"Yes, sir," I manage to say as I comply. The brush of my skirt against the bare flesh of my thighs is achingly erotic, but the feel of the warm leather against my naked rear makes me moan.
"Spread your legs and gather your skirt up around your waist." His voice surrounds me. His tone is low, commanding, and achingly sensual. "Lean back against the seat and close your eyes. Now leave one hand on the seat, but put the other just above your knee."
I do. My skin feels feverish.
"Move your thumb," he says. "Move it slowly, back and forth. Gentle, baby. So gently. Are you doing it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are your eyes closed?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's me you feel. My hand on your leg. My finger stroking your skin. It's soft, and you look so beautiful spread out wide for me. Do you want me, Nikki?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
My sex tightens at the growl of demand in his voice. There's something delicious about surrendering to him.
"Yes, sir."
"I want to touch your breasts, Nikki. I want to touch your nipples. I want to lower my mouth and suck until you come without me even touching your clit. Do you want that, Nikki?"
God, yes. "Only if you touch me there later, sir."
His low laugh sends ripples of awareness through me.
My clit is pulsing. I desperately want to touch myself but that's not the game. Not yet.
"I'm hard, Nikki. You're torturing me, you know that?"
"I hope so, sir, because you're sure as hell torturing me."
"Unzip your dress," he says. "Then take the hand that's on the seat and lift it to your mouth. Suck on your forefinger, baby. That's right," he says when I groan a little as I close my eyes and draw in my own finger. "That's good. Use your tongue. Suck hard, baby." I can hear the tension in his voice, and my body quakes. I'm so wet, and the leather seat is getting slippery.
"Slide your hand into your bodice and touch your nipple. Is it hard?"
"Yes."
"Stroke it," he says. "Just a tease. So light, like a butterfly kiss. Do you feel it, baby? Is it making you wetter?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Now move the hand on your leg. Slowly--I want it to build. Do you feel it? That soft stroke?"
"Yes." I imagine that my fingers are his. That he's burning a trail up my hot, trembling body.
"That's me. My hands. I'm right there. My hands on you. On both your legs. Can you feel me, stroking the inside of your thighs, teasing you, making you hotter and wetter?"
I take my other hand off my breast and put it on my other leg. Slowly, sensuously, I stroke the inside of my thighs with soft, delicate touches. This is forbidden territory--this is where my secrets are. But not now. Right now, nothing is off-limits, and everything is safe.
I can lose myself in his voice. I can close my eyes and imagine Damien kneeling before me. Damien's eyes watching me. Damien's hands all over me. "Oh, God, yes."
"Spread your legs more," he says. "I want you wide open, your cunt hot and dripping for me. Do you want to touch yourself, Nikki?"
"Yes," I whisper. I feel my cheeks warm from the admission, though how I can feel a blush when my skin is already on fire is beyond me.
"Not yet," he says. I can hear the amusement in his voice. He knows he's tormenting me, and he's loving it.
"You're a sadist, Mr. Stark."
"And you comply so willingly, Ms. Fairchild. What does that make you?"
A masochist. A tremor runs through my body, tied to the erotic sweetness of my touch. "Turned on," I admit.
"We are deliciously compatible."
"When telecommunications are involved," I say without thinking.
"Always. Don't argue, Ms. Fairchild, or the game stops now. And that really would be a shame."
I say nothing.
"Good," he says. "I like you compliant. I like you spread wide and ready for me. I like you wet for me," he adds, as I just about melt into the upholstery. "Put your hands on the seat on either side of your hips. Have you done it?"
"I have."
The silence is ominous.
"I mean, yes, sir."
My hands are pressed to the leather. My sex is throbbing. Demanding. I squirm on the seat, but that only makes me needier.
My fingers twitch. I'm desperate to come. I swear if he doesn't let me touch myself soon, I'll--
Well, why not? He wouldn't even know.
"No touching, Nikki. Not yet."
"How did you--oh, God, are there cameras in here?" The idea is mortifying ... and embarrassingly titillating.
