I ran my hands over his shoulders through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. I traced their lines with my palms, then started on his buttons. “I told you, I want to stop thinking for a while.” The words were the truth, I realized even as I said them. “To think about nothing. To feel.” I looked at his gorgeous face in the shadows. “What do you want?”
He put a hand to my waist and pulled me to him, dropping his mouth to my neck. I could feel the hard muscles of his body against me, his chest against the fabric on my breasts. “I think you’ll find my wants are very simple,” he said against my skin. “Turn around.”
I obeyed. His deft hands found my zipper and unzipped my
dress, letting it pool to the floor at my feet. I sighed. My oversensitized skin had felt constrained by the tight fabric.
Now I was in my black bra, my panties, and my heels. John stepped up behind me, ran a strong hand from the back of my neck down my spine. “Walk to the bedroom,” he said.
I didn’t even think of disobeying. I walked across the room to the lush bedroom, where the bed was piled high with luxurious pillows. The blinds on the window were partly open, and the winking lights of New York were the only illumination in the room. There was just us, high above the city in the dark.
I walked to the edge of the bed and he stopped me, his hand on the back of my neck again. It was commanding, though it wasn’t rough. I leaned into his touch without thinking and closed my eyes.
He stepped up behind me and put his palms on my stomach. I could feel the fabric of his thighs against my ass, his shirt against my back. His warm body beneath the layer of fabric. His palms moved up my body until they cupped my breasts through the thin lace fabric of my bra.
I gasped and leaned my weight back, my head resting on his shoulder. My breasts weren’t overly big and his hands engulfed them easily, stroking and gently squeezing. I felt every movement between my legs.
Again he dropped his mouth to my skin. “I know what you want,” he said as one hand moved down my belly, beneath my panties, and his fingers slid into my pussy.
I moaned, not quietly, my head still resting back against his shoulder. I wasn’t thinking now. I pushed my hips up into his hand.
He was touching me. This stranger, this man I didn’t know, was stroking me, and I was letting him. He could feel how wet I was, feel how desperate I was. The thought just made me hotter.
“You want someone to touch you,” John said, his fingers moving in a slow, sure rhythm. “You want someone to make you feel good. No names, no attachments, no expectations. Just pleasure. That’s what I want, too.”
His fingers moved down to my entrance, then up to my clit, sure and easy. I squirmed and closed my eyes. Everything in the world vanished but his hand, his voice, the feeling of his body against my back. This was already better than anything I’d ever experienced, and he wasn’t even fucking me. Any inhibitions I had were vanishing under the stroke of his fingers.
His voice lowered to a growl against my skin. “You want to be pleased,” he said, his hand still moving. “You want to be told what to do and pleasured at the same time. You don’t want an amateur. That wouldn’t be nearly enough for you. You want a man who knows what the fuck he’s doing.”
The orgasm shivered through me, starting somewhere behind my knees, on the insides of my thighs, then shaking my whole body. Sounds I didn’t recognize came out of my mouth, and I would have lost my balance if I hadn’t been leaning against him, if he didn’t have me in his grip. I kept my eyes closed, and he held me through every aftershock until I started to come down.
His fingers hooked beneath the elastic at my hips and he pulled my panties down, letting them drop to the floor. “Put your hands on the bed,” he said, his voice hoarse.
I did. I leaned forward and did as he said, and now I was in an incredibly vulnerable position, naked and exposed to him, unable to see him. My heart was racing, competing with the post-orgasm bliss running through my body. I heard the click of his belt, the soft sound of a zipper. Then the crinkle of a condom package.
He leaned over me, and I felt fabric against my back; he still had his shirt on. “I wanted to do this the first second I saw you,” he said, and pushed into me.
I closed my eyes again, a breath escaping my throat. Good. It felt so good. He made a low sound that was tightly wound, yet mirrored my own pleasure, and then he moved out, then in again.
I curled my hands in the bedspread as we found a rhythm. He was in perfect command as he pushed deep into me, then deeper again, yet the ragged sound of his breath told me he was as consumed as I was. His strong hands dug into my hips as he dropped his mouth to my ear. “You feel fucking incredible,” he said.
I shivered at his words, a tremor of pleasure that shook my whole body. He must have felt it, because his movements grew sharper, his breath more harsh. I rode the waves until he finally stilled, letting out another harsh breath as he came.
There was a second of silence, both of us catching our breath. Then he braced a hand on the bed and stood, pulling out of me. I heard him walk to the bathroom and close the door.
I turned and sat on the bed, my hands nearly shaking. For the first time tonight, doubt washed over me like a bucket of cold water. I felt incredible, my body and brain still singing with pleasure. But what happened now? Was the game over, or did we keep playing? Was I expected to leave?
We’d set no rules, no plan. Until a few minutes ago, it had been thrilling. Now I wondered if I was supposed to take my cue, get dressed, and walk out without a word.
My fantasy, of course, had never included this particular part of the scene. No one’s fantasy did—the aftermath, the decision whether or not to make eye contact, whether or not to talk, whether one or both of us was supposed to sleep, was not fantasy material. Like everyone else, I ended my fantasies at the orgasm and didn’t think any further. And now I didn’t know what to do.
In the bathroom, the water ran. He’d come out a minute from now, still dressed, and find me sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only my bra and my heels. It was going to be strange. Reluctantly, I leaned down and picked up my panties from the floor, untangling them so I could put them back on.
The bathroom door opened, and Aidan walked out. No, John. Was I still supposed to think of him as John?
The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his hair slightly disheveled. Otherwise he was dressed, as if all he had to do was slip on his tie and his jacket and go back down to the bar. His dark gaze moved over me, then dropped to my hands, which held my panties.
“What are you doing?” he asked.