I guess I’m staying after all.
I take the clothes Ruby brought last night into the guest room and lay them on the bed, anxiety swirling in my stomach as I look at them. I’m hesitant to change out of Saint’s clothes because I don’t want to look weird wearing Stella’s clothes.
Everything is brand new with tags, so it helps ease some of my worries about taking clothes someone wears all the time.
My eyes trail over to the red lace panties—athong—and matching bralette. Did Stella mean to put these in here? I don’t think I’d ever give something like this to someone I’ve never met.
I can’t deny I’m curious about what it would look and feel like. I’ve never worn a thong. Or lace underwear, for thatmatter. It’s not exactly practical when I’m wearing coveralls and sweating all day at work. I can’t be picking a wedgie when I’m trying to hold up a tire.
“It’s just underwear, Mikey. You can’t go commando all day,” I whisper to myself, stripping off Saint’s sweats and shirt. I take a deep breath and begrudgingly slide the underwear up my legs, and settling them onto my hips. Surprisingly, they’re a perfect fit. The sheer lace is buttery soft against my skin, and it’s not as uncomfortable as I expected it to be. I slide the bralette over my head and lift my boobs into the cups, shocked they’re not spilling over.
Slowly, I turn around with my eyes closed and face the standing mirror in the corner of the room. After giving myself a little pep talk, I peek one eye open and scan my body.
I’ve always worn practical, comfortable underwear. I never felt the draw to pretty, lacy things because it never meshed with my lifestyle. My ex bought me a few pieces of lingerie, but the lace was scratchy, and everything seemed like it was too small, so I never wore it.
Growing up with a single dad and working in a male-dominated field, I’ve never let myself lean into my feminine side. Looking at my reflection, I wonder if there’s a way to find a better balance.
Disbelief and awe have my eyes flying open wide. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me, she’s…
Beautiful.
My hair is still in its natural waves after showering yesterday, spilling over my shoulders. My body has always been freckled, and I got made fun of for them, but I can’t find it in me to hate them right now. Have my lips always been this pink? Have my cheeks always looked flush? Or is this what being with Saint does to me?
The only mirror I have in my place is the bathroom mirror, so I don’t catch glimpses of my whole body often. It’s never something I’ve desired, anyway, because of the way my ex treated me. When he took me clothes shopping, looking in the mirror almost made me cry. His cruel words would poke at my skin and make me want to hide. When I would see the flare of my hips, the stretch marks on my stomach, the cellulite on my thighs, the way my boobs fell, I couldn’t help but pinpoint every single thing I wanted to change. It nearly brought me to tears.
But looking at myself now nearly brings me to tears for a different reason.
Saint worshipping my body last night has brought a new perspective. I’m starting to see my body as something desirable—beautiful, even. I trace my hands over my thighs where he gripped them yesterday. There are no bruises like I thought, but I swear I can still feel the phantom touch.
“Mikey? Are you—fuck me.” Saint stops mid-sentence as he appears in the doorway. I watch his mouth drop open in the mirror’s reflection, turning to look at him over my shoulder. I can’t help the giggle that bursts free.
“Nice outfit,” I tease, motioning up and down his body. The white gauzy fabric cuts down across his chest, leaving one nipple exposed, and the shorts barely skim the middle of his massive thighs. His golden hair is down, still slightly damp from the shower, and his beard looks freshly trimmed. I want to run my fingers over his jaw and feel the hairs beneath my palm. I want them tickling my thighs again.
When I glance down at his groin, I can see the thick length of him tenting the fabric.
I want him in my mouth, in my hand, in my pussy.
“Damn it, Mikelle, we don’t have time for this,” Saint grumbles, his eyes tracing a slow path down my body. My nipples pebble beneath the red lace, and he groans. “I’m sorryfor barging in, I thought… I thought you left.” He shakes his head. “I need you to get dressed because we have to leave in twenty minutes, and what I want to do with you will take longer than that.”
“What do you want to do, Daddy?”
In a flash, he’s standing in front of me, cupping my face in his big palm and tipping my chin up. He leans in so close, his minty breath mingles with mine. “I want to make you scream my name. I want to turn you into a whimpering, writhing mess from my tongue. Then, when you can’t take any more, I’ll stuff your hot, little pussy full of my cock. It might be a stretch, but I know you’ll be so good for Daddy and take the whole thing. Won’t you?”
“Please.” I want that. All of it. All of him.
He slides the tip of his thumb along my lips and slips it into my mouth. I suction my lips around it, my tongue swirling over the pad.
“Your mouth looks so pretty wrapped around my thumb, sweetheart. It would look even prettier wrapped around my cock, don’t you think?”
I nod around his thumb.
I pout when he pulls it out of my mouth, but I’m not disappointed for long because his lips meet mine, and his tongue parts my lips, teasing against my own. His hands grip my hips, and feeling his calloused fingers against my bare skin reminds me I'm kissing him in nothing more than a bra and panties.
Normally, self-consciousness would kick in, but the desire to shy away from him is a low hum instead of the blaring bass it usually is.
I grip a handful of the white material of his costume and pull him closer, running my fingers against the soft expanse of his exposed chest. His cock presses against my stomach as his hands roam to my ass, grabbing a handful.
Then, he spins me around. One of Saint’s hands collars my throat lightly, and the other trails slowly down my chest. His head is pressed against mine as we watch each other in the mirror. “You look goddamned gorgeous, Mikelle. So fucking pretty in this lace. I want you to watch Daddy finger this pretty cunt of yours.”