"No," he says firmly. "Though at the moment I wish there were. Let's just call it a lucky guess."
That damned blush heats up again, and I squirm some more, trying to find a satisfaction that's staying painfully, frustratingly just out of reach.
"You're keeping me from an excellent Scotch and some very tasty appetizers, you know."
"I'm not the least bit sorry," I retort. "But if you're in a hurry, I know how we can finish this off real quick."
"Is that what you want? This to be over?"
"I--no," I admit. It's torture, but it's damn sweet torture.
"Did you notice the bar when you got into the limo?"
"Yes."
"I want you to move long enough to open the ice bucket and take out an ice cube. Then back here, spread wide and open for me."
"Yes, sir."
I ease out of my seat, cheating a little because I squeeze my thighs together as I do. The pressure is delicious, taking me just that much further. But frustrating, too, as I'm more aroused than I can ever remember being, and no closer to release. For that matter, I'm not sure what's coming next. Ice cubes ...?
I smile, realizing that if nothing else I trust Damien Stark to make this interesting.
"Are you settled again?"
"Yes."
"Which hand has the ice cube?"
"My right one."
"Pull down the left strap of your dress until your breast is free. Close your eyes and trace the cube around your areola. Don't touch your nipple, not yet. That's it. I can imagine your skin, soft and perfect and puckered from the cold. I'm hard, baby, I want to touch you."
"You are touching me," I whisper.
"Yes." The desire in his voice matches my own.
"Move your left hand to your thigh," he says, and I silently cheer. Had he planned this all along, or have I scored some points in his game? I tilt my head back, my hot fingers stroking my inner thigh, easing higher to where the flesh isn't smooth like Damien imagines, but instead bears the scars of my secrets.
At my breast, the ice cube melts against my flaming skin. "I'm imagining you licking the droplets off," I say. "Your tongue flicking over my hard nipple. Teasing me until you can't stand it, and then you nip it, your teeth grazing before you suck, hard, so hard until it's like a hot wire runs through me all the way to my clit."
"Jesus," he says, sounding winded. "Whose game is this?"
"I like to win," I say, but I have to struggle to speak. My hand has moved higher, and my fingers are gently stroking the soft skin where my thigh meets my sex. "Damien," I say. "Please." The ice cube has melted away.
"One finger. I'm taking one finger and sliding it over your cunt. Your wet, dripping cunt. You're throbbing, you want me so badly."
"Yes," I whisper.
"Are you wet?"
"I'm drenched."
"I want to be inside you," he says, and before he gives me permission, I slide two fingers deep inside. My body immediately contracts, drawing me in further. I'm hot and slippery, and drunk with pleasure. The heel of my hand rubs against my clit, and I can't help it--I moan. And now Stark knows my secret.
"You broke the rules," he says.
I arch back, I'm so close, but I don't dare stroke myself. Not after hearing the command in his voice. "Rules are made to be broken." I can barely croak out the words.
"Of course they are. If you're willing to acce
pt the punishment. Shall I punish you, Nikki? Shall I bend you over and spank your ass?"
"I--" I quiver, his words making me even hotter. I've never played those kinds of games, but right now the thought of being so vulnerable to Damien Stark sets me on fire.
"Or maybe I should make you pull your hands away. Leave you hungry. Leave you wanting."
"Please no," I say.
"I should," he says. "I should leave you hanging."
I don't mean to, but I whimper a little. Why? If I want to get off, I can just get off. My fingers work just fine, and I'm so close. So very close ...
But no. This is a game all right, and I'm playing with a partner. I don't just want to come. I want to come because Damien took me there.
He chuckles, fully aware of the torment he's inflicting. "Beg," he says.
"Please."
"Please, what?"
"Please, sir."
"Is that the best you can do?"
"I want to come, Damien. I want to come with your voice taking me there, and I'm so close right now I think if this limo goes over a pothole it might just send me shooting to the moon." I have lost all shame, all propriety. And I don't even care. All I want to do is explode, knowing that it's Damien hearing my screams on the other end of the phone line.
