The panties, black, thin, almost laughably insubstantial, slide down her legs, and she does not move to help. Just stands there, looking down at me. She could have me executed for the way I’m staring up at her.
“Look at you,” she whispers, tilting my chin again. “So obedient. So easy. I bet you like being told what to do.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, not even trying to hide her smile.
My knees hurt on the tile, nerves misfiring in my hands, but I stay exactly where she put me, waiting for some permission I don’t remember needing until it’s not given.
She lifts her foot, inviting me to help, to strip her the rest of the way. My mouth goes dry. I loop a finger under the black silk and drag it over her foot. Her toenails are painted the color of spoiled cherries. They twitch, just slightly, when my knuckle grazes her sole.
I swallow. The panties are a trophy in my fist, and she’s watching, eyes never blinking, blowing all the air out of my lungs with every breath.
“Now, Boone,” she groans as she leans back against the wall, her foot pressed behind her and her thighs open wide. “I think you know what I need you to do next.”
Every atom in me strains forward, an animal on the scent, but I snap my jaw shut on the urge to speak, to beg, to do anything but exactly what she’s told me.
I shift closer, knees scraping rough tile, mouth near the bare skin of her thigh. She’s warm, warmer than I expect, radiating heat and the sharp, chemical hum of her perfume, and a saltiness under that.
I look up, just to make sure, and she nods, nearly invisible, her hand slipping into my hair, not to guide but to anchor. She wants to see if I’ll do it myself, and I do, tongue first.
The taste is electric: sweat, lotion, her. I run the tip along the inside of her thigh, letting the anticipation agitate us both. She laughs, breath stuttering, because she knows what I’m doing and she loves it. I think of that laugh as a dare, so I go higher.
My mouth is on her, and then inside her, and I hear the clatter of her head against the wall as she inhales so violently it could be her drowning.
Her thighs tense up, almost crush my ears, but I work my hands up and splay them against her hips, holding her so she can’t jerk away or buckle or slide down. I never want to be anywhere else but in this exact spot, tasting her, every flick andcurl of my tongue designed to unmake her composure cell by cell.
Her noises get meaner, less human, until she’s cursing at me. Not in anger but in raw, lunging desperation.
“Fuck, Boone,” she says, and my name is pure combustion.
My eyes are wet with the prickle of sweat, effort, and the sting of her hand twisting tight in.
“Now, give me your cock already. You’re hard, right? Show me.”
She’s already reaching, palming the bulge in my jeans, and it’s almost embarrassing how much I flinch at the contact. My skin tingles where her thumb presses, right along the seam. She knows the exact weak spot. She grins fiercely, fingers digging in, and I am lost, utterly, hilariously powerless.
I fumble out of the last of my clothes, maybe not as smooth as I imagine, but she’s so hungry she’s pulling at me before I have the chance to get self-conscious.
She tugs me up, stands me in front of her, and I almost expect her to say something—more instructions, a cutting nickname, some dagger-sharp joke—but instead she just stares down at what I’ve got her, and then she makes a sound, a low, shocked exhale. It fills me up, makes me stupidly proud. I’ve managed to prove a theorem she didn’t think I could solve.
She stands and pushes me back onto the edge of the kitchen table. The old Formica top bites into my bare ass, cold and hard and grounding as hell. She climbs up with me, one knee pressed beside my hip, the other curling between my legs.
She’s taller than I expect, or maybe it’s the heels, but she knows exactly how to slot herself against me, winding her arm around the back of my neck as she angles my face up to hers.
“You’re going to let me ride you, right?”
The question is a dare, but she’s not waiting for my answer. She’s maneuvering herself until she’s got me in her hand, hot and pulsing, and the rest of me kind of blanks out.
Her hand is surprisingly gentle, a velvet vice, and she guides me to where she wants me. I feel it, the impossible slick tension as she slides down, sinking onto me slowly, the first inch a kind of punishment. She’s stretching out the moment just to make me beg for the next fraction of her.
Every centimeter is an agony, a benediction. I manage to hiss out her name, half question, half surrender, but she just clamps a hand over my mouth and keeps going.
Her hips are unhurried at first, fucking herself down on me in lazy, open circles. The friction isn’t enough, and at the same time, it’s almost too much, the way she’s milking it, squeezing every last possibility out of the contact.
My hands are frantic, everywhere at once. Her ass, her waist, one palm braced behind me on the table to keep from flying backwards every time she slams down.
The dress is bunched up around her ribs, a rumpled green flag of conquest, and I can see the marks I left on her thighs from earlier already starting to bloom. There are scratches too, streaked just below her hips. They stand out, welts against the pale, the kind of battle scars that will outlast the evening, and maybe that’s the point.
Her hair falls in brown curtains around her face, framing that narrow, competent smile she only wears when she’s in the middle of something precise. I want to see all of her at once, but she stays just out of reach, holding me down under her hand, grinding down until I can’t even remember how to breathe.
