Tomorrow

She could still see his face when he asked, struggling with the internal debate.

“Do you ever ask yourself how it ends?”

It didn’t matter that she had; the question still felt like a punch in the stomach, even after having time to digest it. It was a logical question, and she was a logical girl. He was only voicing what she knew was an inevitable question.

Here in the dark, with just her own head replaying the conversation, she felt that tightness in her chest. It was too late to be ambivalent, and for as much as she told him “you just need to tell me when it’s time to stop,” she secretly hoped that day would always be some other day. Remembering his face, she was pretty certain he wanted that to be some other day too.

There was a point when “stop” wouldn’t have hurt. Right now, she couldn’t remember when that point was anymore. She only knew that she wanted one more tomorrow. And the price she’d pay for one more tomorrow would be a little more hurt, eventually.

So she lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes, opened her heart a little wider, and admitted to herself that she cared enough to deal with the pain. Even though it could hurt more tomorrow that it could hurt today.

She felt the tear slide down her cheek; heard it hit the pillow. “Tomorrow,” she thought.

Satin and Patent

It was our compromise to be together. He sat half naked in bed, wearing only a t-shirt, flipping pages of the report, making notes. I grew restless of my presentation and set it aside; I needed to get my things ready for an early morning departure. I tried not to think to hard about it; his scent still lingered in the room, in the sheets, on my skin. Tomorrow it would be gone, except in my memory. I kissed his cheek as he read, then hopped off the bed.

The room had a chill; I slipped the little pink satin chemise over my head. He glanced up for a moment and smiled, then looked back down at the papers in his lap. I tidied up the room, packed up a few things, laid out others for the morning. I gathered laundry in a bag; realizing we wouldn’t be going out again, I decided to throw the pink panties I was wearing into the bag as well.

I pulled out my shoes, to set beside my clothes for tomorrow; the darling little brown patent leather sling-back, peep toe pumps. I slipped them on again - I never tired of how delicate they made my feet look or how great the angle of the heels made my legs look.

“Want to see my new shoes?” I asked, bending over to pick up some more of our scattered clothes.

“Come here.” It was a command. Soft and gentle, but firm, like all of his. I walked to the end of the bed. “Are you wearing panties?” he asked. I shook my head from side to side.  A grin flickered across his lips, then disappeared. “Come here and show me your shoes.”

I walked all the way around to his side of the bed where he could see. “Those are so sexy, baby.” His voice lowered, a huskiness to it. “Come here. Turn around."

I walked over, and stood beside him. I turned slowly, my back to him. He lifted the edge of the chemise, running his hand over my ass. “Turn around,” he said quietly, pulling my hips. I turned to face him. “Show me the shoes,” he commanded, not letting go of me, slipping one finger between my legs. I stood on one foot, and pulled my other foot up to my side, trying to keep my legs from trembling while he teased my wetness.

He let go of me long enough to push aside the papers in a neat stack. Then he reached for me again, his hands sliding under the hem of the chemise, caressing my ass. “Come here,” he said, pulling me toward the bed. I reached down to slip off the shoes, but he stopped me. “No. Leave them on.”

I crawled on the bed, straddling him. Placing a knee on either side of him, my shoes turned carefully outward so as not to scrape him with the heels. He raised the hem of my chemise, looking up into my eyes, then held my hips, settling me over top of him. I felt him slip easily inside of me. He paused, savoring the connection again, one that never seemed to lose its intensity. “What do you call this,” he asked, stroking the pink satin covering my breasts, making my nipples rise under his fingers.

“A chemise,” I breathed.

“You look beautiful in this chemise,” he murmured.

He reached down to stroke my legs, touch my shoes. I leaned down to kiss him, and he let the edges of the chemise drop, draping our hips where they joined. He pulled at the neck, sliding it over my shoulders, letting it drop around my waist, exposing my breasts to his view. The satin puddled across my hips, covering him as well, resting lightly on my heels at his side. He grabbed my feet again, holding my heels as he stroked.

The movement came natural again, like it had the first time, and every time. And the reaction came naturally too, like it had the first time, and every time. And when it was over, I lay exhausted on his chest, breathing hard, sweating, everything hot to the touch. Except for a cool pool of satin, and brown patent leather.

Three

You sat back in the shadows, where I could barely see you. A candle burned on the nightstand; moonlight was the only other light in the room. But I could hear you breathe, groan, shift in your place. I knew you had to be stroking yourself, but couldn’t quite see it. I could only see him, over me, sheen of sweat in the candlelight, stroking, his face intense. I could see him glance over at you now and then, sometimes a hesitation in his glance.

