He's attractive. Like, actuallyattractivenow that he's not doing the wholesome yoga instructor routine. Now that I know what's underneath the golden retriever exterior.
His hands. God, his hands are big. Long fingers. Strong wrists. The kind of hands that could?—
I imagine them fisted in my hair. The way he'd hold my head still. Not gentle. Not asking permission.
My thighs press together harder.
What does his cock look like?
The thought crashes through me unbidden. Vivid. Desperate.
He's tall. Six-two, maybe six-three. And guys that tall are usually proportional, right? Thick. Long. The kind of cock that would stretch my jaw. The kind I'd struggle to fit.
I imagine kneeling in front of him. His hands gripping my hair while he feeds his dick between my lips inch by inch. How tight my throat would feel when he pushed deeper. How I'd gag, and choke, and he wouldn't stop. Wouldn't pull back. Wouldn't ask if I'm okay.
He'd just keep going.
My pussy clenches so hard I have to bite back a sound.
I open my mouth.
"I—"
"I can't do this."
Marty's voice cracks. He's shaking his head, hands coming up to run through his hair.
"This is too weird. I can't—" He laughs, but it's wrong. Strangled. "I can't believe I agreed to this."
I go completely still.
Something in my chest stops moving.
"Marty—"
"No, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He's not looking at me anymore. His eyes are darting around the restaurant like he's searching for an exit. "I shouldn't have—fuck, this was such a bad idea."
My hands are flat on the table. I don't move them.
"What was a bad idea?"
He winces. Actuallywinceslike I slapped him.
"This. The whole—" He gestures between us. "The date. The conversation. All of it."
The floor drops out from under me.
"Someone put you up to this."
It's not a question. I already know.
Marty's face crumples. "I didn't want to—I mean, I needed the money. My studio, the pottery thing, it's not making any profit, and my parents are threatening to pull funding, and I'm gonna lose everything. The lease, the equipment, all of it. And this guy, he just—he offered me so much money to take you out and say those things and I thought, fuck, how hard could it be? Just have dinner with some girl and talk dirty for an hour."
My throat is closing. "What guy."
"I don't know his name." Marty's rambling now, words spilling out in a panicked rush. "He wouldn't tell me. He just calls himself?—"
He stops.
