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29
TILT
Lucky
Imagination is a wonderful, peculiar thing.
It makes up shit and furiously fills gaps to feed itself. From the first time I crossed paths with Q, I’ve imagined him in many ways. A god. A monster. A disfigured psycho. A withered octogenarian desperately clinging to the back door of the Playboy Mansion—okay, maybe not that. But my thoughts have veered between a few extremes.
None of them prepare me for my first sight of Q.
He’s…beautiful. Roman statue, fallen angel, prince of darkness, beautiful. And that is just from seeing his body.
Because, of course, his face is covered. I knew he wore a mask the first time he fucked me. And with all his talk of risks, my instincts told me a man like him wouldn’t reveal himself on a whim.
But even more than the visually stunning magnificence of his body, it’s the mask that commands my attention. It covers ninety-five per cent of his face, a masterpiece of bronze, gold and black metal that looks like it’s a living, breathing part of him. There are subtle inbuilt ridges that disguise the true shape of his face and jaw, and the only parts of his face visible are his eyes, and the inch wide slashes that extend from beneath his cheekbones down to his mouth.
His full, sexy mouth.
Between my legs, the vibrator and butt plug make their presence felt. A shiver twitches through me. I’ve only ever used a plug once. A version much smaller than the one currently residing in me. And even though the size is a fraction of Q’s cock, the feeling of fullness is overwhelming. I’m trying not to imagine what it will be like to have the man across the room from me inside my back passage.
The man with the ripped body and dark blond hair.
Dark blond.
For some reason that makes me frown. In every version of my imaginary guy, his hair was dark. Brown or black. But I’m not distracted from the splendor of him for very long. I already know he’s tall from our severe height disparity. But his body is sleek and rangy, his open shirt giving me a glimpse of a thick chest and hairless torso. Without seeing his face, I can’t guess his age accurately, but I can tell he’s young, either late twenties or early thirties.
“Lucky.”
My pulse jumps, along with my gaze, falls to his lips. Lips I haven’t yet had the privilege of kissing. My mind reluctantly lets go of images of kissing and devices, knowing what the thick murmur of my name means this time. “Y…yes. I see you. Even without the,” I indicate his mask, “I don’t have to imagine you. Thank you.”
He doesn’t move. Or acknowledge my response. Not for a full minute.
When my nerves get the better of me, I glance around.
“Where are we?” I ask. Something tells me to keep my voice soft, to not disturb the peace.
Nevertheless, he tenses. His head tilts like he’s weighing the pros and cons of divulging our location. “South Carolina,” he responds.
“Oh, okay.”
“You seem relieved. Did you think I’d taken you to the ends of the earth?”
I attempt a smile, but my mind is grappling with how he’s still doing that with his voice. Is there some sort of implant? “Something like that.”
“The end of the earth is beautiful this time of year.”
“I’m sure it is. But I need…I prefer to stay put for now.”
I sense him pondering my small slip, prodding at it like a predator prods its prey.
“To most people, a million dollars is literally a life-changing sum; the means to achieve a bigger and better lifestyle. That almost always means a geographical relocation. For you, I’m assuming an upgrade from homeless shelter to something else?”
I’m not expecting the direct volley of opinion. My mouth drops open a second before I collect myself beneath eyes of indeterminate color probing me. “Something else, yes. Not ends of the earth something else, though.”
Again he doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes remain pinned on me for another minute.
“Finish your drink and come here, Lucky.”