He moved his hands to cup my breasts, squeezing the nipples; I heard your sharp intake of breath and felt myself clench around him. He looked in your direction, then leaned down to take the nipple in his mouth, sucking fiercely, and I arched up, ready to explode. His stroke and his mouth took me over that edge in seconds, and I reached up to hold the headboard with one hand, and raked my nails down his back with the other.

He pulled back, his cock slick and shiny in the moonlight, motioning me to turn over. I turned in your direction, seeing your face bathed in moonlight, catching your eye and the smile at the corner of your mouth as I took my position on my hands and knees. He rested a hand on my ass while he positioned himself; I locked eyes with you as he slid inside. Although your body was still in shadow, I could see your neck and shoulders flex as your hand gripped your cock, stroking downward. You closed your eyes for a minute, tipping your head back, your hair falling away from your face. I watched your jaw clench, and then saw you rise from the chair and step toward the bed.

I felt him pause as you approached, your cock smooth and hard, right there in front of my face, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the shaft and the swollen head. You reached out to touch my cheek, brushing my hair back behind my ear, tracing your hand down my jaw, and tipping my face up to you. You looked into my eyes, but your request was to him.

“Please,” you pleaded quietly. Your finger traced my mouth, and I opened it, involuntarily, catching the tip of your finger and sucking it. “Please. I need her.”

I held my breath, waiting, and my muscles clenched around him involuntarily when I heard him his “yes” between clenched teeth. He pounded his cock harder into me, as if needing to prove possession. You looked down at me, smiling, letting your cock graze my cheek. Then you dropped to your knees in front of me, your face only inches away from mine. You pulled my head close, making our foreheads touch, running your hand up and catching the back of my hair, pulling me close for a deep kiss. You broke away, holding my head in both hands, pulling my hair around our face like a curtain. You kissed a trail to my ear, whispering the whole way.

“Tell me how much you want me . . . tell me how much you want to taste my cock . . . tell me you want to suck on my cock . . .” Your breath tickled my ear and I whispered a frantic “yes” to each of your questions. You held my face tight against yours, whispering into my hair, your fingers tense. “Tell me you want me. Tell me . . . tell me you love me.” My heart clenched at the same time my pussy did, and I held my face against yours, whispering in your ear, “I love you. I love you . . .” You muffled the last words as you crushed my mouth with a kiss, whispering “I love you too” into my mouth, the words only we could hear.

Then you stood, still holding my face, guiding your cock into my mouth. My eyes locked on yours as you slid further inside my mouth, letting his thrusting motions push my mouth farther and farther down your engorged shaft. I heard him groan, and felt him pull out, hot thick cum spattering my back and my ass. Watched you gaze flicker over to him stroking his cock behind me, but only for a second before returning to my face. Then you watched me, my lips wrapped around you, and nodded your head. I could feel your cock expand in my mouth right before you came, and watched your jaw clench. You hissed through your teeth as you came; “I love this . . . you . . . “ and I could taste that salty, sweet fluid at the back of my throat, feel your fingers run through my hair, watch your eyes close. You pulled out of my mouth and knelt again, kissing me, running your tongue inside my mouth as if to taste every last bit of yourself. I let myself lay on the bed, my head next to yours, fingers playing with your hair. Perfectly content.

Tattoo

They were still laughing about it as she slipped the key in her room. Everyone else was still off doing their own thing and wouldn’t be expecting them to show up for another few hours. Somewhere during lunch over gourmet burgers, between the first beer and the third, they had agreed that a fake tattoo was a good idea. Given that several in the crew had real ones, maybe no one would be as surprised as the two of them imagined they would be, two beers into the discussion. But they’d managed to find a place that did pretty nice faux artwork after lunch, and she’d promised him honors of getting the first photo before the nights festivities and the good chance that it might wear off quickly.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and she tucked a few of the other packages she’d grabbed along the way. A few beers had a nice way of numbing men’s intolerance for shopping, and she’d grabbed a couple souvenirs and gifts on the way back from lunch with little protest. She was tucking the last item in her suitcase when he came out of the bathroom, and she giggled when she looked up.

“I know it’s stupid but I totally have this ‘naughty schoolteacher’ feeling now . . . my 7th graders would die if they knew I had something like this!”