"Are you touching yourself?" There's still an edge to his voice, but it's raw now. Needy.
"Yes."
"I want to taste you. Lick your fingers," he says, and I comply, imagining my slick, wet fingers are his lips. "Tell me."
"Slick," I say. "Sweet. But, Damien, I want--"
"Hush, baby, I know. And I'm touching you now. I'm kneeling right in front of you, and you're wide open to me. You're wet and delicious, and my tongue is all over you, touching and tasting. Can you feel me flicking my tongue over your hard clit?"
"Yes," I say as my finger strokes my swollen, demanding clit.
"You taste so good, and I'm so hard. I want to be inside you, but I can't get enough of the taste of you."
"Don't stop." I'm arching up, an orgasm rising up around me like the overture of a grand opera.
"Never," he says. "But I need you to come for me now, baby. We're close now, and it's time. I'm touching you, I'm taking you over. Now, Nikki. Come for me now."
I do.
So help me, it's as if his voice takes me over the edge and I shatter like starlight against a black velvet sky, pinpoints of light bursting through me, so powerful and intense and meltingly hot.
"Oh, yes, baby," he says, his voice strained, easing me down. "That's it."
I realize that I'm gasping, and my cries dissolve into little whimpers of pleasure mixed with loss. It's over, and I'm alone in the back of a limo and the man who made me come is on the other end of a phone line somewhere.
A loose strand of hair sticks to my face and I push it off. I'm covered in a sheen of sweat. I'm spent. Taken.
I feel good.
I feel reckless.
"We're here," Damien says, and I turn to glance through the dark tinted windows. Sure enough, the limo is pulling to a stop outside my condo. I realize that when he'd said that we were close, he didn't mean my orgasm. He meant my home.
I frown, realizing I never told the driver my address. Had Damien? He must have, but how did he know where I live?
I push myself up and fix my skirt and bodice in some sort of bizarrely placed attempt at modesty. I start to ask him about my address, but he speaks first.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild," he says formally, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice.
"I look forward to it, Mr. Stark," I say, equally formal, though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
There is silence, but I know he's still there. After a moment, I hear him laugh. "Hang up, Ms. Fairchild," he orders.
"Yes, sir," I say, then press the button to disconnect the call.
Tomorrow.
Reality slams against me with the force of a tidal wave. What the hell was I thinking having phone sex with a guy I'm going to be seeing up close and personal in just a matter of hours? And not just seeing, but actually pitching to. Putting on a business presentation.
Am I entirely insane?
Yes, I think, I am.
Insane. Foolish. Idiotic.
Reckless.
I shiver.
Yes, but reckless felt so damn good.
The limo has come to a complete stop, and I see the driver approaching to open my door. I reach for my panties, intending to shove them into my purse, but then I have a better idea.
If I'm going to be reckless anyway ...
I slip the panties under the armrest, letting the white satin and lace peek out just a little. Then I quickly zip up my dress, check that it's covering all the appropriate places, and slide to the door just as the driver pulls it open.
I step out of the limo and look up at the sky. I imagine a billion stars twinkling down at me. I grin back at them. By morning, I'll probably be wallowing in mortification, but right now, I'm going to bask. It has, after all, been an exceptionally good night.
9
I turn the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then slowly twist the knob and push the door open. I just want to get to my room and go to sleep, but Jamie is the world's lightest sleeper, so I'm not confident that I'll make it.
The condo is silent and mostly dark, the only light coming from the small nightlight I insist we keep plugged in by the bathroom. It provides minimal illumination, just enough to provide some guidance and keep the apartment from falling into pitch-black.
I consider the quiet darkness a good sign. Maybe Jamie walked down to the divey little bar on the corner next to the Stop 'n' Shop. Both the bar and the shop smell faintly of sewage and sweat, but that doesn't stop Jamie when she's in a mood for either alcohol or chocolate. I've lived here less than a week, and we've already visited the store twice (for supplies of Diet Coke and Chips Ahoy) and the bar once (for bourbon, straight up, because it's not the kind of place you trust to make a martini).
