“Just move. It will come to you.”
So I do. I just move.
I start behind him, swaying, hands on his muscular shoulders, dipping down, down, down.
I swing myself around, straddling his lap, but not sitting. I dip again, this time just a tease, my dress rising up over my hips, exposing my black, lace thong.
He can’t see me.
I think to myself as the strap of my dress falls from one shoulder. My breast is bare as the thin fabric falls down. The air in the room is pleasantly cool, and my nipple puckers instantly.
“Do you want to touch me?” I ask.
His hands find my hips as I move. He never leaves the chair. Never takes off the mask.
But those hands. Those hands roam over my dress.
One hand finds that exposed breast. Strong, calloused fingertips stroke the soft skin there, fingernails lightly scrape at the puckered nipple. It’s a sensation that sends a shot of white-hot lightning into my core.
The other finds my ass beneath my dress. Skin-on-skin there, but he doesn’t try to do more, to take more. He just holds me there as I move slowly, sensually.
I lose track of time while I dance for him. I forget why I’m here. I am hot and cold at the same time, and my skin burns wherever he touches me.
He is respectful, never trying to undress me or kiss me. It is intensely sexual, what is happening, and yet we have done nothing beyond a dance and simple touch.
As a new song plays, I find my way to his lap. He’s hard beneath his trousers, and I am nearly panting like a dog, arousal like a flame in my belly.
Would it be horrible to let myself come for him? Perhaps I am supposed to makehimcome?
“Do you need to come?” I blurt. It should break the spell, but his hands tighten on my ass as he pushes me to ride him through our clothing.
“No,” he says roughly. “But it seems you do.”
Flames light my cheeks, I’m so mortified. “How do you know?”
“Your scent,” he says. “You’re wearing perfume. It smells like sugar and peaches. But your scent is musky now. Aroused. I want you to come for me. Can you?”
He takes my arms, pins them behind my back with one large, commanding hand.
His other hand rests on my lower back possessively.
We move.
No—Imove.
Grinding.
Gliding against the hard length contained in those pants, perfectly aligned with the aching spot that’s already throbbing.
Every shift of my hips draws a gasp I try to swallow.
I’m soaked. Pulsing. Dizzy with want.
My hair tumbles down my back in a silky cascade, another brush of sensation against overheated skin.
I can’t stop staring at his mouth—those lips. Sculpted. Sinful. He licks them, slow and deliberate, and my mind goes wild.
I imagine them trailing along my jaw, closing around a nipple, sinking between my thighs.