“No worries,” he said. “It will wear off in a couple days and you’ll be back to Miss Prim and Proper . . . they won’t even know the difference. Of course, I still haven’t seen evidence of just how ‘naughty schoolteacher’ you got . . . and I think you still owe me the exclusive photo op, don’t you?”

She felt herself flush, a little, hesitating. The room felt incrementally smaller, even though he was still standing in the same place. “Of course . . . has to be someone I trust. You have the camera?”

He held it up for her to see. “You still didn’t tell me where it is or what you got. Butterfly on your shoulder? ‘I heart Mom’ on your arm? Aces on your butt cheek?” He stood, smirking, waiting for her.

She laughed. “Aces on my butt cheek . . . nice. I’m sure there is a pun in there somewhere about aces getting cracked . . . but beer and burgers are making me fuzzy and I don’t have it ready for you.” She laughed again, and he laughed with her. “No silly . . . I got . . . well . . . I got a tramp stamp.”

His eyebrow arched, and maybe his smile faltered for just a second, but then he grinned. “What’s it say?”

For something silly and temporary, she’d actually debated quite a bit. Thought about getting the name of some hair metal band, to be funny. Or something equally stupid, like “Princess” or “Juicy” stamped low on her back. In the end, she’d opted for something aesthetically pleasing, with classical scrolls and loops that tapered downward in a delicate triangle. Even with a pair of low slung jeans, only a hint was visible, and was covered by her long fitted shirt.

“You have to come see . . . but over here, by the window. Lighting is better for pictures.” He walked around the other side of the bed, to the sitting area by the window. She stood next to one of the chairs, fidgeting a bit. “You ready?”

He nodded, and she turned around, lifting her shirt up in back, exposing her waist and lower back. “I only see a couple bits . . . your jeans cover most of it.” She looked back, and sure enough, it wasn’t possible to see much of the design at all. She bent over slightly, feeling a little silly, and he said “That’s a little better . . . but you’re not going to get much in the picture, you know.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Photographer genius?” she asked, straightening back up.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he responded, very matter-of-factly. Stared her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she’d flinch. She raised an eyebrow, and felt compelled to swallow. “Unbutton your jeans, so there is a little more flexibility, then lean over the chair with your back arched. That should let them slide enough to show the whole thing off.”

Her fingers went instinctively to the button on her jeans and paused; her mind went, unbidden, to another brief series of thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation or any known reality, except that he was standing only a couple steps from her. She glanced at him again, and saw him swallow now, almost as if he’d read her mind for that nanosecond.

She undid the button, and turned around, leaning down and resting on the chair. She reached back to settle her jeans a little lower on her hips, nearly down to the lacy line of the low rise panties she wore. “Better?” she asked, looking back at him. He was staring, his breathing shallow, one hand holding the camera casually. He reached out with his right hand, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern, burning their own pattern in her skin. “Nice,” he whispered. She felt the gooseflesh start to rise.

His fingers hooked her waistband, tugging another half inch, and her skin kept the memory a few seconds longer. He positioned the camera and snapped a few shots; he’d look at the camera now and then, make a quick adjustment, and shoot again. “There,” he said, his voice softer.

She stood up, buttoning the jeans again, a leftover warmth on her skin where his fingers had brushed lightly. She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time, which made her a little light-headed. When she turned around, he glanced up from the camera screen to her face, and she noticed a little color had crept into his face. “Very nice,” he chuckled. “Want to see?”

She moved close to him, leaning over his shoulder to view the small LCD screen. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the hotel soap he’d used to shower with, mixed with the warm, yeasty smell of beer from lunch. She took a deep breath, smelling more, and reached over with one hand to tilt the camera so she could see better. She touched his fingers in the process; he didn’t move them.

He flipped through the shots, pausing to show her, and she realized he had a good eye for lighting and framing, capturing the curve of the small of her back, the intricacies of the temporary design. One particularly good shot seemed just perfect, and she exclaimed “That’s nice!” as she turned to face him. He turned at the exact same moment, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, their breaths swirling together in the small space. Until she stopped breathing, waiting. Feeling the electricity crackle, the small hairs on her neck at full attention.

He closed gap, brushing his lips against hers, testing, and her mouth responded without hesitation, brushing back, opening slightly, his top lip fitted between her own. A small noise startled her, until she realized it came from her own throat; his response was muffled as he fit his mouth tightly against hers, his arm coming up to pull her body against him. She let herself meld to his chest, let his tongue explore her mouth.

