“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t come in your ass until you’re begging me to.”
“I see now why you have a historically difficult time getting rid of your ex-girlfriends.”
“Girlfriends is a bit of a stretch. They’re just women I fuck.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?” I ask my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the water.
Then he carries me up the stairs, giving no indication that my weight is in any way bothersome. “Hm?” The noise rumbles through his chest, vibrating against the hands I have splayed on his back. “I have standards, Mandy.”
“So do I.”
“I made you come in a parking lot. I highly doubt that.”
That immediately makes me want him again. I try to force the desire back down.
“I know what you’re thinking.” His laugh reverberates through my chest. “If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to make me feel wanted, special. I need to know that my cock is the only thing you’re thinking about.”
I slap his firm backside. “Put me down, and I’ll show you.”
He sets me down in the dark room and places the two glasses on the wooden dresser. His face is half in shadow from the soft light coming in through the bedroom door. “Show me,” he breathes.
I make a big show of teasing my hair up. “I want to feel your thick cock in my—”
“Do better.” He crosses his arms.
I’m really trying for sultry here, guys, but like I said, the zipper’s stuck and I’m pretty lightheaded from being hung upside down.
The corner of his mouth quirks as I decide fuck it and just shimmy off the tight dress. Then I throw it at him.
He grunts as he catches it. “Damn, your tits are nice.”
“You like these? Homegrown.” I smush them up, rubbing my hands over my hard nipples, sending thrills of pleasure down to my pussy.
Salinger grabs one of the glasses. Takes a sip.
“You know,” I murmur, imagining his hands on me there, “no man has ever made me come like you do. I think you ruined me, and you didn’t even take off your clothes.”
His eyes are dark slits. He takes two steps over to me, holds the glass to my mouth, tips it.
I take a sip. It’s light-years better than that nasty green shot.
Then Salinger drains the glass, my dress still thrown over his shoulder.
My lips dart out to lick the last of the bourbon from my lips. My fingers slide down, down to the waistband of my panties. I sink down to the floor, legs splayed, my fingers under the fabric, stroking the slick wetness there.
“I think,” I moan, “I’m going to spend every night for the rest of my life that I’m not with you thinking about you”—I lift my fingers to my lips—“with your fingers on my clit, telling me how you want to bend me over and come in my tight little ass.”
I can hear the hitch in his breath.
“You’re the first man who will ever take me there. I’m a little scared but a little excited.”
“Damn, Mandy.”
I’m practically there already, thinking about how I’ll be on my knees, my legs spread for him, his fingers in me, making me ready to take him.
“Take off your panties.”
I hook my thumbs in the waistband and pull them down, leaving a trail of wet on my inner thighs. Then I slingshot them at him. “Bullseye!”
