Negotiations 9
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Go back to Negotiations 8 or start from the beginning.
9
BRIAN'S POV
The moment your seat belt clicked shut on your flight to New York City late the next day, you allowed yourself to really feel the anxiety that had been hovering around you like a noxious fart all day. You ordered a drink, took a Xanax, and closed your eyes letting the tension engulf you like a sand storm....
Every time Justin goes to New York for work, you feel like you felt before he came back. You imagine him meeting a better man with more money and less hang ups and, ultimately, staying in the city. It's utterly ridiculous, and you know it. Knowing something, however, seems to have very little in common with feeling something. When he’s away, you start to miss him in an almost toxic way. You wonder if he knows this happens; you suspect he does because somehow he knows everything about your emotional fortress. You could defend it with a thousand men, and when the battle was over and the dust settled, you'd still find Justin in the middle of your territory leaning on a flag he made out of one of his abstract what the hell is this one about? paintings, smiling with no pants on.
If he goes to New York to visit friends, the anxiety never comes.
Your car service navigates the crowded New York city streets around five thirty on a Friday, and you stare out the window and tell yourself that the weird feelings are gone and won't be back. Justin texts you the room number and tells you it was the best room he could get on short notice. No penthouse suite this visit; you'll just vacation like a commoner.
Sacrifices.
You sling your bag backwards as you enter the lobby of the hotel and search for the elevator. When you're in front of your door, room 617, you knock twice. Justin opens the door and frowns, "I thought you were room service."
"I am," you laugh, pushing your way in, “I’m here to service you.”
“You must’ve heard the rumor that I tip well,” Justin says.
He takes your bag from you the same way he takes your briefcase when you come home from work, and then scans the room looking for a place to put it. He sits it in a chair by the room's only table, and then points to the view, the curtains already open wide. "Pretty cool view, I think," he says.
"Very urban," you surmise.
"The sounds, the sirens, the horns.... It's like being at the loft in the old days times ten," he offers.
"So, I have to go downstairs and outside to smoke?" you ask.
"Yeah, sorry, but I'm sure we can find something to do that will take your mind of that."
"All right," you tell him as you take a cigarette out and just pretend to smoke it.
Justin notices immediately, "Uh--- you only do that when you're tense, Brian. Come over here." You drop the bad habit on the table and walk over to where he is at the window. He starts to loosen your tie as he speaks, "Bad day at work? You didn't even change before the flight."
"Yeah," you lie and then tell a little truth, "Sometimes I just get tired of having to be the smartest guy in the room and the boss, you know?"
"You make plenty of money; hire another assistant or promote someone to take some shit off of you."
"I don't really want to talk about work, okay?"
"Okay. Just trying to help you relax," Justin admits, and then in a very unassuming way that makes you laugh, he asks, "Do you want a blow job?"
"Boy, you move fast. Could you get me a drink before I let you in my pants?"
"Sure," and then he walks to the mini-bar, opens the fridge, and makes a Price Is Right hand motion and says, "Which little bottle would you like?"
"They got any top shelf whiskey in there?"
Justin leans down and peruses the shelf, "Nope, bottom shelf."
"That's fine."
The two of you clink your mini-bottles together and down them like pros.
You know you should ask about his day, about how the gallery face-time went, who he saw, what work he got out of it, but you don't want to talk about it. He probably knows this, too, you surmise, because he doesn't bring it up either. Instead, you go a completely different direction, "I got you a present at the airport."
"Really?"
"Yep." You walk over to your bag and pull it out of the back pocket. It's wrapped only in the plastic bag from the store.
Justin's brow furrows when he sees the bag, "You bought me something at a drugstore? Is it condoms? Are we tricking this weekend?"
"Yes, no, and maybe." You hand him the bag, and the second he touches it, he knows what it is. He gets a coy smile on his face as he unwraps the paddle brush.
"You shouldn't have," he teases you.
"But I did, and I'm going to," you tell him.
"But I don't have anything for you," he admits
"Oh, yes, you do," you say, and he smiles and wraps his arms around your torso. Your fingers walk down his belly and pop the button on his pants; you slide your hand in on top of his briefs, searching for the extent of his erection. "I'm sorry, Sir," he whispers when you find it, and the speed at which Justin can take himself to subspace gives you a cold chill. You whisper back to him, "Everything off. I want you to show it to me." In that micro-moment, he’s surrendered to you, and to this day that tiny shift gives you butterflies in your stomach.
