Sliding my hand under her chin, I tilt her face to the darkened window as I slip off the other strap of her dress. She looks... amazing. Her dress caught on her hips, she is the vision of Aphrodite, half undressed.
And on the brink of falling apart.
Taking her hands in mine, I lift them above my head, clasping them around the back of my neck. ‘Don’t let go until I tell you to.’
‘Or else?’ she whispers.
‘Or else I’ll won’t let you come until I get you to a bed. Maybe not even then.’
‘I thought I was the queen,’ she whispers. A little laughter colouring her words.
‘Sweetheart, you are the queen, and I’m your private secretary. Yourveryprivate secretary.’ I run my fingers along the sensitive skin of her arms, brushing past her pebbled nipples. ‘And the queen always listens to her advisors. Which means, your body is mine to position, and your mind is mine to bend.’ Sliding my hands down her stomach, I push them further over the front of her thighs. ‘And my queen would like to come, wouldn’t she.’
She exhales a breathless but hesitant, ‘Yes.’
‘Then tell me, who does this pussy belong to right now?’
Her breath hitches, her reflected expression all wide-eyed as I begin to gather her dress between my fingers and her thigh, like a theatre curtain reveals the wonders of a stage.
‘Y-you. It belongs to you.’
‘And you’re going to show it to me, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ The word hits the air as a sigh.
Slowly, so slowly, her reflection reveals toned and creamy thighs. A little more gathering and a triangle of pale satin appears. The sight is a delightful surprise.
‘I was sure you weren’t wearing any underwear.’
‘What kind of girl goes out without wearing panties?’ she whispers, genuinely shocked.
‘One who wants to be fucked.’
She inhales sharply at the hard fricative, her whole body trembling as I fist the material of her dress in one hand, my other running the gauntlet of her silky knickers.
‘You look a little keyed up, love. Sort of desperate.’ My words are little more than a low rumble as I slip my hand down the front of her panties, my middle finger finding her crease. ‘I’m going to put my tongue here; would you like that?’ She nods quickly, her breath coming in sharp, choppy bursts. ‘I’m going to lick your pretty plum pussy until your sweet juice is dripping down my chin.’
‘Oh, God,’ she whimpers, bucking up into my hand.
I think I could make her come like this—just a couple of fingers and my palm over her cunt. I could wrap my arm around her waist and let her do all the work, her hips frenzied, her tits bouncing in the window’s reflection. Hold her still as she hits her pinnacle, hold her as tight as any rope as she spills over the edge.
I could do all that... except I want to taste her.
The silk of her knickers is damp from my finger as I turn her, backing her up against the oval table in the centre of the room. A jagged dose of adrenaline courses through my veins at the thought of what I could do given a little time, a little rope, and a little room.
‘That is a dangerous looking smile,’ she breathes, still stepping backwards. That apparent smile deepens as I stalk towards her. ‘L-like you’re a big cat and I’m the gazelle for breakfast.’
Sadie comes to a stop as her bottom makes contact with the table, shivering as I drag my hand over the contours of her body.
‘Funny you should mention eating...’
She groans her appreciation as I kiss her hard—kiss her thoroughly. Bite her jawline and neck. Suck her tongue into my mouth as I imagine sinking into her.
‘Shush, now,’ I whisper, kissing my way down her body. I drop to my heels, sliding the bare whisper of damp silk down her legs. As I help her step from the scrap of fabric, I grab one ankle, place a kiss on the inside, and lower it to widen her stance.
Barely standing, Sadie wraps her fingers around the edge of the table. A sound of some semblance of a prayer stutters from her lips as I blow a breath of warm air over her pussy, my thumb stroking the strip of hair between her legs. Then, I slide both thumbs into her slit, breaking her apart like a peach.Or a plum.
‘Will,’ she whispers, adding my name to the list of her prayers. Bared to the waist, she lowers to one forearm. Her hair has begun to come undone, and hardly a trace of her lipstick remains on her lips. She is the most beautiful thing. The most beautiful mess. And a picture of pure wantonness as I bury myself between her legs.
