“But no. Very sexy, that’s what it is. I would love to see it.”
Her cheeks flame. “I couldn’t.”
“Maybe later,” I say, and then I do something a little forward. I give her a wink. That would not be an introductory lesson on flirting, on foreplay, but I find myself out of my depth with this girl. As if I’m desperate to impress her, instead of a hired professional with a job to do.
She bites her lip. “Could I watch you do that?”
God, the mouth on her. She can’t even say the words, but she manages to say them anyway. So much courage and so much fear. My body tightens with the image of her, leaning forward, lips parted, while I pumped my cock. I would become desperate, sweating and swearing, but still I would not come, not until she had looked her fill.
“It would be torture,” I tell her honestly. “Exquisite.”
She studies the top button on my shirt like it’s an elaborate puzzle. It would be so easy to open it myself, without even removing my gaze from her. And it’s so much sweeter to watch her struggle with herself.
Then she takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself.
Her small fingers brush against my chest through linen, uncertain with the stiff fabric. She pushes the button through the hole, tugging the fabric apart no more than a centimeter.
Another button and another.
She opens my shirt down to my navel before spreading it apart.
I look down, trying to imagine what I look like for her, dark hair and tanned skin. My body is acceptable. I work out enough to keep myself trim, to bulge a few muscles for the clients who like such things, but that is not my strong suit. There are weight lifters and ball players on the payroll for women who prefer men like that. Myself, I am tall and somewhat spare. It is my smile that makes them choose me, not my body, but Bea looks at me with awe.
“Do you like what you see?” I ask, my voice pure gravel.
I expect her to be demure, to shake her head and avert her eyes, what any well-behaved ingenue would do. Instead she meets my gaze with an impish smile. “Feeling insecure, are you?”
My laugh comes out full-bodied. It takes me by surprise. “A man does like to feel wanted.”
“I do want you,” she says with a candor I’ve come to admire from her. An eagerness I’ve already learned to crave. “But I’m not sure I should have you.”
“Do you think I’ll hurt you?” I don’t think that’s her worry, but I have to be certain. It would break me if she thought I would force her to do anything she didn’t want to. “We can call the service right now. They can send someone else.”
“No,” she says, a little too loud, turning pink. “No, not that. It’s just that I’ve spent so long here in these four walls. Seeing the same group of people. Doing the same things.”
I hear the starvation in her words, the darkness that closes in on her. “You’re afraid because I’m new. Because what we’re doing is new. So we will only do what you’ve already done.”
“Do you mean watch me…”
“Masturbate? Oui, I could watch that. I would gladly, but I would also love to make you come. It would be a feeling you’ve had before, only with my fingers instead of yours.”
She likes that, I see the excitement brighten her eyes. Her fear recedes into the night. “Here?”
I look around at the small bar and the sofa beyond. “Where do you usually do it?”
“In bed.”
My hand links in hers, and we go there together. This is the room where I began this journey, the dresser still slightly ajar from the wall. The mismatched furniture at odds with the sleekness of the penthouse suite. The bed neatly made in anticipation of what’s to come, white ruffles in neat alignment. The thought of her wet and horny under this spread is enough to dampen a spot of precum on my boxers. Already my cock hurts with how long I’ve been hard, but I will wait as long as she needs. Forever, if that’s what it takes to make her comfortable.
She turns off the lamp, and I let her, but only because she would normally do this in the dark. There is only the light spilling in from the doorway, barely enough to see her by.
I pull back the bedspread, messing up her ordered work. The sheets are cool beneath my palm, and I smooth them, smooth them, making them warm and ready.
When I turn back to face her, she looks up at me with luminescent eyes.
Every thought of teaching her, of tutoring her, of remaining aloof from her disappears from my head. There’s only the need to kiss her and the physical movement to make it happen. Her lips yield under mine, softer now, quicksand, and I’m sinking.
This time when I touch her, she sighs into my mouth, a sound of infinite relief. I give in to my baser impulses and touch her plump ass, knead and mold her, and then it’s my turn to sigh in relief. She is everything warm and vibrant in my arms.
I know a move for every situation, practiced and choreographed to maximize her pleasure, but it’s clumsy hands that press her back to the bed, that lift her heavy lace dress in pursuit of ecstasy. I slide my palm up the inside of her thigh, and her hips lift, shocked and seeking.
“Spread for me, Bea.”
She does, wordless, her eyes wide moons. There is enough mystery there to make me uncertain about my reception, but then I touch her—ah, there. And she’s wet for me, drenched and swollen for my cock. It isn’t my cock that she’ll get though, only the stroke of my forefinger, making her cry out.
“Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel wild,” she whispers. “And so good. And it hurts. Why does it hurt?”
Beautiful. She’s goddamn beautiful. “Because your body knows what it needs.” I press my thumb in front of her clit, hovering there in the slickness. “Reach for it.”
And then she does, lifting her body in a timeless rhythm. She doesn’t need my lessons, that much is clear, not the way she writhes in relentless time, pressing her clit against me.
She could come this way, but I want more. Not only for her.
For me.
I slip my finger inside her. God, she’s tight. She would be a vise around my cock, and I feel myself flex inside my pants. I have one knee on the bed, the other leg still planted on the floor. I’m bent over one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but I’m still fully dressed.
Part of me wants to open my pants and release myself. To slip inside her heat and take what she’s already paid for. But something holds me back.
“Please,” she whispers.
Then I’m helpless except to kiss her, to thrust my tongue into her mouth with the same steady gait as I slip my finger inside her. And still she fucks her body against my thumb, the friction making her gasp against my lips.
There is no longer a spiral to the top; she’s hovered there, trapped in suspended agony.
Afraid, I realize with a terrible dread.
It’s the first time I’ve ever wondered if I might not make a woman come. Her body is with me, but her mind is afraid. I bite her lip once more, and her attention focuses on me. “Nothing will happen to you,” I tell her, even though I have no ability to protect her. No right. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Let go for me, Bea. Let go.”
She comes with a glorious rush of arousal, her body jerking in wild abandon. I pet her clit with firm strokes of my thumb through her orgasm, and then stroke her sex softly as she comes down, pressing kisses over her nose and across her forehead, telling her how beautiful she is, how sweet. My brave girl.