Justin steps back and stares at you while he undresses. You get up and sit in the room's lone easy chair by the window. You crook your finger, telling him to come over to you, so he does. That coy smile returns as he touches himself right in front of you, stroking himself and showing off what he’s made just for you. "What's that about?" you ask him.
"Show and tell?" he tries.
"Well, you've mastered showing, so how about some telling?"
Justin flushes a little and then fights it, staring down at you as you touch him, "You bought me a hair brush. What did you expect?"
"Most expensive one I've ever bought," you admit.
"Yeah, 'cause you bought it in an airport drugstore!" he teases.
You stroke him gently, sometimes leaning forward and licking the head of his cock, his fingers digging into your shoulder. "You think you're ready to be across my lap again?"
"I know I am."
"Well, that's a bold statement considering what happened last time."
"That will never happen again. I apologized, and I was punished profusely," Justin says, a slight pleading in the tone of his voice.
"You deserved that punishment," you tell him and then smile at him, at his earnest cock, at how easily you can bend him to your will. His dick is beautiful, thick and warm and persistent. "You're beautiful," you say while you're staring at it, and he gets a little embarrassed. "Brian," he chastises.
"I'm horny, but I'm serious, too," you tell him, "And you're fiercely cute."
"Did you drink a 'woobie' potion on the plane or something?"
"No, well...sort of, but I just think that you spend a lot of time thinking about how gorgeous I am, and I want you to know that I feel the same way every day."
“I do not think about how gorgeous you are all day long,” he retorts.
“Oh, you little liar,” you tease him.
"We needed this...to just get away," Justin says.
"You're right," and then you lean forward and take his cock in your mouth, and his hands move to the back of your head and just toy with your hair. He doesn't push you at all; he just moans as you let him fuck your face for a few seconds. While you're sucking him, you let your hands wander to his ass, your fingertips trailing up and down his crack.
"All I can think about is you fucking me," he admits.
"Oh, now that’s a lie; you think about way more than that; open your legs a little." He does, and then you let him feel the cool back of the wooden hairbrush down his back, over his ass, and down the back of his thigh. You motion to the window with your head, "The whole city can see you right now, you know."
"I know; you love it. I'm sure you're hard as a rock."
You watch and smile as his hands, the muscles and tendons - splayed wide on the window - tell the story as you begin to spank him. At times, his forehead rests against the glass as he braces himself for the escalation of pain he’s so familiar with. When you touch his right hand, lift it off the glass, and direct it to his cock, he arches his back even more; he strokes himself while whispered words escape his mouth, ”Yes...please...Brian...again….”
"Good boy," you compliment him as your hand runs across his bottom kneading the pinked skin. He exhales in desperation when he feels your hand instead of the expected pain. You toy with him, letting him feel both - pain one moment; tactile pleasure the next. He begins to jerk himself with purpose as he looks back at you, a hopeless expression on his face. “Please,” he pleads with you.
"You can come on the window."
"I need to be fucked,...please."
"On the window for me. Then, I fuck you.”
He creams the window and his hand, and you get up right away and unzip your pants. You fuck his on-fire little ass right there above the traffic as rain drops start to splat against the glass canvas in front of you. “Oh my god...yes,” he says over and over. He attempts to brace himself against the window unable to really make it work.
His wet hand print lingers after you're done; he asks you to stay inside him, so you pivot carefully and bring him--still on your cock--back to the chair. He's warm and spent and bends backwards to kiss you.. "Brian…Jesus,” he moans.
“Yes, we are often mistaken for one another.”
“I needed that...so badly.”
You run your fingers over his stomach so lightly that he cringes now and then at the tickly sensation, “I know you did.” He shifts on your lap, striking a languid pace while riding you. “I didn’t take anything,” you say quietly because you know he can feel it. He can always tell. He stops moving because it’s becoming counter-productive to your physical connection.
“That’s fine with me. You put too much pressure on yourself,” he says quietly.
“I do it for you,” you respond in kind.
You feel his hand curl around the back of your head; his body arching out into the room as if his torso is a harp, “Pleasure isn’t just about an endless erection. I know you know that.”
“I feel guilty when I can’t perform for you,” you confess.
