"That was a really good meal," I say for the hundredth time as Viggo finishes clearing the table. "Seriously, thank you so much for dinner."
"You're welcome," he tells me with a smile.
"You sure you don't want any help?"
"I'm fine, Orli; really, just stay where you are."
"Um, okay."
He smiles at me again and begins to load the dishwasher as I lick my lips for any last bits of the delicious artichoke risotto he cooked tonight. Two days ago on-set, I had mentioned offhand how much I like artichokes; then today (our off-day), he called me up and invited me over for dinner, surprising me with fresh salad and the risotto. Of course now that dinner is over, I'm quite hungry for something else.
I wonder what it'll be tonight. One night last week he gave me a wonderful spanking as he fucked me, and on another he took some marvelous pictures of me tied spread-eagled to the bed before proceeding to feed me his cock. I don't have any kind of preference as to what happens tonight, as long as it's hard, fast, and involves nudity. Why Viggo insisted on wearing clothes during dinner tonight is beyond me since we're already fucking, but if he wants to take the high road, so be it.
"So tell me, Viggo," I say, standing up and walking over to stand against the counter, "did you have any plans in mind for after dinner? Lingering over dessert, perhaps?"
"I guess that depends on what dessert is," he chuckles. His blue eyes look me up and down, and I feel a shiver run through my body as he wraps an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You'll do nicely as dessert for tonight."
"Ah, so you'll linger over me?"
"Yes, I think I will." Viggo gives me another wide smile as we walk to the bedroom, and while my heart flutters a little bit (really, can you blame me?), I also wonder why he's acting differently than he always does. By this point, he's usually thrown me down on the bed with one of us half-naked. But tonight he seems to be more gentle, and he even gave me his little forehead kiss despite the fact that we haven't fucked yet. What's going on here?
When we reach the bedroom, he guides us to the bed and we sit down on it instead of tumbling onto the mattress. Of all the things in the world we could do, he apparently wants to snog! We've never snogged! Still, Viggo has his arms wrapped firmly around my chest, our mouths joined together as his tongue moves in slow circles around my own.
Okay, so it feels pretty nice to kiss and be kissed like this, but it's also strange to be doing this with him. Our sex life over the past few months has been about just that -- sex. Kinky sex, if we must elaborate. It really hasn't been about intimacy at all. Emotions haven't been involved. The fact that we're co-stars and very close mates has been left outside the bedroom door without any problems.
But now he seems to be bringing in all these other things to our sex life. Yeah, I know what you're thinking -- it's just a snog, and I'm overreacting. I'm not overreacting. Something's up, and it's not just my dick.
"Viggo?" I ask, pulling away slightly.
"Ssh, Orli . . . let me do this." There's no warning tone in his voice, but I acquiesce. I suddenly realize that maybe this could be one of his games. He could be playing all sweet and romantic until he turns the tables midway for a much rougher way of doing things. That thought actually calms me down, and I begin to up my participation in our make-out session.
His hands start drifting down to my chest, skimming over my nipples through the thin barrier of my tee-shirt. "You're beautiful," he whispers, placing a kiss just below my ear. Okay, did aliens zap Viggo's brain? I'm so bloody confused right now! My shirt is removed, and he's now kissing my neck while his fingers are exploring my torso like it's virgin territory. I have news for you, Viggo: there's no part of me that's virgin territory.
This isn't to say that I'm not enjoying this; it feels very good, especially when his mouth latches onto a nipple and starts to flick it with his tongue. Still, I'm very unnerved by all the random tenderness that's being shown to me. Either Viggo has finally lost what precious little was left of his sanity, or he's building me up for some really good kinky sex by hoping to get me relaxed and then catch me unaware when he does something like cuff me to the headboard.
I draw in a sharp breath when his hand covers my crotch, pressing against my erection. Viggo slides off of the bed and onto his knees in front of me, unzipping my jeans and pulling them all the way off; I didn't bother putting on underwear when dressing to come over here, but he doesn't make a smart-ass remark about it like he sometimes does. In fact, I realize that he hasn't called me his whore or slut once. I'm beginning to get miffed about all of this.
