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That, and lowering her walls makes it easier to take ownership of someone who has no idea that a predator is hunting. Calculating. Taking account of every minute detail in order to win this dangerous game.
“Malcolm,” she whispers a moment later as if tasting my name on her tongue. It’s a sinful delight to hear her pronounce each letter—to take in how a miniature smile forms on her lips after. “Anything else I can do for you, Malcolm?”
“Dance for me.”
“W-what?” It’s a shaky exhale as I kiss the area beneath her belly button.
“Dance for me, London.” I gift her a few more soft kisses. “Get up on that stage, eyes closed, and dance for me. Let me enjoy you just a little.”
My eyes stay on hers as I give the request and then sit back in my seat. I eat her alive as she nods and takes a few steps, all the while facing me. It’s almost as if she can’t find the will to pull her eyes away, and I motherfucking enjoy watching her almost trip while making her way toward the stage backwards.
Once at the edge of the platform, she halts and gives me a soft smile. “Any particular request? Music you want me to—?”
“Slow.” The word is out of my mouth before she finishes the question. “I want it slow, Twirl.”
“Okay.” She mouths the word slow and turns, giving me a small tease of the plump cheeks almost spilling from the dress’s edge. It’s ridden up, and with each move, I get a small taste of what will be mine.
“One more thing…” She pauses and tilts her head, listening to me. “Once the song finishes, you walk out without another word. Without looking at me.” I’m hard. Throbbing. But instead of reacting like the animal she’s making me feel like, I breathe in and take a sip of the drink she poured.
“Understood.”
While London looks through the selection I have pre-approved, I undo the button of my pants and lower the zipper. While she nods to herself and hits play, I take my shirt off and toss it somewhere. While she shakes her head, tousling her hair, I pull my cock out and stroke myself once. While she gets up on the stage, back to me, and rolls her hips as the first strum of a guitar rents the air, I lick my lips.
I can’t control my urges—this hunger that causes a hiss to escape through clenching teeth while she sways to the sensual beat. Can’t stop myself as I swipe my thumb over the head, collecting the beads of pre-come there and spreading it.
This is foreplay. Makes my plans sweeter.
London dips low then, her knees spread wide apart while she arches her back. She bounces a few times, making the dress ride higher until the small string currently residing between two luscious cheeks becomes my focal point.
I fuck my hand with each gyration. With each arch of her back.
But nothing compares to the moment she stands, turns around, and with her eyes closed, skims a hand down the center of her chest. How she follows each beat—every single note in the song with absolute perfection.
She’s glorious in her element. Dancing as if no one else is inside the room with her, she rises onto the very tip of her toes while those hips sway. London’s moves are precise. Like a serpent enticing—hypnotizing while she prepares to strike.
And fuck, do I love it.
My fist pumps in time with her every move. My hips rise, giving into the lust burning through my veins.
With her foot on pointe, she lifts the other leg straight in the air into a vertical split and I growl, the sound loud within the room. She hears it. I know it. Moreover, that second—the minuscule moment in time when she falters causes my stomach to clench.
Move my wrist faster.
Following my instruction, she twirls for me in a slow circle.
My little Twirl. My little ballerina.
London holds her poise with grace. She doesn’t realize as she turns that the white fabric between her thighs stretches tight, giving me a small glimpse of the sweet pink I want to devour.
Her labia is visible. So is a small patch of wetness.
My orgasm is almost violent as I focus on the proof of her arousal. Even the innocent fall.
“Motherfuck,” I grunt, grinding my teeth as the first rope of come shoots from the tip and onto my stomach. Pulsing—I’m fucking throbbing as the second and third follow, coating my hand and then abdomen. Every single nerve ending in my body is a live wire and breathing comes second to watching her move, oblivious to my actions.
London doesn’t stop, and I don’t ask her to. Instead, I continue to stroke myself softly as the song comes to an end and she leaves.
She doesn’t look back, but my eyes follow her out.
