I nod, breathing hard, and ask, “Should I—?” But before I finish the question, I’m rolling my hips on instinct and gasping at the sensation he manages to create inside me. The feeling ripples up and out, through my body, and my clit throbs in response.
“Yeah,” he chokes, nodding against me. “Fuck, Lucy?—”
And with that, Dane seems to lose whatever control he was holding onto before this. Reaching up, he deftly finds the clasp to my bra and unfastens it, so it falls loose, and he can bring his mouth to my breasts.
I actually cry out at the sensation, and try to pull back in embarrassment, in the hope that the pilot isn’t still waiting outside, potentially listening. I didn’t expect this to feel so good. Dane holds me tight, one hand planted on my back, his mouth working at a nipple while his other hand massages at the other breast.
It doubles and re-doubles the pleasure, and I start to roll my hips again, chasing the feeling, sighing and breathing and crying out against him. It’s like pushing on a loose tooth or watching a video youknowis going to make you sob.
At first, there’s more pain than pleasure, even with the lubrication from the condom and how wet I am. Each time I roll my hips is another experiment, my body trying to figure out how exactly I'm supposed to accommodate this massive thing inside me.
And then, all at once, it clicks, and the pain fades away, and there’s nothing but movement, rhythm, breathing and desperate touches.
Dane brushes his thumb over my pert nipple, and I wind my hands into the back of his hair, tugging gently. He finds my clit and teases, and I lower my mouth to his neck, sucking and biting and tasting.
For a long time, I hated the wordfuck.
But now, I understand it. I get that it’s really the only word that makes sense for what this is, each of us grasping out for the next beat of pleasure, each of us, lapping at the next hit of dopamine from the others’ touch.
Now, I say it like Dane did, letting it out, “Fuck.”
And that feels good, so I try it again, “Fuck, fuck,fuck.”
Seeing me enjoying myself, Dane relaxes, too, reaching up and running his thumb over my lips. He stares up at me like I’m something gorgeous, something perfect, and in the moment, Ifeel it. In fact, I feel more beautiful than I have in my entire life. Sexy. Desirable.
“You have a dirty mouth, huh?” Dane asks, voice coming out hazy, like he’s in a trance. Fromme. This feels like the best decision I’ve ever made, the best return from a leap of faith.
“I’m not sure just yet,” I breathe through a laugh, leaning down, bracketing my hands on either side of the seat, riding him and taking as much as I need. My clit grinds against him, pressure building, then I’m holding him, crying out, unable to stop myself from making wholly embarrassing noises as he thrusts up and into me wildly, desperately.
With a final, low noise, he drives up and into me again, and I feel it—the pressure of his release against the condom.
For one blissful moment, we stay like that, exhausted and holding tight to one another, him still inside me, before he pulls back, breathing hard, and gives me a resolved look.
“Lucy,” he says, all the wonder and desire completely gone from his eyes. My stomach contracts, my throat swelling so it’s a bit hard for me to breathe through whatever I know is coming next. Expression suddenly and completely blank, Dane recites, “This cannot happen again.”
I manage to hold back my tears until Dane and I walk into the lobby of the expansive, luxurious hotel I booked us in Amsterdam. It’s historical, gold-plated, and meets the strict criteria outlined in the binder for what the men require in accommodations.
If that information is even correct.
“I need the bathroom,” I say, quietly, before peeling off and heading for the ladies’ room. I might not be able to read the signs, but I know that little triangle woman when I see her.
Pushing in through the doors, I clap my hand to my face and suck in a breath through my fingers, trying to stifle the sob until the door swings shut behind me. The stalls are huge and just as nice as you’d imagine, reaching floor to ceiling—no gaps, like back in the United States.
All the better for me to sit here and cry in private, tipping my head forward to keep my mascara from running in streaks over my cheeks.
HowstupidI was.
After telling me that nothing more could happen, Dane had launched into a level-headed, simple explanation for why it was so.
“First, you’re my assistant. It was a mistake. This was a moment of heightened emotions for both of us,” he’d said, as I climbed off of him, pulled my skirt down with numb fingers. He disposed of the condom neatly, tying it, wrapping it in a Kleenex, and dropping it in a hidden waste basket. “But it was highly inappropriate on my part, and for that I apologize.”
I wanted to speak up and tell him I didn’t feel taken advantage of. That, while he might have been right about it being unprofessional, there was nothing that warranted the guilty look on his face.
For me, it had been magical. One of the only times in my life I’veeverfelt at home in my body, with his hands on me and his voice in my ear.
So, hearing him instantly regret it, wishing he could take it back and undo it—it was worse than him telling me I was a bad lay.
“Besides the obvious power imbalance and violation of company policy,” he’d said, like reading from a script, “there’sthe fact that it won’t end well. I don’t have time for dating, and you?—”
