Read Online Taunt Me (Rough Love Book 2) by Annabel Joseph - Free Book Online
Authors: Annabel Joseph
Tags: Romance
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the balconies there, as she hid in the corners and dark spaces everywhere else.
I jacked myself harder, gazing at her pretty face. She looked sad. Lost. My fault? It was horrible to stalk her like this, but I had to watch her and know about her, and it turned me on to look at photos of her going about her day. It was a little like having her, even though I couldn’t have her.
I slouched back in the chair and closed my eyes. It was so quiet this high in the air. It was so cool, and I was so hot. Why hadn’t I taken advantage of the corporate courtesan they offered me? She’d been even prettier than the interpreter, with a round face-fuck mouth and a long pretty neck.
Fuck, who cared about her? It was Chere I fantasized about as I came in a gasping mess. Cum oozed down over my fingers and dripped onto the designer wool carpet. Why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she with me?
Because you want what you shouldn’t want.
When I jacked off, I usually thought about hurting Chere. I fantasized about binding her and torturing her, and fucking her ass without lube. I imagined raping her and making her cry. I never thought about why, or how, just the tears and her agony. If she were mine, in my apartment, in my dungeon, I’d find a way to make her cry every day. I’d make her come every day too, covered in my marks, covered in my cum, covered in my protection
.
It was nice fap fodder, but it wasn’t happening. I wouldn’t let it happen, because you couldn’t take a bright, ambitious person in the midst of a personal renaissance and make her your slave. You couldn’t lock her in a dungeon and keep her there for your pleasure. Even if you wanted to do that very, very much.
I went to clean myself up, and returned to click through the last of the photos. They were grainy, covert, long-distance shots. I wished for the thousandth time that I was standing right in front of her, holding her in my arms. I’d stroke her velvet cheekbones, lick her freckles, kiss her pert nose. I’d hurt her and then I’d make everything better, and then I’d put her in a luxurious cage where she’d be safe until I wanted to hurt her again.
Holy fuck. What the fuck?
I stopped on the photo, enlarged it so I could see the man sitting beside her on Valiant’s balcony. I clicked back to the email, scanned to the bottom.
Conversation with male, middle age, not identified. Subject went home alone.
Fucking Jesus in hell, she better have gone home alone. As for the
male, middle age
, I didn’t need any identification. I knew Martin Cantor, not just because he was one of Chere’s professors, but because I’d attended Norton with him back in the day. I’d seen him at fetish clubs around the city, drawing in women with his sage, caring-Dom thing. I’d never liked him. He was a smarmy jackass with more ambition than talent, and the last thing in hell he needed to be doing was hitting on Chere in a club.
I clicked through the photos, seriously disturbed. She was his
student
. How dare he look at her that way? She didn’t want his attention, that was clear from her hunched posture and the way she faced away from him. And Cantor, with his smiles and expressions. Smarmy fucking pervert.
She went home alone
, I repeated to calm myself.
She went home alone.
In all this time, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone, any other man, even casually in the BDSM clubs. She’d focused on school—and occasionally me—like a very good girl. Fucking Cantor. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her teacher. Not only that, he was married with two kids.
I stood and started to pace. This wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone up to the balcony and drawn her into conversation. The photos told the story...they just didn’t reveal what words they’d exchanged. I wanted to trust that Chere wouldn’t fall for his bullshit, but she’d fallen for bullshit before, like when that asshole picked her up after the Gansevoort debacle.
That man really
I jacked myself harder, gazing at her pretty face. She looked sad. Lost. My fault? It was horrible to stalk her like this, but I had to watch her and know about her, and it turned me on to look at photos of her going about her day. It was a little like having her, even though I couldn’t have her.
I slouched back in the chair and closed my eyes. It was so quiet this high in the air. It was so cool, and I was so hot. Why hadn’t I taken advantage of the corporate courtesan they offered me? She’d been even prettier than the interpreter, with a round face-fuck mouth and a long pretty neck.
Fuck, who cared about her? It was Chere I fantasized about as I came in a gasping mess. Cum oozed down over my fingers and dripped onto the designer wool carpet. Why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she with me?
Because you want what you shouldn’t want.
When I jacked off, I usually thought about hurting Chere. I fantasized about binding her and torturing her, and fucking her ass without lube. I imagined raping her and making her cry. I never thought about why, or how, just the tears and her agony. If she were mine, in my apartment, in my dungeon, I’d find a way to make her cry every day. I’d make her come every day too, covered in my marks, covered in my cum, covered in my protection
.
It was nice fap fodder, but it wasn’t happening. I wouldn’t let it happen, because you couldn’t take a bright, ambitious person in the midst of a personal renaissance and make her your slave. You couldn’t lock her in a dungeon and keep her there for your pleasure. Even if you wanted to do that very, very much.
I went to clean myself up, and returned to click through the last of the photos. They were grainy, covert, long-distance shots. I wished for the thousandth time that I was standing right in front of her, holding her in my arms. I’d stroke her velvet cheekbones, lick her freckles, kiss her pert nose. I’d hurt her and then I’d make everything better, and then I’d put her in a luxurious cage where she’d be safe until I wanted to hurt her again.
Holy fuck. What the fuck?
I stopped on the photo, enlarged it so I could see the man sitting beside her on Valiant’s balcony. I clicked back to the email, scanned to the bottom.
Conversation with male, middle age, not identified. Subject went home alone.
Fucking Jesus in hell, she better have gone home alone. As for the
male, middle age
, I didn’t need any identification. I knew Martin Cantor, not just because he was one of Chere’s professors, but because I’d attended Norton with him back in the day. I’d seen him at fetish clubs around the city, drawing in women with his sage, caring-Dom thing. I’d never liked him. He was a smarmy jackass with more ambition than talent, and the last thing in hell he needed to be doing was hitting on Chere in a club.
I clicked through the photos, seriously disturbed. She was his
student
. How dare he look at her that way? She didn’t want his attention, that was clear from her hunched posture and the way she faced away from him. And Cantor, with his smiles and expressions. Smarmy fucking pervert.
She went home alone
, I repeated to calm myself.
She went home alone.
In all this time, she hadn’t hooked up with anyone, any other man, even casually in the BDSM clubs. She’d focused on school—and occasionally me—like a very good girl. Fucking Cantor. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was her teacher. Not only that, he was married with two kids.
I stood and started to pace. This wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone up to the balcony and drawn her into conversation. The photos told the story...they just didn’t reveal what words they’d exchanged. I wanted to trust that Chere wouldn’t fall for his bullshit, but she’d fallen for bullshit before, like when that asshole picked her up after the Gansevoort debacle.
That man really
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