The knock on the door and the muffled “housekeeping” made them both jump and pull away. His lips were flushed against his pale skin and she had a hard time pulling her eyes away from his face. She turned and went to the door, cracking it slightly to send the hotel staff away. Certain they could hear her heart beating. She closed the door, leaning against it, watching him across the room. Waiting for the next step.

Sweet Dreams

I stepped out of the cab, and saw him standing in the lobby, the suit traded in for slacks and a sweater, topped by a leather jacket. He smiled, and I joined him at the concierge desk.

“It’s just us – he bowed out. Work to do,” I shrugged. He glanced down at my briefcase; I hadn’t had enough time to stop by my own hotel.

“Do you want to leave that here? We’re going to walk to the restaurant.” I nodded, and he said “We can put it in my room.” He turned and motioned me toward the elevator. I paused only for a second, a small nagging feeling, and then felt a little silly. Particularly when he opened the door unceremoniously, waited for me to drop it inside the door, then pulled the door shut behind us as we stepped into the hallway.

We talked about work and life as we walked, our breath making little white puffs in the night air. He’d chosen a small Italian restaurant. “It’s two now, not three,” he said to the hostess, who led us back to a small table for two against the wall. We caught up on stories; meeting his wife, dumping my crazy ex-boyfriend, living in Australia, our kids, his career, my new role. The waitress came by, decanted the wine, and proceeded to make sure we never saw the bottom of the glass until they cleared away the last of the pasta and salmon and crusted bread. We ordered coffee, unwilling to stop the conversation, and they cleared the tables and closed down the restaurant around us.

The conversation on the way back turned silly, and we laughed, over and over. I swayed in my heels, caught one on a cobblestone, and almost fell against him, catching myself at the last minute, which made me giggle more. We walked back to the lobby and as I followed him to the elevator, I had a sudden rush of heat. He pressed the elevator button and turned back to smile at me, finishing an anecdote from our previous exchange. Oh my god, I thought to myself, he looks really good. I could feel my face flush; I hoped he thought it was the wine or the flush from the cold outside. The most ridiculous thought entered my head; I hope his doesn’t try to kiss me, because I think I’d have to kiss back. Although every so often the words got scrambled in my brain, and came out ‘I hope he tries to kiss me’ in my imagination. I tried to silence the thoughts as we approached his door; he was focused on the key.

He opened the door and walked in, leaving it open for me. I tried to keep my focus, and reached for the briefcase, near the door. “So taxi down front?” I asked, pausing inside the doorway. This was it, I thought; I am helpless and can only respond to whatever he does next. Hope he doesn’t kiss me. Or that he does.

He smiled. “I’ll walk down with you.” Maybe it was just him being polite. Maybe he knew that was the safest way to spend a few more minutes together. We walked back to the elevator, and I felt slightly relieved, but disappointed, and still on edge. He walked me to the entrance, asked the bell captain to call a cab. When the cab arrived, he leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, his skin soft and warm, smelling faintly like soap. My head was still swimming as I sank into the cab, smiling up at him and waving. Closed my eyes while I gave the cabbie directions.

I don’t remember breathing until I lay on my bed in my room; a huge exhale of relief or missed opportunity, or wine and gnocchi settling in my stomach. I logged onto my email and ripped off a quick thank you. In minutes, his response came back, polite and appropriate, but signed “Sweet dreams.”

You have no idea, I thought. You have no idea.

Power

He is powerful: bending her will to his, bending her body to his, shaping her pleasure, her position, her submission with his hands. Tonight, she has a request. “Give me power.”

“Tell me how,” he says, amused.

“Hold my hands,” she whispers, smirking. “Don’t let go. Direct me with your mouth; direct me with your body. But don’t let go of my hands; you can’t direct me with your hands.” She smiles at him, expecting protest. His eyelids lower, but he smiles and agrees.

She holds her hands up; he links his fingers with hers. He moves closer, kissing her gently, kneading her fingers slightly between his. He backs her up against the wall; she can feel the faux chair rail pressing against her rear. He kisses her more insistently now, pressing his hips into her. It is just like she imagines: his warm kisses, becoming more fierce, his tongue seeking hers, his body pressing against hers.

He stretches her arms over her head, never letting go of her fingers. Now he is sucking her lips hard, nearly drawing blood. He sucks her tongue into his mouth; it feels like he might rip it from her mouth. His hips buck against her; the chair rail pushes back. He pushes one leg between her legs, grinding his thigh into her crotch.