He sighs, his body relaxing a little, his mouth right under your jaw bone, “You act like I keep a journal on it or something.”
“I know, okay? It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid, Brian; it’s sweet. Unbearably so, sometimes.”
You don’t know how or why this conversation has become what it’s become, but it’s happened, so fuck it. “When I had you a few minutes ago, you were pleading with me, saying you needed to be fucked. I would mentally implode if my body couldn’t respond to you.”
“Pardon the awkward timing, but we need to get out of this chair before we have to replace it.”
You laugh because he’s right; your lap has become a slip-and-slide. You push him off of you, and he takes two steps to the bed and yanks the covers back, climbs in, and waits for you as you finish undressing. The subject is dropped the second your skin touches his.
You lie on top of him, letting your sticky thighs grease the connection between you. The mere simulation of the act makes him needy; his legs squeeze around your waist as your bodies glide against one another. It’s just pure, wet pleasure with no endgame in sight. He whispers in your ear, “Somehow you make this whole city an erogenous zone.”
“Well, I am on the zoning committee,” you razz.
“Thank god for that.”
"You're going to be sore, sweetheart. Very, very sore."
"I can't wait," Justin says, "Being sore is like when you send yourself a postcard on vacation to read when you get home."
"That is a bizarre analogy."
"You never did that?"
"Uh, no, but I see a lot of postcards in your future."
"Like my mailbox is going to be full?"
"Stuffed is more like it."
……
It occurs to you that you need to do this more often with Justin - this slippery frottage - because he’s ravenous in your arms, and there’s a tension in his body that he gives entirely to you. “You like this,” you say into his ear. His moaned response is tempered with frustration-laced desire, and then he says, “This is like being on E without the E.”
“A little lubricated friction is all it takes to make you come undone, darling.”
“Are you complaining, Brian?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Because it sounds like you’re bemoaning the sad fact that I’m very easy.”
You tease him, “Oh, now you can’t help that. Look who you married. Being a whore was a prerequisite to our entire relationship.”
“God, that’s so true - of both of us.”
You glance up to see what time it is on the hotel clock radio and laugh because Justin moved in the second he got here. The second shelf of the nightstand looks like a retail display stand at a sex toy store. “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything you might need?” you ask him, and his eye follows yours and smiles.
He’s adamant in his response, “I had to bring all of those half ounce lube samples we have because they won’t let you bring more than three ounces of anything on a fucking plane. Open the top drawer.”
You reach over and pull it open and start laughing because he brought a shitload of them. “Are we having a key party tonight?”
“We’ve been invited to a sex club,” he offers.
“Excuse me?” (This intrigues you.) “By whom?”
“Clive. It’s a club called ‘The Black Hole.’”
“Clive? Is he fucking around on his partner now?”
“Actually,” Justin says, his voice animated, “Oliver is working on his agoraphobia, and so far he’s the most comfortable at that club, so they go there a lot.”
“Please tell me you got more than just an orgy invite out of this gallery visit.”
His eyebrows dance, “Oh, absolutely. He’s going to take eight of the ten pieces I offered him. It went well.”
“If we go, I’m taking a pill,” you warn him.
Justin rolls his eyes, “I know you will. And this isn’t a kinky club, just so you understand. It’s just a sex--”
“It’s an orgy with a cover charge, basically.”
“Right.”
You question him, “And you want to go because...you’ll move even higher up on Clive’s list or ...because you really want to go?”
“I want to see Oliver; he’s hilarious, and I think it’d be fun, Brian. Plus, it’ll be an evening of debauchery which is your favorite kind of evening.”
“Your idea of hilarious is an overweight, agoraphobic, gay accountant conquering his fears at a paid orgy?”
“He's a stock broker, not an accountant, and you get to take Viagra minus the guilt trip. Go start a hot shower for me. We need to eat; I’m starving.” (You like it when he gets bossy. If he keeps it up, you won't need the little blue pill.)
When he joins you under the water, you pin him against the cold tile wall, “I know why you really want to go.”
“Why?”
“Because you and your ass will get oggled all night long, and I’ll have to mark my territory to keep guys away from you.”
“Like I won’t have to spend the entire night giving every bottom a dirty look for even thinking that you’re available.”
“So, we’re taking our egos out for a night on the town, then?” you ask him.
He takes the shampoo from you and gives you a little smirk, “It sure looks that way.”
Indeed.
