He’s halfway out the door to meet her when the text comes in, reading:
Wait for me. Prepped and on the floor. Flat on your back.
Dan knows what that means. She’s had a bad day, and he gets to bear the brunt of it.
Over an hour later, the door opens and slams shut, sending a thrill up his spine. He loves her mad — not at him; that’s a whole other minefield. But he loves the way she gets when someone else missteps or misspeaks or dares, in any way, to make a mistake in her presence. There’s something completely calm and collected about angry Blair, something indelibly dangerous that burns just under the surface. It’s the things Blair cares about the most that she fights the hardest to control, and he loves being the one thing that will always do exactly what she says, exactly what she wants.
He loves that she comes home to him.
The click of her heels across the hardwood gets closer and closer, quickening his pulse with every step, and then she’s breezing past him and hanging up her coat in the closet like he’s not even there. He clears his throat, as if she can’t clearly see him lying naked on the ground, tense and trembling just a little bit, already so hard.
He watches her move into the bathroom, hears the tap run and hears it shut. And then she’s there, her stiletto pressing into the center of his chest.
He runs a hand over her stockinged calf, lifting just enough to kiss her wherever he can reach. But she kicks him away, pushes him back down, her sharp heel biting into his skin like an incisor.
“How dare you?” she says, voice level. “Did I say you could touch me?”
He’s combative by nature, and even now, instinctively, he wants to roll his eyes, wants to grab her by the ankle and tug her down with him. But that’s not what she needs right now, and it certainly isn’t what she wants, so he only swallows, splaying his hands out on the floor on either side of him. Her heel digs in further, like she’s trying to spear him right through the heart.
She must know she already has.
“You don’t get to touch me until I say you can,” she continues, tracing the line of his cheekbone with her heel. “And I’m not in the mood for much touching.”
The light in her eyes is like the glint off the edge of a knife as she drags her heel down the rise and fall of his chest to his torso. His cock twitches, spits, and he bites down into his lip a little too hard — embarrassed by how turned on he is and turned on by how embarrassed he is.
He knows she doesn’t want to hurt him, not really, but he’d let her, if she did.
“But,” she says. “I will let you touch yourself.”
With one foot still holding him down, she reaches up and undoes the knot of her bun, letting her hair fall in waves around her. Slowly, her eyes still trained on him; on his flared cheeks and scraped up chest and hard length in his hand, she takes the zip of her dress down, letting up just long enough to step out of it. She’s feline in the way her back arches, putting her weight into it, and he can already feel the bruises blossoming over his heated skin, a map of her steps as she walks all over him.
Dan knows he’s never wanted anyone else like this, but when she bares her teeth in a smile, it feels like he’s never wanted anyone else at all.
“Don’t come,” she says, her tone so much softer than her demeanor, so much softer than the stiletto making a dent under his ribs. “You know the rules.”
Blair first and foremost, always. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
She hooks her fingers through the sides of her panties, slipping out of them but staying in everything else, and he groans at the sight of her, her slick center and the plush of her thighs framed by her black garters, her pale skin warmed pink. His hand stops, tensing into a fist at his side.
She lowers onto her knees, bracketing either side of his head, close enough he can feel how hot she is. His neck arches impatiently, but she lifts herself out of reach, smiling that coy little smile, always the mean girl.
“So eager,” she says. “Did you wait like this the whole time?”
He clears his throat, but his voice still cracks when he says, “Yes.”
“Good boy,” she says, then settles herself on his mouth, muffling his moan. He laps at her hungrily, pulls her clit between his lips and pulls gasp after gasp out of her. She’s forceful but still sweet, the rough tug of his hair balanced by the croon of hushed praises.
Her thighs shake when she finally slips off him, and when she kisses him for the first time that day, it's enough to make him whine without meaning to. She smoothes a hand down his torso, the scratches from her ridgid heel already red and raising, then wraps her small palm around his cock, buzzing with oversensitivity. She’s merciless, rhythmic and determined. “Look at me,” she demands, and he does, spilling over his stomach.
When he comes to her heels are discarded and she’s kissing over his face, the corners of his mouth and his cheeks and his chin, all of it still wet with her, then nuzzles into his chest, guiding his arms around her.
“You wanna talk about it?” he says, half into her hair.
“I need a bath,” she mumbles. “And food.”
“I can make that happen.”
She shifts up to press another kiss to his lips. “But I needed you first.”
“You have me,” he says.