Page 69 of Shifted Desire

Is she trying to goad me into punishing her like yesterday? My dick twitches at the thought.

“Why were you so careless?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Am I going to have to discipline you again for not being able to bring me a cup of coffee without being distracted?”

She glares at me. “I guess I’m only good for one thing, Sir.”

I stiffen, warning bells going off in my head that there’s something very off today. There’s no flirtation in her voice, only resignation and a touch of disgust.

“I didn’t say that.” I carefully ease back to a more neutral tone of voice.

“You don’t have to pretend. We don’t need to play games today. Just tell me to spread my legs and get it over with.”

She starts to hike her skirt up, but I grab her wrist to stop her.

She scowls at me. “What? You told me yesterday I’m a cumslut, that my body belongs to you, so I’m doing my job.”

The air is frigid between us, absent of the usual arousal pulsing from her, even as she drags my hand between her thighs to rest on her pussy.

I yank my hand away. “Stop. I don’t want to fuck you when you’re upset.”

She scoffs. “Why not? I’m telling you it’s fine. Go on, use me.”

“It’s not fine if you don’t want it too,” I say sharply, hating how resigned and detached she sounds.

“What I want doesn’t matter. It never does.”

She yanks her skirt up to expose her abdomen and thighs, where the letters from yesterday are still there. Her skin is chafed raw from where she must’ve scrubbed at it.

“I’m a slut. This is why I’m here, so stop pretending otherwise. It doesn’t matter if I’m in the mood, I’ll still come.” Her lower lip wobbles, eyes welling with angry tears that pierce into my heart.

“Samantha, stop.”

She shakes her head as tears spill down her cheeks, hooking her fingers under the waistband of her underwear—the presence of which should’ve been a warning sign.

I don’t think before acting, moving to her side and shoving her hands away from her hips as I pull her against my chest. She tenses, and a purr spills out of me as I embrace her.

“Let me go,” she hisses, trying to push me away.

I don’t budge. “No.”

“S-stop it.” Her words are weaker. Her chest shudders with a soft sob.

“No,” I murmur, stroking her hair and holding her tight.

“I don’t need this from you. I don’t want your pity,” she whispers.

“I don’t pity you. And yes, you fucking need this. Use your safeword if you want me to stop.”

Gods, I’m a fucking idiot. We had an incredibly intense scene, and there was no aftercare. Sure, we went for drinks and dinner, but she’s the one who initiated that. I used her and then let her go home to process everything without doing anything to address it.

“I’m fine.” Her tears dripping onto my shoulder do nothing to convince me. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“You’re crying because I’m an asshole who didn’t take care of you like I should’ve.”

Samantha pulls back enough to look up at me. Mascara streaks line her cheeks, and gods, she looks so vulnerable it makes me ache with the need to soothe away all of her pain. “What are you talking about?”

“I let you go home last night with those words on you. Didn’t give you any reassurance that they were only meant as part of our game.”

Her eyes narrow and she sniffs. “I’m not an idiot. I know it was part of the scene. I know you don’t really think that I’m only good for sex.”