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“Then shut up and make me come,” she demands, and wow.
That’s hot.
“I’ll give the orders,” I say, “and the orgasms. And you better be quiet this time.” I bat her hand away from her glistening pussy, then stroke her until she’s shivering and coming again, pressing her lips together to seal in her scream of ecstasy. I watch her the whole time, her face twisted in exquisite, stolen pleasure after a business lunch in the middle of Manhattan.
When she’s done, she pants, and moans, and sags against me. It’s breathtaking, and I want to take her to my office, set her on my desk, and eat her pussy till she comes so many times she begs me to stop.
For now, I let go of her, and we straighten up. Once I’ve dried my hands, I hold out a palm. “You know what to do. Give them to me.”
With a delighted smirk—she takes orders so damn well—she reaches under her skirt, shimmies off her white panties, and hands them to me. I ball them up and put them in my pocket. After I sling my jacket over my shoulder, I kiss her. It’s short but passionate, chased by a needy groan.
I wish I could see her again. And I wish I could quit her too. She’s so bad for me.
When I break the kiss, she’s the first to say, “We can’t do this again.”
She’s right. We can’t. “We won’t do this again,” I add, and I’ve got to keep my promise this time.
* * *
That evening, after I leave the office, I swing by the shop I now know she likes. You Look Pretty Today is a feminine wonderland, with pink divans and faint notes of lilac perfume drifting through the store, an olfactory complement to the soft music that plays overhead. The whole vibe is subtly seductive.
Everywhere is lace and satin, embroidered flowers and raised butterflies, and lipstick hearts on black teddies. It’s like Christmas morning and a winning hand in Vegas all at once. I feel seduced, lured deeper into an after-dark garden of sensual delights.
I can’t have her again. I just can’t keep crossing lines. But I can give her a little something. She deserves to be showered in gifts.
As I swing my gaze from shelf to shelf, display to display, my head swims with images of Jules in this black bra, in that white teddy, in…anything and everything.
I picture her lounging on a pink divan, stretching out her legs, posing for the camera.
I bet she’d let me take pictures of her with shadows playing across her round ass, her full breasts, and with lace covering only some of her soft flesh. She’d run a hand down her hip and give me the poutiest look.
An invitation to come and get her.
I’d say yes and give her relentless orgasm after relentless orgasm.
“Can I help you find something?”
The shopkeeper’s voice snaps me back to reality. I’m here to shop. Not to daydream of a woman I should not have touched today.
A woman I need to stop touching.
A woman whose panties are in my pocket. I’m a fucking pervert and a panty thief. What is wrong with me?
You want a woman you absolutely can’t have, jackass.
I face the friendly sales associate, a woman with a freckled nose and a welcoming smile. I hold out my hands and ask blatantly for her help. “I need something that saysI can’t stop thinking about you…but I should.”
Her smile is kind but a little wistful too. I’m not the first man to make this request, and I won’t be the last. “Let me show you.”
She takes me around the store, and I follow, saying yes to everything. I’m unstoppable. I can’t help myself. I amconsumedand if I can’t have her, I want her to have all these pretty things.
Fifteen minutes later, the associate finishes wrapping up an entire set of lingerie. There are several pairs of lace panties, along with a white lace panty and bra set embroidered with red tulips.
I write out a note.
I’ll do better in Paris. I promise.
And I will. When I see her there, I’ll be friendly and professional. I won’t drag her into a dark corner and tear off her clothes. I won’t tell her to choke on my cock. And I won’t demand she come for me again and again.
