Primal Pursuit

“You want to play? I could strip you down, lay you on this table, and eat the fuck out of you, and do you know what these people in here would do?”

“What?”

He leans in so close I breathe in the seductive scent of him. “Absolutely nothing.”

I sit. Very, very still.

Davian means it.

This man would do that if he thought it could prove a point to me, or I pushed him. Or he simply decided to do it. It’s in his eyes. In everything he’s done so far.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he starts. “Unzip my pants, take my cock out. And every time you stop eating, whether it’s to talk or take a sip of wine, or to look at me with that special brand of murder I find so fucking hot in your eyes, you stroke me. Massage me. Masturbate me. You’re to keep me hard, but if you make me come, you’ll fucking regret it. Got it? And after that, over cocktails, you’re climbing on my cock, and you’ll ride it.”

“You really are the big, bad wolf.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re getting it.”

“Of course, there’s my safe word,” I taunt, because I know he doesn’t want me using it. Not now.

He takes a sip of his bourbon. “I’m not sure touching a dick you’ve fucked and swallowed like a pro needs a safe word, but if you want to go there.” He shrugs.

“Pro?” I eye him with dislike, even as a spike of excitement surges in my veins.

Davian motions me closer with his fork, and I staywhere I am for a full five seconds, the smile at the edges of his mouth curling up with every tick of the clock. Then I sigh and shift closer, and he feeds me possibly the best herbed carrot I’ve ever had. There’s a little of the sauce on it from the rabbit.

He’s really incredibly fucked up, and he knows it.

“Rabbit food and rabbit as food.” He grins. “Rabbit.”

“Just call me a cannibal next and get it over with.”

“Undo my pants, Rabbit.”

I do. He’s hard.

I stroke over the soft, silky material of the boxer briefs, and he says, “Should I?”

“Should you what?” I ask.

He leans in and licks my lips. “Call you a cannibal? This is taking a dark turn. But do you eat people? I know you eat cock, lick up blood, but do you?—”

“Screw you.”

“No judgement.”

“No. I don’t. I’m sure you do.”

“Never felt the need.” Then as if he didn’t ask if I was the female Dahmer, he pulls my plate close and cuts the lamb before feeding it to me. “Take it out. I want you to stroke me soft and slow.”

I’m shaking as I do this, and he sighs, the heated silk of his erection something glorious.

Doing as he ordered, I masturbate him, everything in me suddenly focused in on him, the way he moves and breathes, the way his cock is a live thing in my hand. If he gets too erect, I slow down, too soft, I speed up, and through it all, he feeds me my meal.

This is a very sub-Dom thing. I know that. I’ve read upon it. I wanted to learn what he was, but there wasn’t anything to describe him.

He’s a Dom, but not the traditional one. All the sub women and girls I spoke to the moment I learned about Myth and the invitation nights, discussed him with…well…mythical awe.

There was one woman who could not shut up to me about the size of his cock, how she dripped, how utterly dominant he was. It turned my stomach at the time.