The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(5)

“Take them off.”

He raises himself up now so that he is leaning over me, his finger still hooked around the thin strap of my thong. “What exactly would you like me to take off?” The slight smile on his face doesn’t do anything to lessen his intensity.

“Please?” I speak so quietly, I have to struggle to hear myself. “Please take off my panties.”

“Louder, please.”

Hesitantly, I raise my eyes to his. I can see the spark of mischief dancing there and it makes me smile. A surge of unexpected courage bursts through my soul and I reach forward and grab his T-shirt, bunching up the cheap cotton in my fist. “Please,” I say, pulling him closer, disturbing his balance. “Please take off my panties, Mr. Dade.”

And now his smile matches my own. The thong is ripped from my body and before I fully know what’s going on, I feel the slight sting of scotch against my clit immediately followed by the shocking warmth of a kiss there, a kiss delivered to my very core. His mouth tickles and teases. I moan and grasp at the seat beneath me. I feel his finger gently touch me as he continues to lick and taste, first softly, then there’s a firmer pressure, a faster speed. His tongue dances over every nerve ending, his solicitations unrelenting. I whimper and throw back my head as the orgasm comes hard and fast.

But I have no time to get my bearings. He yanks me to my feet. He doesn’t need to search for the hidden zipper on this dress; he just intuitively knows where it is. In an instant I’m wearing nothing.

Ah, the stares of those men in the casino were nothing, not even pale imitations of the look that Mr. Dade is giving me now. His eyes don’t just move over me, they consume me. I stand there, wanting, throbbing as he slowly circles me like a wolf planning his attack, like a tiger stalking a mate. . . .

Like a lover, ready to worship.

I don’t reach for him; his eyes hold me as still as any rope ever could. Once the circle is complete, he takes off his own shirt. His torso matches his arms, hard muscles under soft, vulnerable flesh. He pulls me to him and I can feel what I’ve done to him. His erection presses against my stomach.

I gasp as I feel fingers push inside of me. First one, then two. He plays with me, stroking and probing as I shiver against him. I try to unbutton his jeans but my hands are shaking. I’m going to come again, right here, standing up, pressed against him.

And then he has me against the wall as he continues to caress. I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails in as I cry out. I explode and contract around his fingers. I breathe in and realize that traces of that woodsy cologne are now on my skin, too. Nothing separates us.

I feel courageous and vulnerable, one more delicious contradiction. I finally manage to unfasten his jeans. And as I strip him of his remaining clothes, it’s my turn to stare.

He’s beautiful and perfect and . . . impressive.

We might not make it to the bedroom.

With the tips of my fingers I explore every ridge of his cock until I make it up to the tip.

Cock: it’s not a word I use but my head is spinning and euphemisms suddenly hold no interest for me. I don’t want to see what’s happening through a soft-focus lens. That’s not my fantasy.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he breathes. And then I’m being lifted into the air. My legs wrap around his waist, my back still pressed against that hard wall, and again I cry out as he pushes inside of me, again and again.

I feel myself opening up for him. I feel myself getting wetter, a primal reaction to this welcome intrusion. I feel everything.

He’s filling me with a hard, pulsing, and unyielding energy. He’s crashing through the doors behind which I’ve locked away all my secret desires, and those desires are bursting through me with the savage force you would expect from any jailbreak. As he continues to hold me up, I bend my head and softly bite his shoulder; I suck on his neck. I want to devour him even as he consumes me.

And now we’re on the floor. My hips never leave his. I’m still embracing him with my legs, pulling him to me. Every inch of him holds its place inside my walls as he lowers me onto my back. The thin carpet beneath me adds a touch of gentleness as I scratch up his skin. His hands are on my breasts, pinching my nipples before moving to the small of my back. We’re moving to our own rhythm, one that is as rousing and radiant as anything ever heard within a Beethoven symphony. Each thrust brings me to a new level of ecstasy.

I didn’t know it could be like this.

It’s a cliché. A line every ingénue in every bad romantic comedy is forced to utter. The words are always spoken delicately as if our heroine has reached a new level of innocence.