I close the door carefully and set the dead bolt, but I leave the chain dangling in the hope that my guess as to Jamie's whereabouts is right. Then I start to tiptoe to my room, just in case my guess is wrong.
Even dimly lit, the condo is easily navigable. A traditional apartment before the owners decided to go condo, it's small at only about eight hundred square feet. The main room serves a triple purpose as entrance hall, living room, and dining area. There's also a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The living area is on the left, and is furnished comfortably with a chair and a sofa. One long wall boasts a never-used fireplace and a mounted flat-screen television.
Just in front of the door--past the four feet or so that can be considered the foyer--is the dining area, which has a truly ugly orange Formica table and four mismatched wooden chairs. Jamie may have bought the condo when prices were down, but that didn't mean she'd been rolling in extra cash. She'd furnished it with an eye to cost, not appeal. I don't mind, but I've already told Jamie that when I can afford it, I want to paint the interior and try to make the place a little more Ikea. Home and Garden is completely out of the question.
The kitchen is to the left of the dining area, and is separated from the living area by a solid wall that one day I'd love to knock down and turn into a pass-through. Until then, whoever's cooking not only can't see the television, but is trapped in the claustrophobic galley-style kitchen. Between the dining area and kitchen are two stairs that seem to serve no purpose. They lead to the bedrooms--one on either side--and the bathroom, which takes up the space between.
I've gone about three feet and am transitioning from entrance to dining area when a light snaps on to my left. I turn and see Jamie in the far side of the room, curled up in the battered armchair that Lady Meow-Meow uses as a scratching post.
"You okay?" I ask, because Jamie brooding in the dark is never a good thing.
She stretches her arms and yawns, disrupting Lady Meow-Meow who is a big blob of white fur
in her lap. "I'm good. Must've fallen asleep." She shifts in the chair, then rolls her head, getting the kinks out. I eye her for signs that she's bullshitting me, but she seems genuinely fine. I'm relieved. Call me selfish, but I'm not in the mood to micromanage anyone's drama but my own.
"So?" she demands as the cat leaps down and pads to the kitchen for kibble.
I shrug, still standing there in my little dress with my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my naked tush catching a breeze under the flouncy skirt. "Tired," I say, because I need to collect my thoughts. Jamie always sees more than I want her to, and I don't want to dive into the conversation unprepared. "Wanna grab breakfast at Du-par's in the morning? I'll give you the full scoop then. But it'll have to be early." I hook my thumb toward my bedroom. "I need to go crash."
"You're really not going to tell me shit? Why the hell did I wait up?"
"You didn't wait up. You were asleep."
She waves a hand, sweeping my logic away as irrelevant.
"In the morning," I say, and before she can argue I turn and head to my room. I wait a second in case she decides to burst in after me, and when she doesn't, I peel off the dress. I stand naked for a moment, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioner caress my still-hot skin. My favorite pajama bottoms are folded on my pillow, and I slip them on. I don't bother with underwear, and the sensation of the threadbare material against my still-sensitive sex is fantastic. I think of Damien and rub my palms lightly over my bare breasts. My nipples peak, and I'm tempted to pull out my phone and call him back.
Jesus, Nikki. Get a grip.
I don't know what Damien Stark wants from me, but the truth is that I don't care. Because it's not going anywhere. I'm not getting naked with Damien Stark. That's simply a given. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the fantasy he's given me, all wrapped up in silver paper with a bright, shiny orgasm.
I slide onto the bed and slip one hand down into the pajama bottoms. I'm no longer drunk, just nicely buzzed, and I can't think of a better way to drift off to sleep.
The sharp chime of the doorbell nips that plan in the bud, and I leap to my feet, yanking my hand out of my pants as I move like a guilty teenager caught by her parents.
"Is that Douglas?" I shout to Jamie.
"Hell no," she says. "I train them better than that."
"Then who--"
"Oh, fuck," she says, not in anger or fear, but in amazement. "Nik, honey, get your ass out here."