18. Ethan #2
Yesss. I get his collar open and begin to work my way down, keeping my eyes fixed on his face.
Kingsley is a suitable name for him. He looks positively majestic as he stands here, in the middle of a penthouse within one of the crown jewels of his hotel empire.
In his impeccable white shirt and habitual slate-grey trousers, Ethan Kingsley is a king among men.
And while he’s self-assured and arrogant in many ways, I somehow doubt he fully understands his own worth.
There’s no trace of smugness on his face as I undress him.
Only intensity. He’s practically vibrating with it.
A fine dusting of brown chest hair comes into view as I work on his shirt.
He has beautiful skin—far fairer than yours truly, obviously, but still tinged with his summer tan.
I tug hard, releasing his shirt tails, and make quick work of the remaining buttons so that the shirt is hanging loose, framing the lean body I knew was under there: the perfectly toned pecs and flat stomach of a man who sees his body as just another kingdom to conquer.
The sight of that trail of hair disappearing into his trousers honestly makes me feel a little light-headed.
Ethan briskly opens his cufflinks and gets his shirt off, balling it up and chucking it on the ground.
I take him in. Such lovely broad shoulders.
Such perfect posture. His hair is falling over his eyes—a result of my handiwork while we were kissing.
His grey eyes are almost all pupil now, and they’re still fixed on me as he wages some kind of internal war, presumably with his self-control.
The man is fine, fine, fine. He’s definitely my reward for years of putting up with a wrinkled sexagenarian and his moobs.
‘Undo my trousers,’ he tells me, and it sounds like a dare.
I am not a girl to ever turn down a sexy dare.
With a couple of moves, I have his belt open and I’m tugging his trousers down carefully over his monster erection. God, I hope he hits me really, really hard with his great big rhythm stick.
He bends to remove his shoes and socks, kicking off his trousers impatiently as he does.
When he straightens up, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, and my breath catches.
Holy hell. We eye-fuck each other with all we have before he takes a step forward and reaches around me, unhooking my bra.
It falls down my arms, the lace snagging against my rock-hard nipples as it goes.
I thought we’d come in here and tear each other’s clothes off in ten seconds flat, but Ethan’s brand of delayed gratification has its upsides; it really does.
Because I am gagging for it. He hooks his thumbs into the sides of my red lace thong, which, because I’m a pro, is obviously sitting outside of my suspender belt.
Squatting, he slides it down my legs with an icy focus that makes me shiver, his face level with my pussy.
He hasn’t gone down on me yet, a fact I’m far too aware of.
When I was texting with Talia this week about how I was getting on, I asked her about it, and she said he was excellent at it.
That information was both reassuring and unhelpful.
I really hope he feels like indulging today because I need Ethan Kingsley’s face between my legs, like, yesterday.
I step out of my thong, and he stands. Even with my heels still on, he’s towering above me.
‘Get mine off.’
I smile at him and lick my lips. Yes sir.
He surveys me with interest. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’ He’s not goading me. If anything, his tone is interested. Curious.
‘I really, really want this.’ I get his waistband over his cock and it springs out. At least one part of his body knows how to express exuberance.
As soon as we get his boxers off, he crushes me to him, the full length of him pressed against me and his dick jerking between us, as he kisses me with a ferocity, a hunger, I haven’t seen in him until now.
Our hands are everywhere, and my head is spinning.
Yeah, we’ve fucked before, but I cannot express how incredible having head-to-toe skin on skin with him is.
The guy may give every appearance of being cold, but his skin is smooth and warm. So bloody warm.
I grab his arse and pull him closer so I can grind against him, and his dick responds by painting damp spots on my stomach.
Now that he’s naked, his gym regimen is all too clear.
He’s beautiful. Beautiful. Strong and lean and supple.
He has the build of a natural athlete. I could compose a sonnet to the glutes contracting under my hand.
Why is standing-up, naked, full-body groping so incredibly excellent?
Before I can answer my own question, he unglues himself from me with a ragged groan and jerks his head towards the open double doors to my left.
‘Through there. I want you on that bed. We’re doing this my way.’
He bends to pick his tie off the floor and procures a strip of condoms from his trouser pocket before he straightens and snags my hand.
His gigantic boner leads our way like a jaunty lightsabre through the expanse of plush white carpet and platinum-coloured silk walls and sculptural light fittings to a bedroom that’s kitted out in more of the same.
If I was less horny I’d be fawning over the gorgeousness of the art and the quality of the fixtures, because this place is to die for.
As it is, my only interest is getting on that massive white bed and spreading my legs as quickly as I can.
‘Up,’ Ethan commands. ‘Heels off. Stockings stay on.’ Nobody should be this comfortable barking orders when they’re stark, bollock naked, but I love it.
I kick my shoes off, getting one knee up on the high bed and then the other, and I crawl across its snowy expanse in only my stockings and suspender belt.
I’m not above trying every trick in the book to get this guy to home in on my poor, needy pussy.
‘Fucking hell,’ he mutters, and I smirk to myself.
It’s only then that I flip over and spread myself out for him like a banquet.
Let him have at me. And may we both survive this.