I walk over to the living room area and take a seat on an armchair so that he can’t do anything sketchy, like sit next to me.
I sort of expect that we would be hot and heavy, rolling off the couch and onto the floor the minute we walk in the door, but he isactually acting quite civil—much different than when he was downstairs. He sets the scotch in front of me and places his in front of the couch across from my chair. He then unbuttons his suit jacket, doing it slowly and with seduction while staring at me. I take a sip of the scotch because I don't want to watch him take off his jacket, which he makes look like a striptease.
“You’re not going to just throw me over the couch and fuck me like they do in romance novels? Or make me crawl to you and suck your cock?” I figure being crazy might keep me sane.
“Both sound very fun, but no. I’m pretty sure neither would be fun for you. I’m going to talk to you a little so you’ll get more comfortable, and then I’m taking you to bed. I’m not sure what kind of romance novels you read, but tonight will be quite vanilla. I think that’s what you’ll enjoy the most. If you want a crazy kinky time, just let me know what you’re interested in.” His grin is positively evil.
“Vanilla works.” I take a sip of my scotch.
“How long have you lived in New York?” he asks as he removes his coat.
“My whole life,” I tell him as I watch his strong arms lay the jacket over the back of the couch.
“Why are your legs so toned and magnificent?” He unbuttons the top button of his shirt, and my mouth goes dry.
“I’m a ballet dancer,” I say. Now I am staring, transfixed.
Could a man be more beautiful? He has long, lean fingers and perfectly manicured nails. I am mesmerized by the way they curl around the pearl button of his expensive dress shirt. Perhaps deliberately, he caresses the top of the button, and all I can think about is him touching my clit with that same soft stroke.
One thing I can say for the guy: he may be older, but he is experienced. I’ve never been so seduced by a person simply unbuttoning one button. His fingers slowly part the material, and I think of him parting me. Not once does he take his eyes off me as he speaks and fondles his buttons.
“How many men have you been with?” Another button gracefullyundone.
“None of your business.” I flash a flirty grin and take another sip, now feeling a little warm and tingly.
My skirt is so short I don't know exactly how to arrange my legs. I am barely wearing underwear because I didn't want panty lines, but he already knows that. I never expected to be sitting down this evening or be at eye level with a savage billionaire so adept at teasing buttons. Every way I try to cross my legs or pull them together, it is impossible not to see my black satin thong. Mia bought it for me as a Galentine's Day gift one year when we both stayed in and ate ice cream from the carton with spoons.
“Still, tell me. I want to know how experienced you are. Do I need to go slow, let you acclimate, or can I hard fuck you from the back? You’re pretty wet already.” His lips turn into a seductive smirk. I nearly spit out the swallow of scotch I just took. “I have a Prince Albert, and hitting your G-spot with it will give you quivering orgasms. Does leaving your cum all over the sheets embarrass you?”
“First, why the hell do you have a Prince Albert?” I hate men who pierce their dicks.
I resist the urge to look at his pants to affirm for myself that I can see something through the fabric, but stop because that would just egg him on, and I’m not sure what I want from him.
“It fucking feels amazing, for you and for me. It’s my guilty little pleasure, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up before you see my head up. And the orgasms… you will fucking love the orgasm from my ring grazing your sensitive walls, passing over your G-spot, roughing it up until you cum hard.” He swipes his adept fingers over his very hard cock, his thumb tracing a small semicircle, obviously caressing the damn thing through his pants.
I don’t know much about my G-spot or my vagina as I’ve only ever come by myself. I use a little pink toy I bought online but don't like exploring myself that much.
“So, how long have you lived in New York?” I throw his question back at him, getting us back on an even playing field.
He stops stroking himself to continue unbuttoning his shirt as he answers. “My whole life, so we have that in common. And before you ask, I’ve been with countless women. Sincerely, I have been with too many to count.” He undoes the last button and slowly peels the shirt off his muscular shoulders and—fuck me.
He is so ripped. He has a six-pack or a twelve-pack—I don't know how many packs he is packing—but oh my fucking God. I don't usually like men who are too muscular or beefy since I have always been around dancers. Long and lean is my thing, and this guy is just a little bit more built than lean, but oh my fucking Adonis, Holy Hell, he is beautiful.
And then he turns slightly to set the shirt on the couch, and I catch a glimpse of a massive dragon tattoo curling across his upper back and shoulder blade—dark ink, sharp lines, almost menacing. My breath hitches. It is gorgeous, terrifying, and unforgettable.
Please, oh please, oh please...I should not be thinking the thoughts I am thinking, but I am thinking them. I lick my lips because I have to.
“Why did you just take off your shirt?” I playfully glare at him, thinking being immature and flirty might actually turn him off.
“I’m getting comfortable. The suit is constricting… and I like skin to skin.”
He sits down and reaches for his scotch, flexing his muscles, still staring at me.
“Well, I’m not a NICU baby.” I take a sip of my scotch, proud of my joke since he actually laughs a little.
“NICU baby, cute.” He gives me a wink, and I feel like I might throw up. Not because I am grossed out. I am actually so aroused that I am nauseous.
“So you want me to be one of the many nameless, countless, faceless women you’ve fucked?” I pull my skirt down, but I know it will do no good.