Negotiations 10
Go back to Negotiations 8 or start from the beginning.
9
BRIAN'S POV
The moment your seat belt clicked shut on your flight to New York City late the next day, you allowed yourself to really feel the anxiety that had been hovering around you like a noxious fart all day. You ordered a drink, took a Xanax, and closed your eyes letting the tension engulf you like a sand storm....
Every time Justin goes to New York for work, you feel like you felt before he came back. You imagine him meeting a better man with more money and less hang ups and, ultimately, staying in the city. It's utterly ridiculous, and you know it. Knowing something, however, seems to have very little in common with feeling something. When he’s away, you start to miss him in an almost toxic way. You wonder if he knows this happens; you suspect he does because somehow he knows everything about your emotional fortress. You could defend it with a thousand men, and when the battle was over and the dust settled, you'd still find Justin in the middle of your territory leaning on a flag he made out of one of his abstract what the hell is this one about? paintings, smiling with no pants on.
If he goes to New York to visit friends, the anxiety never comes.
Your car service navigates the crowded New York city streets around five thirty on a Friday, and you stare out the window and tell yourself that the weird feelings are gone and won't be back. Justin texts you the room number and tells you it was the best room he could get on short notice. No penthouse suite this visit; you'll just vacation like a commoner.
Sacrifices.
You sling your bag backwards as you enter the lobby of the hotel and search for the elevator. When you're in front of your door, room 617, you knock twice. Justin opens the door and frowns, "I thought you were room service."
"I am," you laugh, pushing your way in, “I’m here to service you.”
“You must’ve heard the rumor that I tip well,” Justin says.
He takes your bag from you the same way he takes your briefcase when you come home from work, and then scans the room looking for a place to put it. He sits it in a chair by the room's only table, and then points to the view, the curtains already open wide. "Pretty cool view, I think," he says.
"Very urban," you surmise.
"The sounds, the sirens, the horns.... It's like being at the loft in the old days times ten," he offers.
"So, I have to go downstairs and outside to smoke?" you ask.
"Yeah, sorry, but I'm sure we can find something to do that will take your mind of that."
"All right," you tell him as you take a cigarette out and just pretend to smoke it.
Justin notices immediately, "Uh--- you only do that when you're tense, Brian. Come over here." You drop the bad habit on the table and walk over to where he is at the window. He starts to loosen your tie as he speaks, "Bad day at work? You didn't even change before the flight."
"Yeah," you lie and then tell a little truth, "Sometimes I just get tired of having to be the smartest guy in the room and the boss, you know?"
"You make plenty of money; hire another assistant or promote someone to take some shit off of you."
"I don't really want to talk about work, okay?"
"Okay. Just trying to help you relax," Justin admits, and then in a very unassuming way that makes you laugh, he asks, "Do you want a blow job?"
"Boy, you move fast. Could you get me a drink before I let you in my pants?"
"Sure," and then he walks to the mini-bar, opens the fridge, and makes a Price Is Right hand motion and says, "Which little bottle would you like?"
"They got any top shelf whiskey in there?"
Justin leans down and peruses the shelf, "Nope, bottom shelf."
"That's fine."
The two of you clink your mini-bottles together and down them like pros.
You know you should ask about his day, about how the gallery face-time went, who he saw, what work he got out of it, but you don't want to talk about it. He probably knows this, too, you surmise, because he doesn't bring it up either. Instead, you go a completely different direction, "I got you a present at the airport."
"Really?"
"Yep." You walk over to your bag and pull it out of the back pocket. It's wrapped only in the plastic bag from the store.
Justin's brow furrows when he sees the bag, "You bought me something at a drugstore? Is it condoms? Are we tricking this weekend?"
"Yes, no, and maybe." You hand him the bag, and the second he touches it, he knows what it is. He gets a coy smile on his face as he unwraps the paddle brush.
"You shouldn't have," he teases you.
"But I did, and I'm going to," you tell him.
"But I don't have anything for you," he admits
"Oh, yes, you do," you say, and he smiles and wraps his arms around your torso. Your fingers walk down his belly and pop the button on his pants; you slide your hand in on top of his briefs, searching for the extent of his erection. "I'm sorry, Sir," he whispers when you find it, and the speed at which Justin can take himself to subspace gives you a cold chill. You whisper back to him, "Everything off. I want you to show it to me." In that micro-moment, he’s surrendered to you, and to this day that tiny shift gives you butterflies in your stomach.