Oh, but how can I be miffed when he wraps those heavenly lips around my cock? Seriously, how can I be narked when he deep-throats me like that, using that expert tongue to massage the vein on my underside while one hand cradles my balls and applies just the right amount of pressure on them? My hand falls to his hair of its own volition, twisting through the long strands in an effort to speed up his movements, but Viggo won't be rushed.
The soft scrape of his stubble against my thigh feels positively sinful, and I grasp the sheets tightly as I unconsciously push my hips up at him. "Shit . . . Viggo!" I gasp. He squeezes my balls a little and sucks harder, driving me over the edge; I come in his mouth with a loud cry as my orgasm washes over me. He doesn't flinch, swallowing every drop of my come and keeping his mouth on my cock until it's clear that I have nothing more to give him. That's as bizarre as anything he's done tonight -- he almost *never* swallows after sucking me off.
"I love the way you taste," Viggo says huskily.
"Y-you do?" I ask. I lie back against the mattress as he rejoins me on the bed after taking off his own clothes.
"I love your smile," he continues. "I love your voice. I love the way you look when you sleep. I love how caring you are with everyone." Okay, seriously -- what the fuck is going on?
"Viggo, what are you--"
"I love you, Orli," he says softly.
My heart stops for a second or two. He didn't really just say that, did he? This game he's playing tonight has gone *way* too far. Realizing that Viggo is looking at me hopefully, waiting to see how I'll respond to his false declaration of love, I shake my head. "Fuck you," I whisper.
He frowns, apparently upset that I'm not playing along. "Orli?"
"I don't mind if you fuck with my body, Viggo; fucking with my emotions is something very different," I tell him with all the righteous indignation that I can muster as I stand up and grab my jeans.
"This isn't a joke," Viggo says earnestly. "I love you."
"Yeah, and I'm straight," I scoff. "It's a bloody mind game, which makes you even *more* twisted than I had you pegged for." Once my tee-shirt is on, I practically run to the kitchen so I can retrieve my shoes and car keys.
"Orli, please don't leave," he implores as he follows me. "Please, you have to believe me when I say that I'm not playing a game here -- I really do love you." For a brief second I think that he might be telling the truth; he's been awfully convincing tonight. But then I remember just how talented an actor he is, and that he has no problem effortlessly slipping into whatever role he wants to play. The emotions he's wearing on his face right now must be just another mask he put on in order to get a job done.
"Well, I don't believe you. And I can't believe you'd do something like this," I say as tears prick at my eyes. I quickly blink them away so I don't shame myself by crying in front of him. "So fuck you," I tell him again.
"Listen to me--"
"No! You listen to me! I'm not some idiot kid who's going to believe everything he's told. And you dare to presume that you can throw around words like 'I love you' as if they're no big deal, like this is some game? Those words mean something to me, Viggo! I'm sorry, but I don't treat love like it's a joke and you're a sick bastard for doing so."
Before he can respond, I storm out of the door with the last shreds of my dignity still intact. It's a blessedly short drive back to my house, and once I get home, I immediately go straight to bed. Finally allowing myself to cry, I wonder why on earth Viggo felt the need to pull a stunt like this.
The fact is that Viggo is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Sure, he can be a dominant bastard when we're fucking, but that's just his persona in the bedroom (and I *do* love it); everywhere else, he's such a relaxed, easygoing person. It's a truly bizarre and fascinating contrast, which is why I was so shocked that he threw me across his knee and spanked me in the first place all those months ago -- it just seemed so out-of-character for him. Just like lying about loving me seems so out-of-character now.
What makes this even worse is that *I* really am in love with Viggo. Over the past few months, I've started falling for his myriad charms -- the kindness, the intelligence, the offbeat sense of humor, and, of course, the undeniable sexiness. Yeah, what we have going on between the sheets has influenced my feelings for him a bit, but I'm really in love with him for who he *actually* is, not for the role he assumes when we fuck.
Maybe he picked up on my feelings for him and thought that if he pretended
to reciprocate my love, he could lock me in for a long-term deal as his
whore. Or maybe he was just mocking me. Well, whatever his
intentions were, I hope he's happy; thanks to him, I'm absolutely miserable
and confused as hell. And there's no way I'm going back to
being his slut like I was before, because Viggo is definitely not the man
I thought he was.
