Page 18 of Scary In Love

Jenna

If there was a movie of my life, this is the record-scratch, freeze-frame ‘yep, that’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got here’ moment.

Standing in the Miller house, stripping out of my underwear and shoving them in my mouth simply because a man I barely know told me to.

And I’ve never been more turned on.

Mason’s entire demeanour shifts as he watches me follow his orders. His jaw ticks and his eyes darken. He feels bigger somehow, and the air in the room thickens when he tilts his head to one side, stares at my skirt, and adjusts the front of his jeans.

He tugs off his sweater and rakes his fingers through his hair. Guess I’m not the only one feeling the heat in this room.

“Sit back down, and we’ll start over. Nod your head if the answer is yes, shake if it’s no. You want to say something, you raise your hand and wait until I tell you to speak. Understood?”

I nod, my chest heaving as I try to control my breathing through my nose. I’m not a small woman, so neither are my underwear. Even balled up tight, they don’t leave a lot of room for air.

“These questions are important to me because you are important to me. Think of it as a risk assessment. I want to create something special for you, but I don’t want to make assumptions, and I’m not taking any chances with your body or your mind.

I need you to know deep down that you’re safe, even if you don’t feel like it when we’re in a scene together. ”

I don’t love being scolded—or maybe I do in this case—but Mason is right.

His proposal is so wildly unexpected, I’m swept up in the thrill of anticipation and not thinking clearly.

With the way my core is throbbing, I’d say yes to anything, but I appreciate a man who understands consent and wants to focus on my pleasure.

That certainly hasn’t been the case with some of the lazy losers I’ve dated in the past.

He starts over, repeating the questions designed to assess my comfort levels with various acts, positions, dynamics. Just like before, my answers are mostly yes, but since I can’t interrupt, he forces me to slow down.

“Anal?”

Slowly, I raise my hand, and when he gives me permission to speak, I remove the fabric stuffed in my mouth.

“You may speak,” he says.

“I’ve never…” I stumble over my words and take a deep breath. “I’ve never done anything there before. But I’d like to try.”

“It’s not something we would rush into,” he says matter-of-factly, scribbling a note in the margin of his paper. “We’d need time to take it slow and prepare, so maybe that’s something for another night. I’m sure we can find a middle ground. Now put your panties back in your mouth.”

I do it without hesitation, and when he calls me ‘good girl’ , a thin whine seeps out of me.

“Toys?” he continues, running through a list of types.

I nod along with all of them. “I want you to know that everything I use will be new and sanitised. Hygiene is important to me. I’ll use condoms, but I haven’t been with anyone since my last test results were clear. Anything I should know about there?”

I shake my head. It’s been a couple of years since my last test, but I haven’t been with anyone since then, either. Thank God I didn’t break that dry spell with Peter.

Mason keeps going with questions about blindfolds, and restraints, and temperature play. In the long, drawn-out pauses between, my mind runs riot trying to imagine what he’s plotting with this information. I want to know everything, but it’s also exciting that I don’t.

The thought of walking into this house, knowing full well I’m about to get railed by a man who creates scare haunts for a living, is just…

Honestly, what the fuck is happening to me?

When he asks about fisting, my focus flicks down to his hands. They’re big, and I’ve never tried it, but I’m curious about the sensation of being stretched and full.

That’s the beauty of Mason’s plan. We’d have plenty of time to play, and zero interruptions. Like anal, I’m sure we could work our way up to it, but my head is swimming with the reality.

I shake my head, and he doesn’t bat an eyelid.

He lists off names he might call me.

Whore. Nod.

Bitch. Nod.

Slut. Nod.

When his questions turn to edging and overstimulation, I feel like I might come from the lack of air and constantly clenching around nothing.

When I masturbate, I often force myself to push through the sensitivity.

In the dark quiet of my room, I imagine my partner growling in my ear, demanding I give them more.

Orgasm denial is the opposite experience, but the allure is still the same.

Someone else taking control of my body and my pleasure, focusing solely on me, all give and no take. The thought is unbearably sexy.

I cross my legs, rubbing my thighs together, hoping for a little relief. My eyes flutter closed when I find it, but it’s not enough. Shifting my legs the other way doesn’t help, either.

“Jenna, are you okay? Do you need a break?”

My moan comes out all muffled, but when I look back at him, he licks his lips and smirks. He knows this is driving me crazy, and I think he enjoys watching me squirm.

“Exhibitionism,” he continues. “Are you interested in having an audience?”

I think about it for a while before raising my hand and waiting for his permission to speak. I can’t tell what’s wetter, the panties in my mouth, or the back of my skirt where I must be soaking it.

“I like the fantasy, but in reality, I’d get too self-conscious and worry about what people think of my body. So not for this.”

“That’s good. And anyway, I want you all for myself. You’re fucking hot, by the way. For the avoidance of doubt.”

He says it like it’s the most casual statement in the world, not an open declaration of his feelings towards me. Never has a man been so open and direct before, and I feel it throughout my entire body.

“I take it that’s the same for group activities?”

I nod, and put the gag back in without being prompted. Mason keeps going, guiding me through the rest of his questions, elaborating on a few.

When he’s finished, he talks me through his own limits and boundaries.

Hearing him describe the things he enjoys is a rush, and though it’s clear he’ll be in charge, it’s reassuring to know what makes him feel good too.

Consent works both ways, and I don’t want to be second-guessing anything in the moment.

He drops his pen into the holder and puts the clipboard, along with all my answers, in his desk drawer. I watch as he locks it, then pockets the key.

Since we’re done, I assume it’s okay to take the gag out, but I liked being called a good girl earlier, so I wait for his permission.

The seconds feel like hours when he’s staring at me from across the desk, blatantly exploring my body with his gaze. I didn’t think I could feel any warmer than I already am, but sweat is beading underneath my top, and I don’t know whether I want to cool it down or turn up the heat.

I haven’t always been kind to myself when it comes to my appearance, though things have been better in recent years. The older I get, the less I give a shit about what people think. I am who I am, and I’m not interested in changing to please others.

In school, I often felt like I was the only one getting bullied, but looking back, I’m sure everyone had it rough at some point. I was an easy target for immature kids, mostly because my parents ran a retirement home.

People would say I had thirty grandads, and somehow that meant I was inbred. Or that I stank of piss, which is offensive both to me and to the residents.

The few classmates who ever came to my house would run screaming at the sight of the skull collection in my bedroom, sparking rumours that spread so rapidly the police turned up to make sure I wasn’t the infamous and elusive Crowmorne Cat Killer.

There’d been a lot of suspects that year, though most people eventually accepted it was a fox .

When I hit puberty before everyone in my year, the joke was that I was stealing food from grannies to grow tits.

And people wonder why I prefer the company of older people?

Kids are pricks, teenagers are worse, and I can only hope that biology lessons have advanced in the last fifteen years because that’s obviously not how digestion works.

And then there are men. The ones I’ve been with haven’t always been kind either. Subtle comments that landed like a brick. Comparing me with their exes. A frustrating lack of attention or care in the bedroom, and certainly nothing that’s ever resembled worship.

But Mason? Mason obviously cares about my pleasure, and he’s still looking at me like I’m a fucking prize.

“You can take those out now,” he says eventually.

I consider putting them back on, but I drop them on his desk instead. He presses his tongue into the side of his cheek, and I can tell he wasn’t expecting it.

“So what’s the verdict?” I ask.

“I think you’re my dream girl, Jenna Laing.”