I stop, one step below, and let him take me in. His eyes are blue fire, unwavering, drinking me up from head to toe.
He gestures at the hallway. “You said you had a surprise for me.”
I nod, hair falling over my shoulder. My hand finds the zipper of my graduation gown at my collarbone, the cheap plastic tab cold against my skin. I move slow, slow enough that I can hear the catch of his breath, and pull it down, all the way, until the gown splits open and slips off both shoulders. It hangs a second, then puddles at my ankles, black fabric pooling on the marble like an oil spill.
Underneath is nothing. I mean nothing. Not even a thong or a micro-bra or the lacy scraps the lady from the lingerie swore would “change my life.” Just bare skin, ivory and soft, my nipples already peaked from the temperature shift, my pussy already glimmering in the low light. My heels make me taller than usual, legs long and absurd, and the diamond on my left hand catches the glass chandelier’s glow, fracturing the light into a thousand silent spotlights.
I don’t have the nerve to look up. Not until I hear the sound—low, guttural, half a laugh and half a moan.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, but the words are more reverence than blasphemy.
He comes down the step and stands right in front of me. We’re close enough that the heat off his body competes with the chill in the foyer. His eyes flick over my face, then down, and he licks his bottom lip like he’s starved.
I reach up, slow, and touch the knot of his tie. It’s all that’s left between us and the absolute. I untangle it, easy, and drape it around my own neck, the silk heavy and cool on my collarbones.
“Are you ready, Mr. Robinson?” I mewl with a smile.
“I was born ready,” he rasps, blue eyes flaring. “Fuck, baby, you’re fucking gorgeous.”
He puts both hands on my hips, his palms so hot it feels like they might leave a print. His thumbs ride the edge of my pelvic bones, not moving, just holding me in place.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he repeats, his voice harsh, the words coming out like a confession.
My cheeks flame, but I don’t flinch. “You’re not even seeing the best part,” I whisper.
He tips his head, amused. “Oh? And what’s that?”
I rise up on tiptoe and put my mouth at his ear, letting my hair sweep over both of us. “My ass,” I say, soft. “My present for you. You’re getting an ass bomb tonight.”
He goes utterly still.
“And what is that?” he rasps, his erection jerking in his pants.
I giggle before wiggling my hips and making my big breasts sway.
“You’ll see.”
Then, I step back, just enough to break the contact, and turn, giving him the full view. The heels make my calves pop, make my rear end a shelf, make the rest of me a litany of curves.
He groans, hands fisting at his sides. “You’re going to kill me, baby.”
I look at him over my shoulder, eyelids low, and let myself go loose. “Only if you’re lucky.”
We move through the house like we’re the only two people left on earth. The air has changed: heavier, sweeter, every sense in overdrive. The light is down to nothing but a golden glow and the dusk bleeds through the windows.
Kent doesn’t drag me. He just walks, one step ahead, and I follow, the echo of my heels a private rhythm. He leads me into his home office—all dark wood and leather, old money on display but never acknowledged. It’s where this all started, although the massage table is long gone.
He drops into a club chair, legs wide, and beckons me with just a flick of his finger. His cock is already pressing at his slacks, a thick, undeniable promise. I walk to him, slow, hips swinging, and when I reach him, he grabs my waist and pulls me into his lap.
I straddle him, bare skin on worsted wool, and the friction is so intense I gasp. He strokes up my back, hands splaying wide, thendips both thumbs under my ass, squeezing until I’m lifted, just a little.
He kisses me then, hungry and rough, teeth catching my lower lip and holding it. “You sure?” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, sweet girl.”
I grind down, hard, and the tip of his cock catches right at the seam of my cheeks, so close I can feel it throb. “I know,” I say, voice gone thin and greedy. “But I want to. Now do it.”
He gets the message. He unzips himself, not bothering to take off anything else. That massive cock springs free, heavy and thick and dark at the tip, already glimmering moisture. I look down at it, at him, and feel a quiver all the way through my pelvis.
He grabs the bottle of lube from the end table (always prepared), slicks himself up, then coats his fingers before circling my dark pleats. The touch is expert—just pressure, then a little more, then in. I arch my back, letting his finger open me, then two, then a third, stretching out my rectum, slow and deliberate.