Justin steps back and stares at you while he undresses. You get up and sit in the room's lone easy chair by the window. You crook your finger, telling him to come over to you, so he does. That coy smile returns as he touches himself right in front of you, stroking himself and showing off what he’s made just for you. "What's that about?" you ask him.
"Show and tell?" he tries.
"Well, you've mastered showing, so how about some telling?"
Justin flushes a little and then fights it, staring down at you as you touch him, "You bought me a hair brush. What did you expect?"
"Most expensive one I've ever bought," you admit.
"Yeah, 'cause you bought it in an airport drugstore!" he teases.
You stroke him gently, sometimes leaning forward and licking the head of his cock, his fingers digging into your shoulder. "You think you're ready to be across my lap again?"
"I know I am."
"Well, that's a bold statement considering what happened last time."
"That will never happen again. I apologized, and I was punished profusely," Justin says, a slight pleading in the tone of his voice.
"You deserved that punishment," you tell him and then smile at him, at his earnest cock, at how easily you can bend him to your will. His dick is beautiful, thick and warm and persistent. "You're beautiful," you say while you're staring at it, and he gets a little embarrassed. "Brian," he chastises.
"I'm horny, but I'm serious, too," you tell him, "And you're fiercely cute."
"Did you drink a 'woobie' potion on the plane or something?"
"No, well...sort of, but I just think that you spend a lot of time thinking about how gorgeous I am, and I want you to know that I feel the same way every day."
“I do not think about how gorgeous you are all day long,” he retorts.
“Oh, you little liar,” you tease him.
"We needed this...to just get away," Justin says.
"You're right," and then you lean forward and take his cock in your mouth, and his hands move to the back of your head and just toy with your hair. He doesn't push you at all; he just moans as you let him fuck your face for a few seconds. While you're sucking him, you let your hands wander to his ass, your fingertips trailing up and down his crack.
"All I can think about is you fucking me," he admits.
"Oh, now that’s a lie; you think about way more than that; open your legs a little." He does, and then you let him feel the cool back of the wooden hairbrush down his back, over his ass, and down the back of his thigh. You motion to the window with your head, "The whole city can see you right now, you know."
"I know; you love it. I'm sure you're hard as a rock."
You watch and smile as his hands, the muscles and tendons - splayed wide on the window - tell the story as you begin to spank him. At times, his forehead rests against the glass as he braces himself for the escalation of pain he’s so familiar with. When you touch his right hand, lift it off the glass, and direct it to his cock, he arches his back even more; he strokes himself while whispered words escape his mouth, ”Yes...please...Brian...again….”
"Good boy," you compliment him as your hand runs across his bottom kneading the pinked skin. He exhales in desperation when he feels your hand instead of the expected pain. You toy with him, letting him feel both - pain one moment; tactile pleasure the next. He begins to jerk himself with purpose as he looks back at you, a hopeless expression on his face. “Please,” he pleads with you.
"You can come on the window."
"I need to be fucked,...please."
"On the window for me. Then, I fuck you.”
He creams the window and his hand, and you get up right away and unzip your pants. You fuck his on-fire little ass right there above the traffic as rain drops start to splat against the glass canvas in front of you. “Oh my god...yes,” he says over and over. He attempts to brace himself against the window unable to really make it work.
His wet hand print lingers after you're done; he asks you to stay inside him, so you pivot carefully and bring him--still on your cock--back to the chair. He's warm and spent and bends backwards to kiss you.. "Brian…Jesus,” he moans.
“Yes, we are often mistaken for one another.”
“I needed that...so badly.”
You run your fingers over his stomach so lightly that he cringes now and then at the tickly sensation, “I know you did.” He shifts on your lap, striking a languid pace while riding you. “I didn’t take anything,” you say quietly because you know he can feel it. He can always tell. He stops moving because it’s becoming counter-productive to your physical connection.
“That’s fine with me. You put too much pressure on yourself,” he says quietly.
“I do it for you,” you respond in kind.
You feel his hand curl around the back of your head; his body arching out into the room as if his torso is a harp, “Pleasure isn’t just about an endless erection. I know you know that.”
“I feel guilty when I can’t perform for you,” you confess.
He sighs, his body relaxing a little, his mouth right under your jaw bone, “You act like I keep a journal on it or something.”
