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“You, cooking, and looking like that.”
Adopting ignorance, I look down at myself. It’s a pretty dress and the top half is a bit sheer so you can see my push-up bra and breasts beneath.
“Never eaten dinner with an attractive woman before?”
“Not one like you,” he goads, gesturing he’d like to get to it already. “Literally dying over here, Mirabelle. The thought of you… it’s driving me mad.”
“I have a question first,” I demand.
“Hmm. Okay…”
“Can I eat my chocolate pudding before we get to it?”
His face falls, but only briefly, brushing off his disappointment with a chuckle. “Go on, then.”
In the kitchen, I sigh and shake my head at myself, tip a load of wine down my neck straight from the bottle, then grab a piece of chocolate cake from the fridge and put it on a plate.
I’m just about to re-enter the room when I catch him on his phone again, holding it low on his lap. This dodgy bastard has a whole world of women at his fingertips, doesn’t he? And technology is how he keeps them all separate from one another. They’re all locked up in that phone of his.
The only way to describe how I eat the cake is painstakingly. I eke it out as much as possible, licking the fork repeatedly, then my lips, mewling, grinning and groaning with pleasure. I’m almost certain he’ll be hard already. Once or twice he either unconsciously goes to grab his phone to start recording this, or he’s close to taking out his tallywacker and bashing out his frustration beneath the table.
“Jesus, we should have dinner more often,” he groans.
Once in the bedroom, of course I know what he wants first. When he sees I’m without panties, he’s down on his knees enjoying his own dessert.
Before I’ve even had chance to think about what a terrible mistake this is, he’s brought me to a screaming orgasm and beaten himself off at the same time, his hand covered in it when I glance over as he moves.
Using tissue from the bedside dispenser, he cleans up, then undresses down to his boxers.
On my bed, he lies there with his eyes closed, panting. I’m about to ask if he’s okay, because he seems to be drowsy. Must be the abundance of food and sex.
“Just catching my breath,” he says, “I’ll be ready to fuck in a minute.”
Neither one of us is convinced of that.
“Can’t get enough of the taste of your pussy, Mirabelle. Can’t help myself when I’ve got my tongue in you. Do you like to be called Mira, by the way? By people who know you?”
“Mirabelle sounds better from your posh mouth.”
He grins and his perfect face wrinkles a little, a reminder that he is in fact eight years older than me, though he certainly doesn’t act like it.
His stomach makes a noise and he ignores it, but I have a feeling…
Putting a plan into action, I pick his clothes up from the floor, start to fold them onto the chair and gasp as his phone falls out. I accidentally touch the fingerprint pad quite a few times, so that a message pops up on the screen:Please use passcode, incorrect fingerprint.
“Oh, your phone, Miles. Here.”
He’s quick to snatch the phone from me and it’s then that I’m watching the movement of his fingers as he scrambles to key in his code, then quickly check for messages without seeming like he’s not really present here. I count that it’s a four-digit code which is good and I think his finger goes from left to right on one line, and the same on another.
Grinning, I lean down and kiss his cheek as he puts his locked phone on the nightstand.
“Another beer, babe?” I ask brightly.
“Could do with some water if you could?”
“Be right back.”
I go grab his water and return to find him rubbing his stomach.
