She rolls her hips. Slowly. Deliberately.
Back and forth.
Barely brushing me.
My erection is pushing painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
I tilt my head up, looking at her like a dying man looks at water.
She lowers herself.
Slowly.
Inches at a time.
Until I can feel the heat of her center hovering just above the bulge in my jeans.
It’s not direct contact, but it’s enough to make my vision flicker.
155.
The audience holds its breath.
“Guess what I’m wearing under this dress, Becker…” she whispers, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. “You’d love to take it off me right now, wouldn’t you? You’d love to finish what we started.”
“Yes,” I rasp. “Fuck, yes.”
She brings her mouth close to mine.
I lean forward instinctively, desperate, chasing her lips.
Ineedto kiss her. I need to taste her.
She pulls back at the very last millimeter.
“Not here, Becker. Not yet.”
The denial slices through me—pain and pleasure all tangled together.
And yeah… I vaguely remember the rules.
No hands below the belt.
No kissing.
“But later…” she murmurs, leaving the promise hanging in the air—dirty, explicit, devastating.
She slips off me in one smooth motion, rising back to her feet.
She leaves me there—breathless, hard as stone, my heart trying to punch straight through my rib cage.
The monitor screeches like a goddamn alarm.
On the giant screen, the number flashes:
172.
The room erupts.
