The following has been excerpted as part of an ongoing Refinery29 series of erotic stories for women, by women.
Mr. Dade’s before me, holding a single drink.
“You’re not joining me?” I ask.
Mr. Dade’s smile widens as he places the glass in my hand. “Oh, I’ll be joining you.”
I sip the scotch and then sip again. It’s beautiful. Just like this room, with its warm gold hues and notes of luxury.
He takes back the glass. “My turn.”
He extracts an ice cube, uses it to trace a path along the neckline of my dress. As the cool, wet surface touches my breasts, I feel my nipples harden as they reach out to him, begging him to go further. He responds by tasting the hints of scotch on my skin — light kisses filled with heat, his hands now on my hips. I’m breathing again but each breath is shallow as I struggle to stay still.
He lifts the scotch glass again and brings it to my lips, tipping it back just slightly so that the smoky taste only trickles over my tongue. And then his fingers slip into the glass again and this time the melting ice is moved up my thighs. My body and my mind are no longer connected. I feel my legs part, only slightly at first but as he slowly pushes my dress up, I encourage him with increased access.
Again he lowers his mouth to the chilled scotch trail on my skin and I watch as he follows it up my legs. With a sudden and decisive movement he pulls my skirt up to my waist, which he now holds firmly in his hands as his mouth moves higher and higher. That flimsy little thong is the only thing that stands in his way. He removes one hand from my waist and strokes the silky fabric.
Through lowered lids I see him smile again. I know what he’s thinking. The fabric is wet. It’s another invitation that I have no control over.
But it’s not enough for him. “Ask,” he says; his finger hooks around the waistband of my panties. I feel my cheeks heat up once more. A voiced request means that I won’t be able to say that I just wasn’t thinking. I’m ready to expose my body to him, but now he’s asking me to share in this in a way that is so complete, it terrifies me.
“Ask,” he says again.
“Please,” I murmur.
“Not good enough.” His voice is still so but I can hear the edge of authority in his tone. “Ask.”
“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.”
Hesitantly, I raise my eyes to his. I can see the spark of mischief dancing there. A surge of unexpected courage bursts through me and I reach forward and grab his T-shirt, bunching up the 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. 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.
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 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 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 suppressed 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.
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 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.
This doesn’t feel innocent. This feels fucking amazing. It feels like I’m coming alive.
I didn’t know it could be like this.
It’s the last intelligible thought I have before he brings me to the brink again. I feel his shoulders tense under my grasp and then he pins my arms over my head, physically constraining me when my ecstasy can’t be held back at all. I thrash my head from side to side and buck my hips forward, forcing him even deeper inside of me. He groans and pushes faster and harder, as our crescendo moves us closer to a dizzying climax.
I cry out one more time as we come together, right there on the floor of a suite at the Venetian.
I didn’t know it could be like this.