“You had a dress like that,” he says, smoothing his palm over the dummy’s stomach. “Several, actually.”
I remember each one. I remember on which occasions I wore them. I remember which ones he took off and the ones I took off for him.
He traces the mannequin’s stomach, dragging his nails over the plastic. “A navel would be nice too.”
My stomach tightens with tingles.
“There’s a certain way a dress falls over a woman’s hips. There’s a dip to her waist and a curve just here.” He caresses the doll where her navel should be. “The small valley of a navel is very sensual under the right fabric.”
My words dry up when he slides his hand down between the doll’s legs. My body answers, my folds swelling in need.
“Here,” he says, stroking the center of her legs with his thumb, “should be a line and a triangle of hair. The shape should be visible under bikini bottoms. It’s a beautiful part of your female anatomy that’s always turned me on.”
My pulse jumps. My breath comes quicker.
Holding my eyes, he cups a breast and the juncture of her legs while brushing his lips over her shoulder and along the curve of her neck. “Then again, nothing beats the real thing, does it? I suppose it doesn’t matter that they don’t look like a woman. Maybe that’s not the point.”
“It’s not,” I say in a hoarse voice.
They’re only supposed to showcase clothes, not to be an instrument of seduction at the bruised and skillful hands of a dangerous man.
His gray eyes are alight with knowledge. He knows me too well. He knows I’m a shivering mass of need.
When he says, “Come here,” I don’t argue. I get to my feet and meet him halfway. It’s the only way I can do this, if we both take the first step.
He drags his gaze over my halter neck dress, pausing on my breasts. “Turn around.”
I turn, facing the kitchen and holding my breath. He pulls the ends of the ribbons that fasten behind my neck. The bodice falls open, revealing my breasts. I gasp when he slips a hand around my body to test one’s weight. His thumb mimics the action he practiced earlier on the doll, and my body bows at its reward. My nipple extends when he rolls it between two fingers. My breasts turn heavier when he squeezes.
The warmth of his palm disappears. The zipper on the side of the dress makes a lazy sound as he takes his time to pull it down. The fabric slips over my hips and pools around my feet. His hands are calloused on my hips just like I imagined. His lips are warm and soft as he drags them over my shoulder. I shiver when he kisses my neck. He smells of cloves and citrus, of skill and experience.
Gently, he turns me around. I stare up at the unforgiving lines of his face as he takes off the waistcoat and unbuttons his shirt. He holds my gaze as he unbuckles his belt. When he sits down in the baroque armchair, I follow and stop between his spread legs. He unzips his pants and takes out his cock, all the while watching my face. He only breaks our eye contact when I step out of my underwear. Fixing his gaze on my naked body, he strokes himself twice.
“Get on my lap,” he says.
The command is dominant and easy to obey. He’s taught me well to follow his orders. I straddle him without bothering to take off my shoes. I rest one palm on the unscarred part of his chest and the other on the damaged part that’s hidden underneath the shirt.
He clamps his hands around my middle and lifts me over his erection. It’s so easy, this dance. He knows what he’s doing. He’s taking without making excuses, making it easy for me to follow. There’s no guilt or questions, no wondering why we’re doing what we’re doing. We’re simply doing. I sigh as the head of his cock parts my folds. He lowers me slowly, taking care of my comfort. I don’t mind it rough, and he knows, but today he wants to give me tender. I close my eyes and lean my head on his shoulder. His lips are warm on my neck. He kisses a path to my jaw, each kiss marking another inch that he slides deeper.
When he’s fully sheathed, he grabs my face in one hand and lifts my chin to meet my lips. His hold is rough, but the kiss is soft. I moan when he rolls his hips at the same time as he nips my bottom lip. My hands explore his body under his open shirt, tracing the flat disks of his nipples and the rough edges of his scars. It’s a familiar landscape, the only one I know. Maybe the only one I’ll ever know. The thought both pleases and scares me. Is a lifetime of only sex enough?
The thought fizzles out when he lifts me a little and moves his hips. It’s been so long since he touched me or that I touched myself in the shower, my orgasm builds quickly. I lean back to take him deeper. Always reading my body, he cups my breasts and gives me the pace I need. I’m coming before he’s even close to his release. It’s instantaneous and gratifying. My skin is sensitive. I gasp when he presses a thumb on my clit and massages in a circle. It makes me want to come again.
He leans back and lets me take over, allowing me to set the rhythm. His jaw bunches when I slide up and down over his length. I’m ruining his pants, getting my