“I know, okay? It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid, Brian; it’s sweet. Unbearably so, sometimes.”
You don’t know how or why this conversation has become what it’s become, but it’s happened, so fuck it. “When I had you a few minutes ago, you were pleading with me, saying you needed to be fucked. I would mentally implode if my body couldn’t respond to you.”
“Pardon the awkward timing, but we need to get out of this chair before we have to replace it.”
You laugh because he’s right; your lap has become a slip-and-slide. You push him off of you, and he takes two steps to the bed and yanks the covers back, climbs in, and waits for you as you finish undressing. The subject is dropped the second your skin touches his.
You lie on top of him, letting your sticky thighs grease the connection between you. The mere simulation of the act makes him needy; his legs squeeze around your waist as your bodies glide against one another. It’s just pure, wet pleasure with no endgame in sight. He whispers in your ear, “Somehow you make this whole city an erogenous zone.”
“Well, I am on the zoning committee,” you razz.
“Thank god for that.”
"You're going to be sore, sweetheart. Very, very sore."
"I can't wait," Justin says, "Being sore is like when you send yourself a postcard on vacation to read when you get home."
"That is a bizarre analogy."
"You never did that?"
"Uh, no, but I see a lot of postcards in your future."
"Like my mailbox is going to be full?"
"Stuffed is more like it."
……
It occurs to you that you need to do this more often with Justin - this slippery frottage - because he’s ravenous in your arms, and there’s a tension in his body that he gives entirely to you. “You like this,” you say into his ear. His moaned response is tempered with frustration-laced desire, and then he says, “This is like being on E without the E.”
“A little lubricated friction is all it takes to make you come undone, darling.”
“Are you complaining, Brian?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Because it sounds like you’re bemoaning the sad fact that I’m very easy.”
You tease him, “Oh, now you can’t help that. Look who you married. Being a whore was a prerequisite to our entire relationship.”
“God, that’s so true - of both of us.”
You glance up to see what time it is on the hotel clock radio and laugh because Justin moved in the second he got here. The second shelf of the nightstand looks like a retail display stand at a sex toy store. “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything you might need?” you ask him, and his eye follows yours and smiles.
He’s adamant in his response, “I had to bring all of those half ounce lube samples we have because they won’t let you bring more than three ounces of anything on a fucking plane. Open the top drawer.”
You reach over and pull it open and start laughing because he brought a shitload of them. “Are we having a key party tonight?”
“We’ve been invited to a sex club,” he offers.
“Excuse me?” (This intrigues you.) “By whom?”
“Clive. It’s a club called ‘The Black Hole.’”
“Clive? Is he fucking around on his partner now?”
“Actually,” Justin says, his voice animated, “Oliver is working on his agoraphobia, and so far he’s the most comfortable at that club, so they go there a lot.”
“Please tell me you got more than just an orgy invite out of this gallery visit.”
His eyebrows dance, “Oh, absolutely. He’s going to take eight of the ten pieces I offered him. It went well.”
“If we go, I’m taking a pill,” you warn him.
Justin rolls his eyes, “I know you will. And this isn’t a kinky club, just so you understand. It’s just a sex--”
“It’s an orgy with a cover charge, basically.”
“Right.”
You question him, “And you want to go because...you’ll move even higher up on Clive’s list or ...because you really want to go?”
“I want to see Oliver; he’s hilarious, and I think it’d be fun, Brian. Plus, it’ll be an evening of debauchery which is your favorite kind of evening.”
“Your idea of hilarious is an overweight, agoraphobic, gay accountant conquering his fears at a paid orgy?”
“He's a stock broker, not an accountant, and you get to take Viagra minus the guilt trip. Go start a hot shower for me. We need to eat; I’m starving.” (You like it when he gets bossy. If he keeps it up, you won't need the little blue pill.)
When he joins you under the water, you pin him against the cold tile wall, “I know why you really want to go.”
“Why?”
“Because you and your ass will get oggled all night long, and I’ll have to mark my territory to keep guys away from you.”
“Like I won’t have to spend the entire night giving every bottom a dirty look for even thinking that you’re available.”
“So, we’re taking our egos out for a night on the town, then?” you ask him.
He takes the shampoo from you and gives you a little smirk, “It sure looks that way.”
Indeed.
Negotiations 10