He pulls her hands down to shoulder height, and tears his mouth away from hers. He begins kissing her neck, gently biting at the skin, nipping her ear lobes. She is frantic, her head turning from side to side. Each time she exposes the skin on her neck, he attacks, raking his teeth against the fragile skin. He slides down, puts his mouth directly over her breast, through the thin fabric of her shirt. He breathes against the fabric; the heat reaches her skin just as he bites down, pinching her nipple slightly and making her cry out. He covers her mouth with his, kissing her hard and deep. He pauses, leaving her breathless, but only long enough to relax before he bites down on the other breast.

Now he kneels, pulling her hands down with him, at her side. He uses his teeth to move her sweater, biting her exposed stomach. He moves his mouth farther down, breathing into her mound through the thin fabric of her skirt. Her hips move to meet him. He uses his teeth to scrape against her through the skirt, and she grinds her hips into his mouth. She is panting now, and he uses his teeth and their linked hands to pull the elastic waistband over her hips, leaving her standing in the small lacy panties with her skirt around her ankles. He uses his mouth to push aside the fabric of her panties, sucking her wet pussy into his mouth forcefully, making her cry out again.


His fingers are kneading, squeezing, cutting off the circulation to her hands. “Touch me,” she manages to whisper. He pulls back, looking up at her slyly. “I can’t,” he says, shrugging, holding up their linked hands. “Your rules.” She can barely breathe, barely think.

Her desperation makes her give in, and she releases his hands. There is a moment of silent tension, expectant. He rises, takes both hands and lays them on either side of her face, kissing her gently. She’s trembling from the effort of standing still. She kisses him back, waiting.

Then he grabs the rest of her clothes, fluidly stripping her. She hears a seam give; she doesn’t care. She’s naked before him and he tears his own clothes off, standing before her, hard, his eyes dark. He spins her around, and pushes her down on the bed. She falls, and he’s straddling her before she can do anything. He puts a knee between her legs, forcing them open, falling heavy on top of her. Penetrating her, but not before he grabs her hands, holding them high above her head, pinned to the bed. She’s wide-eyed, expecting the hurt. But she’s wet, and he slips in easily. She feels only a dull ache with each thrust, though it’s starting to build to that edge. She struggles to pull her hands free, to hold him, to bring him closer. But he keeps her hands pinned, kissing her hard, so she can hardly breathe. He’s thrusting harder and faster; she writhes beneath him, trapped, her hands useless. She feels the wave coming; she wants to say something. But his mouth covers hers, absorbing her cries and her frantic attempts at speech. He moves faster and harder, and then she’s lost, the blood pounding in her ears as the pent up tension releases. She feels him tense, feels his hands holding hers tightly. He pulls his mouth away to look down on her as his own orgasm rocks his body, making him groan.

He collapses on her, exhausted. She waits for her heart to slow. As she attempts to pull her hands from his, hoping to wrap her arms around him, he tightens his grip on her hands, stretching her arms farther above her head, trapping her. He kisses her gently on the neck as he sprawls across her, in complete control.

A Touch of Possession

His hand rested on her shoulder and she felt his fingers slip through the fringes of her hair where it touched her collar. In the dim lights of the patio, he stood behind her, talking to one of his counterparts about the afternoon seminar, while she watched the guitarist on stage. His fingers slid up her neck, and into her hairline, and though the night air was still warm, she felt the goosebumps rise on her skin. He paused, leaning down to ask if she needed her drink refilled; his hand instinctively tightened around her neck as his words stirred the hair against her cheek. She held her breath until he left, closing her eyes and swallowing hard when she felt the shift in the air as he walked away.

She stood, stretching, and twisted her neck from side to side, concentrating on making her heart slow in time to the music. The others stood, kissed her casually on the cheek one by one, and walked away with a wave. She turned back toward the stage, watching, but not really hearing the music. The soft click of his shoes on the wood deck signaled his approach moments before his left hand rested low on her back and his right hand reached around her body, placing a drink in her hand. His fingers trailed against hers as she took the drink, and she took a deep breath. “The others just left,” she said, not really knowing what she expected his response to be.

“If you like the music, we can stay,” he said, his voice measured and low. “Or bring your drink. We can hear the music from the balcony.” She knew he meant his balcony, even though he’d never actually asked the question. The executives had the suites with the balconies; she just had one of the inside resort suites with no particular view.

