Well, he's already got one of her. Upgraded."

Angel sucks his teeth. "I just mean, that's how close those two are. It would be a dangerous game, coming between them."

"Like crossing a mob family?"

"Something like that. But you watch too many soap operas."

"I catch you watching when I put General Hospital on."

"Not very discrete," he agrees, resting his forehead above mine. "Like you."

"Ra and his men didn’t descend on me after my act for extras. I was thinking that's what he kept meaning by 'you can be discrete' or whatever."

Daddy shakes his head, closing his eyes, assuring me they wouldn't--not so soon anyway.

"But you've 'told them a lot' about me? Or they didn't hover because you have?"

"I only say positive things about you, bambina. Stop always painting me the villain. I got you that nice check today, hmm? For what, five minutes of work? My girl is moving on up." His other arm encircles my back, pressing me closer.

My brows tilt. "Why do you talk like I'm a newb. Joles? I've literally moved out, remember?"

"Oh? But this looks like your room I always remember," he says in a lower register, nibbling my ear. "And I like you here. It's where you belong, bambina."

"I mean, I make money like that all the t--"

"But do you make girl friends like Emmi or Joles? Get out and socialize, see regular people to have a drink with? It seems lonely, you doing all your online stuff or little one-on-ones in that gross city."

"You say that 'cause you're lonely," I mumble as he squishes me further into his shoulder. Of course he thinks the pinnacle of success or a social life is knocking back Pinnacle around bare-naked ladies and bar flies from Basilicata.

"Is that so wrong, Naria?" he yawns, petting my hair from root all the way down to the small of my back.

"Noo," I begrudge. "You just never spit it out, is all."

"Spitting is rude." His lips careen down to kiss mine, chaste and clean. When his hand is not, still working the leftover adhesive off my breast. "Besides, I only got through to you because of Ra. I think we should show a little respect. Be grateful we're together again. While there's still time."

I pause, the retort dead on my lips, tasting like turpentine. But he keeps kissing me. 'Grateful' or liking what licks he can get off me of leftover liquor? "What do you mean?"

"C'mon, smartie. Keep churning." He takes the hand from my breast to act like he's winding a gear by our ears.

"You...used Ra's phone to call me, to get me here yesteray?"

"Bingo! See, my little cookie, I knew you would get it." He trails kisses down my ear.

"But why does that mean--"

"Shhhhh. Overthinking. Worrying raggazza. You said you wanted a good day. Was it not? I stayed out of your way to make friends and business connections, cash. Don't wanna needle, just knead, my girl. Need my game girl... You want gelato after, huh? That'll make it better?" he teases, minty breath nicking my nose. For once, the spice of booze coming off me. Speramint, him.

I shake my head, blushing, I don't wanna be "difficile," as Joles says, but it's the rut in the dirt I always retrace like bike treads.

"Good girl." He kisses my nose.

I wish I didn't melt like Italian ice--but why not? Don't I hate our role reversals more, when he's whining and I'm bread-winning for crumbs of affection? "It was...a decent day," I admit. "A good gig. You and Joles have been...more pleseant to be around. And...I miss..."

One long, tan finger twirls a tress by my cheek. "See? Not so easy 'to spit,' now is it?"

I smirk and kiss his dimple back. "Maybe not."

"Okay then. No more talking." He moves closer.

With the sun dwidling, and him huddling me so close to his dark clothes, hair, and eyes, it seems more intimate than normal. The way I've always found panic closets and weighted blankets comforting.

He pets my hair, his thumb, ring, and my own bristles tickling me. Until the caress creeps lower. My neck and décolletage. Down, until he's parting the silk wrappings of my robe to see the points that heart stickers kissed extra pink today.

My breathing becomes more apparent. In the rise and fall of my breasts. In the invisible vivisector's line down my belly. In the microscopic hairs of my own eardrums. In the shift of my pelvic bone against his.

A deep tingling ripple of anticipation. Knowing he's salivating.

I feel it before I see it, him against me, the outline hard and insistent. Not uncomfortable, just there. Unavoidable. His hardness is just another part of him, like a heartbeat, like heavy breathing. Something to exist beside.

I wiggle against him, digging out a comfortable position.

"Stop fidgeting."

I hum, already settling in. Tired but wanting to be touched.

"What do you want, bambina?" It's something he never seems to ask anymore. Before rubbing me everywhere. Not to ravage or ravish. Not to come.

Just to...touch. That's what I want. With his hands, his mouth, his fingers, mapping every inch. The request so pure, so pathetically needy, it makes his c**k twitch. He knows the voodoo he stitched. I want to be handled. Like a doll, like a pet, like his good girl.

He leans close, lips brushing my ear. "Everywhere?" His hand slides down my ribcage, fingertips tracing the lace edge of my panties.

Fingers dip into the waistband, tugging at them suggestively.

I say nothing because he said no more talking. Because I know it gives me a loophole to hug myself in later.

Smirking at my haughty obedience, he spreads me wider with his knees, settles between them. His hand grabs at my ankle instead—massaging, squeezing, anchoring me around him. He kisses me deeper as if for distraction when moving up my calves, thighs, his thumb brushing over my warmth, depressing the damp fabric, before continuing up my hips.

He ignores my gasp—knows exactly what I want but makes me wait. His hands are everywhere but where I need them most. Kneading my thighs, kissing knees, rubbing hips, tracing my tan-lined belly. Deliberately avoiding what we've joking called 'the coin slot' when bartering deals. But this is brokering something serious, priceless. A step toward trust, reconnection. Literal and all else. He's just teasing the edges--of boundaries, our unspoken or hazy agreements, my inner thighs, the crease where my legs meet.

"You wanted Daddy," he murmurs, lowering to expose me. "I'll be better if you stat my good girl." His tongue sigils some promise underneath my navel.

He rewards obedience. I've always known that. But he makes the pace, takes his time—excruciatingly slow.

His hands slide under my thighs, lifting, fingers pressing into the sensitive lines where leg meets loin. He massages, tickles, taps. He isn't trying to get me off. He's trying to turn me to liquid. A fungible currency. A rarer, more valuable asset.

"Relax," he commands softly against my inner thigh. "Let Daddy."