52 - ROVING HANDS
Lacey
The look was back in his eyes. His lips were parted, the color up in his face, but there was nothing unsteady in him now. Whatever he'd been holding back that first night, he wasn't now.
He took both my wrists in one of his, the way he had before.
His other hand found the small of my back and drew me in and he kissed me, deep, patient, no question anywhere in it.
He held me against him like he was made of iron.
He wasn't trying to get anywhere. He already had me. He was just enjoying it.
Then he walked me back into the wall.
"Hands over your head."
He looked at me from an inch away, taking his time, and it wasn't the strung-tight look from the first night. It was leisurely. The look of a man calmly deciding where to start.
Yes, I thought. I want this.
He brought his free hand up and stroked my cheek, almost gentle, then drew it down, over my breast, my belly, and stopped.
"Open."
I spread my legs.
His hand went under my dress and pressed against me through the fabric, and the sound I made had no dignity in it. I pushed into his hand. He let me, once, then drew slowly back up to my breast, under my bra, found my nipple and twisted, just hard enough, and I gasped into his shoulder.
His mouth came to my ear, and his voice was even, not a shred of doubt in it. "Are you going to do everything I tell you? No matter what I ask."
It wasn't really a question. He already knew. He was making me hear myself say it.
"Yes," I said. "Anything."
Then he stepped back.
Six feet, all at once, and the cold poured into every place he'd been. I stood pinned to the wall by nothing at all, hands still over my head.
He settled back against the couch. "Strip for me." A beat. "Slow. Sway your hips while you do it. I want to see how much you want it."
The humiliation came up my neck on schedule. Strip for Derek Harrington, dance like a stripper in a club. Then it exploded in my mind. Yes! This is what I want!
I was awkward standing there, embarrassed, trembling, a grown woman told to dance. But I did it. I wanted to be like this for him. I started to sway, and he watched me with the ghost of a smile.
"That's it," he said. "Nice. A little more. Beg me with your hips."
I swayed for him. The color was already high in my neck and climbing.
"Lift your dress off. Slow. Let me see every inch."
I drew it up past my panties, already soaked, and I felt him see that, over my belly, over my head, and I threw it somewhere I didn't watch land. I had never wanted to be fucked so badly in my life as I did right now. I would do anything.
He came closer. Then: "Close your eyes."
I closed them, and the dark made it worse, made it everything, his hands finding me by feel, turning me, the bra coming undone. A small sound escaped me. He turned me back and drew it off, and there I was in his front room in nothing but my panties with my eyes shut, swaying.
He whispered a question. "Color?"
It took me a moment to realize what he was asking. "Green," I answered. "So green."
"Open your eyes."
He was close when I did. He leaned in and kissed me and took my breasts in both hands and held them, hard, like they were his to hold, and then stepped back again, and I understood he was going to keep doing that, giving and taking it away, all night if he wanted.
The room came back to me all at once. "Can anybody walk in?" It came out thin. "What if somebody walks in—"
"Don't stop dancing." Not even a glance at the door. "If somebody walks in, they'll see you dancing for me. You won't stop, will you?"
I opened my mouth to say something reasonable, but what came out was, "No. I won't stop."
And the fact that it was true, that I'd keep dancing, that some part of me wanted the door to open, went down through me hot and shaming, and I kept moving anyway.
He kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, unhurried about that too.
"Turn around. Hands on the wall." A beat, and the next in the same even voice, like it cost him nothing to say and he knew what it cost me to hear. "Stick that gorgeous ass out for me."
I turned. I put my hands on the wall. I did it.
I was trembling, vibrating with how badly I wanted his hands back. I had never in my life done anything so demeaning.
I felt him come up behind me. He took my hips in both hands and pulled them back, arranging me, and pulled again when it wasn't enough.
"I want you offering yourself to me." His mouth was near my ear. "Are you offering yourself to me, Lacey?"
"Yes," I whispered, trembling.
"Say it."
"Yes. I'm offering myself to you."
"I want the dirty words out of your mouth." He said it like a man in no hurry at all, like we had all night to get there. "Are you offering your ass to me?"
"I—" It stuck, and then it didn't. "Yes. I'm offering my ass to you."
God. That's the sluttiest thing I've ever said. And I'd said it standing up, sober, to Derek Harrington.
