* * * * * * * * * *
When I asked her to pull my hair, she’d looked momentarily confused, but then grinned—she was a switch after all—and happily, skillfully obliged. I responded like I always do, with a gasp-sigh of pleasure, melting into her grip, kissing her back forcefully.
“I can’t take you seriously as a top if I’m pulling your hair,” she told me laughingly when we came up for air.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me, you’re switchy as shit!”
“Well, right, from scene to scene.” Here she rolled on top of me and kissed me, and I didn’t much mind the interruption. “But tonight you are definitely topping me—”
“And doing a damn fine job of it,” I teased.
“Damn fine,” she agreed. “But: if you’re supposed to be topping”—another sound kiss—“how’m I supposed to take you seriously”—she threaded her fingers through my hair—“when you ask me to do this?” She gripped and pulled, and I sighed in pleasure. “And when you react like that,” she added as an afterthought, smiling cheekily at me.
I suddenly realized how much I was going to enjoy wiping that smile off her face.
