whiskey.”
“It was just meant to be a drink.”
He takes another step forward.
“You rode the elevator to my room.”
Another step.
“You made yourself comfortable, accepted a glass of very expensive scotch.”
Another step.
“And when I tasted that scotch on your skin, you grabbed my shirt.”
And another. His hand reaches forward as he grabs the front of my white silk blouse. His other hand goes to my hip, then slides to my belly, then lower.
I gasp as he cups me.
“You asked me to take off your panties.”
The skirt I’m wearing is too loose today. It allows him too much access. I feel his hand press against the cloth that separates skin from skin, applying just the right amount of pressure. I dig my nails deeper into my palms but the pain is dulling, becoming insignificant in the face of other sensations.
“Ask me to stop and I will,” he says quietly. “But don’t tell me that it’s going to stop. This isn’t an it . This is you and this is me . We’ve always had the option of restraint. We’ve had the power to say no.” He lessens the pressure of his hand. “Or yes,” and with that word his hand begins to move, back and forth. I feel myself respond, my hips aching to move along with the motion.
“Ask me to stop, Kasie, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is ask.”
“Mr. Dade,” I whisper before breathing, “Robert.”
“Yes.” He says. The word doesn’t sound like a question. It’s a proclamation. A statement of what is and what isn’t.
I grasp the hand that still holds my shirt, I look into those eyes, I read what’s there.
“Robert Dade,” I say quietly, “stop.”
His hands fall away. Without breaking eye contact he takes a step back. My breathing is still irregular. I wait for my arousal to dissipate. But it doesn’t. It just shifts, morphs into something else.
Something that feels a lot like power.
I smile.
Walking in a half circle around him I find myself stopping when his back is to me. I close the distance I had just asked him to place between us.
I shouldn’t. But I do.
I let my fingers move up into his hair, just like in my fantasy. And just as I predicted, he tenses and then relaxes.
“You took my jacket,” I whisper into his ear.
I hook my fingers around his sports jacket and pull it off of him before deliberately dropping it on the floor. I can see his beautiful form and I press myself against him, crushing my breasts into that area below his shoulder blades, where his muscular back begins to taper down to his narrow waist.
“This will be the last time,” I say. “This morning will mark the end. This is the last time I’ll stray from the path.”
He turns and looks at me. He’s trying to find the connection between my words and the small smile that plays on my lips.
“This is the last time,” I say again, backing up to his desk. I’m a little nervous and I’m shocked by what I’m saying, what I’m wanting, what I’m doing.
“This is the last time,” I say one more time as I lean back against his desk and open my legs. “So let’s make it good.”
And in less than a second he’s on me. His mouth is crushed against mine as he pulls my hair, his hand reaches up my skirt, and I feel him roughly pull my panties aside before his fingers plunge inside of me. This time I don’t resist. His mouth tastes both bitter and sweet. His fingers start to move faster and I gently bite his lip and struggle to hold back my moans.
I start working on the buttons of his shirt. I’m desperate to touch him, every part of him. I don’t want to leave anything to the imagination or to the memories I’ve spent so many hours reliving.
This is the last time, and I’m going to make it good.
And now his chest is bare and exposed, mine to stroke and taste. My mouth moves to his neck as his fingers continue to move, taking his pulse with my tongue. When his thumb slips back up to my clit, I moan again, and this time I’m not quick enough to
“It was just meant to be a drink.”
He takes another step forward.
“You rode the elevator to my room.”
Another step.
“You made yourself comfortable, accepted a glass of very expensive scotch.”
Another step.
“And when I tasted that scotch on your skin, you grabbed my shirt.”
And another. His hand reaches forward as he grabs the front of my white silk blouse. His other hand goes to my hip, then slides to my belly, then lower.
I gasp as he cups me.
“You asked me to take off your panties.”
The skirt I’m wearing is too loose today. It allows him too much access. I feel his hand press against the cloth that separates skin from skin, applying just the right amount of pressure. I dig my nails deeper into my palms but the pain is dulling, becoming insignificant in the face of other sensations.
“Ask me to stop and I will,” he says quietly. “But don’t tell me that it’s going to stop. This isn’t an it . This is you and this is me . We’ve always had the option of restraint. We’ve had the power to say no.” He lessens the pressure of his hand. “Or yes,” and with that word his hand begins to move, back and forth. I feel myself respond, my hips aching to move along with the motion.
“Ask me to stop, Kasie, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is ask.”
“Mr. Dade,” I whisper before breathing, “Robert.”
“Yes.” He says. The word doesn’t sound like a question. It’s a proclamation. A statement of what is and what isn’t.
I grasp the hand that still holds my shirt, I look into those eyes, I read what’s there.
“Robert Dade,” I say quietly, “stop.”
His hands fall away. Without breaking eye contact he takes a step back. My breathing is still irregular. I wait for my arousal to dissipate. But it doesn’t. It just shifts, morphs into something else.
Something that feels a lot like power.
I smile.
Walking in a half circle around him I find myself stopping when his back is to me. I close the distance I had just asked him to place between us.
I shouldn’t. But I do.
I let my fingers move up into his hair, just like in my fantasy. And just as I predicted, he tenses and then relaxes.
“You took my jacket,” I whisper into his ear.
I hook my fingers around his sports jacket and pull it off of him before deliberately dropping it on the floor. I can see his beautiful form and I press myself against him, crushing my breasts into that area below his shoulder blades, where his muscular back begins to taper down to his narrow waist.
“This will be the last time,” I say. “This morning will mark the end. This is the last time I’ll stray from the path.”
He turns and looks at me. He’s trying to find the connection between my words and the small smile that plays on my lips.
“This is the last time,” I say again, backing up to his desk. I’m a little nervous and I’m shocked by what I’m saying, what I’m wanting, what I’m doing.
“This is the last time,” I say one more time as I lean back against his desk and open my legs. “So let’s make it good.”
And in less than a second he’s on me. His mouth is crushed against mine as he pulls my hair, his hand reaches up my skirt, and I feel him roughly pull my panties aside before his fingers plunge inside of me. This time I don’t resist. His mouth tastes both bitter and sweet. His fingers start to move faster and I gently bite his lip and struggle to hold back my moans.
I start working on the buttons of his shirt. I’m desperate to touch him, every part of him. I don’t want to leave anything to the imagination or to the memories I’ve spent so many hours reliving.
This is the last time, and I’m going to make it good.
And now his chest is bare and exposed, mine to stroke and taste. My mouth moves to his neck as his fingers continue to move, taking his pulse with my tongue. When his thumb slips back up to my clit, I moan again, and this time I’m not quick enough to
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