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My body hums as I make my way down the stairs, both sets, until I hit the ground floor, and then I slide into the great room.
It’s an orgasmic hum, and a part of me wants to go back up there and… What?
Tempt fate even more?
Shit, I need to work out my exit strategy. I look around.
Jac’s feeling his date up on the other side of the room near the window as I saunter up to the bar and call the car I paid for out of expenses. I also order a mezcal old fashioned, a cocktail that soothes parts I know I can’t soothe.
Drink in hand, I step back into the corner near the bar, where it’s shadowy, so I can think. And, for some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the hot and compelling figure of Jac.
I try and muster some sympathy for Nora whatever her name is, but I can’t. When I say he’s feeling her up, it’s borderline arrestable. His hand is in the top of her dress. When he gets tired of that, he moves it. Right on up under her skirt of her gown. Shit, at one point he uses his other hand to yank up that gown, and he flashes her bare pussy where his fingers are pulling open her inner lips.
It’s subtle because he’s at the edge on the other side, it’s brief. You wouldn’t see it if you weren’t looking.
But he does it.
Because he can.
He’s disgusting.
The man isn’t penetrating her. He’s humiliating her. Three men see him, and three erections appear as he lowers the skirt, covering the hand.
I can tell from his movements, he’s putting on a show; it’s too exaggerated for him to be penetrating her. That only adds to the humiliation factor. Then he drops her skirt completely, puts his hand back in her top and kisses her neck so he can expose a breast.
Just a few seconds. Then he stops and just touches over the dress, making her suck his fingers that touched her pussy.
Jac Miller is… Something else.
Yeah, I really should feel for her.
He looks bored, she looks half-miserable, half-besotted and it’s going to end in tears, but I bet she’s fucked him every way to Sunday.
I don’t even have to place a bet to know she’d go down on her knees and suck his cock here and now or bend over for him. She wants him that badly. Even with all that misery, she wants him.
For all I know, this is a game they play. She isn’t slapping him, and she isn’t pushing him away. She keeps sucking on his fingers, keeps trying to touch him, and I think he gets off on this shit.
Usually.
He’s definitely not erect. And that’s not fake boredom on his devastatingly handsome, pretty-boy face.
I want to judge; I really want to do that. But how?
After what I did with Hendrick?
Oh, hell, I can’t believe I did all that upstairs on the third floor, that I got fucked in the ass on the Aldon desk and came on that priceless thing. I can’t believe I rode his cock on the desk.
Actually, I can’t believe I let him eat me out, or that I sucked that huge cock of his. Or that I let him bang me so hard and fast and brutal in all the best and delicious ways against the wall. He came in me. Hard. Fast. Deep. And then a long slow fuck on the table, and he pushed me off and…
Breathing out, I force myself to stop. My body’s starting to roll with waves of need and desire. Of pleasure, memory, and that pull to the man I just stole priceless jewels from. Of the con-non-con game we dabbled in before he rode my ass, something I almost never do.
There’s something way too intimate about it, and yet I practically demanded he fuck my ass.
I’d blame the whiskey but the small amounts we had of the Yamazaki weren’t enough to get me tipsy, let alone drunk and foolhardy.
The only thing I was drunk on was him. His fine cock. Glorious mouth.
Jesus.