“Let’s hear this one song,” she responded, sinking back down into the seat. He remained standing, behind her, and his hand came up to rest on her shoulder, almost possessively. He squeezed her shoulder, then she felt his fingers at the edge of her neckline, slipping inside the fabric, grasping her collarbone then tracing it up to her neck. He had to be able to feel her chest rise and fall rapidly with her breathing, she thought, and she took a big gulp of her drink, hoping it would take away the edge. By the time the musician on stage finished his piece, there was nothing but the remnants of her ice cubes floating in the glass. She pondering listening to another song, but the musician rose, taking a break, and she knew she couldn’t just sit here. Or even wanted to.

“Did you want to stay for the last set?” he asked, and she looked up at him. His blue eyes were dark, and his face was calm, waiting for her answer. She shook her head; he blinked his eyes slowly, turning his eyes away from her momentarily, and his mouth curled in that smirk she was so used to seeing across a board room table. Though this time it made her stomach flip, just a bit. He held his hand out to her for assistance; she held it carefully as she stood and stepped around the potted plants by the low seats until she was standing next to him. Still smiling confidently, he held his right hand in the direction of the exit, and she stepped slightly in front of him, feeling his left hand come up to rest on her lower back as they threaded their way through the last of the evening crowd.

It was a short walk to the guest suites and when they got to the point where she should have turned to go to her own room, she paused, turning to him. Without missing a beat, he pointed straight ahead to the view suites, and when they reached the base of the stairs at the entryway, he turned in front of her, shepherding her up the steps, slight pressure still at the back of her waist. His keycard was out and in the room door, without giving her any time to think.

The door swung open quietly, and she could smell orange and sandalwood, and some type of exotic flower. The lights were low, and housekeeping had turned down the bed and turned on the music. He stepped in behind her, closing the door, and removing his sport jacket, hanging it in the closet inside the room. She stood in the middle of the room, thinking the king-sized bed looked enormous, then looked away quickly, walking to the balcony doors which were open. She heard him open the minibar, and heard the clink of a bottle top and the “pop” of a release. He was beside her momentarily, holding two glasses of sparkling water, and he motioned for her to step outside. She stepped onto the balcony, careful that her heels didn’t catch in the wooden slats, and rested her glass on the thick wooden railing. The view was secluded, with trees and plants shading the immediate neighbors, but not impeding the view of the lake and the shoreline. The music inside was piped into small, hidden speakers on the balcony, and she felt him step up behind her, his hand around her waist, fingers on the waistband of her skirt, swaying just a bit in time to the music.

She turned to look at him, his skin flushed against the stark white collared shirt, moonlight reflecting in his eyes, and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Is this ok?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure if he meant that she was here, that his arm was around her, or something more. She nodded, not quite able to form the right words, and he set his glass down next to hers. He brought his right hand up, letting it slip inside the collar of her shirt, skim over her shoulders and neck, coming up to rest on her cheek, his fingertips behind her ear. She felt her heart racing, wondering if he could feel the pulse under his fingers. “Is this ok?” he asked, letting his thumb trace her bottom lip, and she finally found the breath to say “Yes,” just the instant before his lips replaced his thumb and he fitted his mouth against hers, his hand still on her neck.

Her mouth opened instinctively, and his did too, and there was a pause before she felt his tongue brush against hers. She heard herself gasp into his mouth; his response was a low moan that sounded almost like he was purring, and she could feel the vibrations against her mouth as they kissed. Her body leaned in toward his, and his arm flexed around her, keeping her close. She paused to catch her breath, and a slow smile spread across his face. He stepped backwards, letting his hand trail down her arm, catching her fingers, pulling her with him. She stepped back inside, and as she did, stepped out of her heels, leaving them inside the balcony door. Now, she had to look up at him, and he stepped back again, until she could see the white linens of the bed behind him, and he reached out a hand for her, pulling her to him again. “Is this ok?” he asked, his voice huskier, and this time, she felt an involuntarily spasm in her groin. He leaned in, waiting for her answer, staring at her intently.

Her heart hammered her chest and she felt his hand playing at her waist band, tugging at the ends of her blouse, pulling it out of her skirt. When she felt it finally give, and the fingers of his one hand touch the bare skin on her waist, she caught her breath again. And then she heard her own voice, like it didn’t belong to her body anymore. Strong and confident, she answered him out loud in the room – “Yes” – and leaned in to meet his mouth. “Yes.”