Page 6 of His for Christmas
His cock seemed to surge at my words, flexing against my ass, as if it were punching through so many layers of fabric, as if it could push inside me. My inner muscles answered by squeezing around nothing, and I knew my panties would be damp. And still he only touched me, caressed me, stroked me outside my clothes. It felt too dirty and not dirty enough. I was breathing hard, each intake of air pushing my breasts into his hands. The friction made my nipples peak, ready for him to grab.
And he did grab them, so carefully, between his forefingers and thumbs. The thin fabric of my bra and my shirt barely hindered him at all when he pinched me, and I cried out, pressing my legs together.
“Pretty,” he murmured, and the word made me shudder, close enough to what my daddy had told me. “These are so pretty. What color are your nipples, sweetheart? They’re going to be wet from my mouth before this night is over. You know that, don’t you?”
“No,” I said, almost a moan. I had no idea what he would do to me or how far he would go.
His hands paused. “Can I see you, Angel?” he asked, his voice raw. Almost pleading. “Let me see you.”
In answer, I let my head fall back on his chest and closed my eyes. Let him. I could let him do anything. I wasn’t sure I could do much more than that, but I could lean against him, using his strength, while his hands undid the buttons of my shirt. He pulled the sides apart, and cool office air rushed over my skin, raising goose bumps.
He sucked in a breath. “Fucking pretty.”
He must have been telling the truth when he said it had been a long time. A man like him would be used to gorgeous women who had the best diets and makeup and clothes. My bra was from the dollar bin, made of cheap beige satin stretched in the wrong places. I shouldn’t have been anything special to a man like him, but he sucked in a breath and stood unmoving. He must have been staring at me. Must have been…awestruck.
Or at least luck-struck, and for me, that was close enough.
When he reached one hand into my bra cup, my body slid closer to him, his hold on me almost too tight—and perfect, like that. I reveled in the feeling of being pressed against him, within the embrace of his body, the unbreakable hold of it. He was all hardness and strength, all confidence and a deep, endless well that only my body could fill.
Without my consent, my hips rocked against his, and he responded almost violently, pushing me forward, his cock an almost painful rod against my hip, his fingers tightening around my breast.
He made a rough sound as he exposed me fully, tugging down the cups until my small breasts plumped. I looked indecent like that, breasts thrust forward, begging for his touch—but then I was indecent. I was filthy and shameful and somehow aroused. My blood rushed so fast all I could hear was the beat of my heart, and his.
Instead of cupping my breasts again, he tugged my skirt up.
“Just a little more,” he muttered, and I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself.
Then it didn’t matter, because his fingers slipped inside my panties. The shock of his rough skin in my private place made me gasp. I pushed up on my toes, but the high heels didn’t leave me anywhere to go. I was caught by his arms and my shoes, pinned in place as his fingers stroked through my folds, finding dampness, finding need.
“It’s been…a long time,” I gasped, because I needed him to know that. Needed him to go slow. Needed him to go fast, because oh God, I was dangling over the cliff, already there.
He groaned. “Then how…?” He pressed his mouth down my neck. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. You don’t have to say that stuff. You don’t have to lie.”
“What?” But then his fingers found my clit, and I shuddered, helpless, unable to demand answers, unable to do anything but rock against his hand in an age-old rhythm. I was like the ocean, pressing against the beach with every wave, feeling rough sand sift through my slickness.
And I couldn’t have stopped him for anything. Not the sun, not the moon. Not even for the temp job I needed so badly.
“I want to make you feel good, that’s all,” he murmured against my neck. He nipped at my earlobe, and I jolted in his arms. Then he reached lower, dipping his fingers inside, this thumb stroking my clit. “Want to make you feel good,” he repeated, again and again, while the waves crashed and I finally broke, coming apart around his callused fingers, crying out his name. Mr. Thompson.
