As always: thank you April, Luna, Mel and Dani for checking it and you guys, for reading and reviewing 3
Isabella
Shit, shit, shit.
I'm pacing in the bathroom, tugging my hair at the roots because I just cannot believe I let myself go like that.
I fucked him—Ginger—and I fucking liked it. I liked it so much I came twice, and I still want more. It's like I need it. He's still in the room because I haven't heard any slamming of the doors. All the alcohol I had tonight vanished from my system instantly. I don't feel anything, any buzz—except for the post-coital-bliss that's been flooding through my veins. I can't even remember the last time just sex felt this good. It wasn't even kinky—not really; I wasn't exactly in control, or dominating him. This whole thing was borderline vanilla, and I detest vanilla. Even in ice cream.
The room is too silent, the whole suite is, so I start up the shower and throw the rest of my clothes on the floor. I eye my pants—what's left of them, anyway—and wonder how the fuck I let that happen. If this had been anyone else, I'd have punished them—punished him so hard he would tremble each time he saw me wear vinyl, leather… anything that reminds him of the pair of pants he ruined. His Domme's pants.
I groan out of pure frustration and step under the stream of hot water. In no time, the bathroom fogs up, the scent of the expensive hotel soap amplified so it feels like a five-star spa in here. My palms rest against the cold glass shower wall, and I lean my head back, feel the density of my long hair tug at my scalp as the water weighs it down and mats it to my back.
My hands leave the glass, leaving wet prints in the condensation there. They're colder than the rest of my body, and I feel around my stomach, my thighs, and up again. It's like I'm embracing myself, the tips of my fingers brushing the edges of the slightly raised, old scars on my back. Feeling them reminds me why I'm a Domme—why I'm the one who's in charge. Because, when I hand over control, things happen. Accidents. I don't sub—not anymore. Ever. Not even for pretty gingers with wicked tongues.