"I want to slap that gorgeous ass hard, Lacey, so you know it's mine. Tell me how that makes you feel."
It felt like electricity. I wanted to lose myself, but he didn't let me. "Yes," I said. "I want that, please." My voice quavered.
Then he slapped my right ass cheek, hard, once, and I gasped and my hips stopped.
"Keep dancing," he commanded.
I did. I moved for him with the sting still blooming, and the awful thing, that I loved the sting.
The heat of it went exactly where everything else had been going all night.
How did he know that about me? How did he know before I did?
Then another slap, the same place, and the pain blossoming.
I gasped. It really hurt. But I just swayed more.
"Color?"
I leaned down further, raised my ass more. It hurt, burned, but— "Green."
Then immediately a third, and I felt tears. I was afraid of another but I craved it. A wordless feeling suffused me. He can do whatever he wants, even if it hurts.
He drew my panties down, all the way, and I stepped out of them, and then there was nothing left between me and the room. His hand ran up the back of my legs and down, and then between them, close, close to where I was aching for it, and not there. Not quite.
"Push out, Lacey. My hand's right behind you." Enjoying it. "A little more." Teasing me.
And I did. I pushed back toward his hand, and then farther, chasing it, past anything I'd have called dignity an hour ago.
"Please."
"Good girl."
He ran his fingers down through me, slow, and the pleasure shot up so hard my knees nearly went. He rubbed and slid and I started to shake, and then one finger pushed inside, and I pushed back onto it, deep, greedy, yes, deep, everything—
And he drew it out. And stepped away.
The emptiness where he'd been was a physical thing, a hollow that clenched around nothing, and I understood he was doing it on purpose.
"Turn around."
I turned. He was watching me, calm, licking his fingers clean.
"Keep your legs open. Keep dancing."
And I did, naked in his front room, wet and shaking and already past begging, while he looked at me like a man well pleased with what he'd caught.
"Very nice," he said.
Then he took my hand again and led me up the stairs, me naked, him half-dressed, the house dark and quiet and no one's but his. Just him, seeing all of me, the whole way up, in no hurry.
His room was like the rest of him. Everything squared and lined up, the books on the shelf running down by height, one of Jessica's drawings framed on the wall. A man who kept his entire world to the millimeter, and had just spent an hour taking mine apart.
"On your knees, beautiful."
I went down. God, it felt right.
"Look up at me."
I looked up, hands on my knees, and the word came and I let it. Submissive. I loved how it tasted in my mind.
He undid his belt and drew his pants down while I watched his face, because his face was where the calm was, and the calm was what wrecked me. Then the rest of him, right there, and I licked my lips.
He smiled and stroked my hair.
"You want to suck my cock, don't you, Lacey? You want it in your mouth. You want to taste me."
I nodded. I couldn't talk.
"Tell me."
"I—" It cracked. "I want to suck your cock."
"Say please."
"I want to suck your cock. Please." And then, small and wrecked, "Please. Oh my God. Green." Before he could ask.
I loved how I sounded. Everything I'd been taught never to say, out of my own mouth, on my knees for him, and it was perfect. It was perfect.
He reached down and put his hand in my hair and pulled my head back, not rough, but inexorable, no give in it at all. With his other hand he took his cock and ran it across my lips. I put my tongue out to taste him.
"Not yet." He didn't move it away. "But I like how eager you are. Hold one hand up, fingers splayed.”
I did as he said.
“Now if you want to stop or are uncomfortable, you close that hand or drop your arm. Because you won’t be able to speak. Do you understand me?”
On my knees, ready to serve him, with my hand up. “Yes, I understand.”
Then: "Open your mouth."
I did.
"You're a good girl, aren't you?" A beat. "Tell me."
I looked up at him. "I'm a good girl."
And I felt it happen, like I was shrinking and growing at the same time, that hazy feeling of coming loose from the room, from myself. I loved it. It scared me. Both at once, and I couldn't have told you which was winning.
"Open."
I opened, and he brought the head of him to my mouth and let me have just that, let me hold it, lick it, work my lips over the tip while he watched, and made me stay there, made me want it so badly my whole body strained toward more of it. I had to open all the way, aching for it.
Then his hand tightened in my hair, and he pushed me onto him, slow, taking his time about it, until he was almost at the back of my throat, almost gagging me, and held me there.