CHAPTER 6 – A SECRET RENDEZVOUS #2
That does it. I yank her panties aside and sink two fingers inside, curling them until she bucks against my hand. Her head falls back, golden hair spilling over her shoulders as she moans, her eyes drifting shut.
“Oh yes, Daddy. Oh yes yes yes, that feels so good. Don’t tease me.”
I laugh, low and dangerous, while twisting my fingers in her squelching cunt. “You don’t know what teasing is, sweetheart.”
She gasps as I finger her, slow at first, then faster, matching the way her hips buck and grind against my palm. I thumb her clit, and she nearly bites through her own lip to keep from screaming, as I begin to shake my fingers in her pussy, hot juices pouring over my wrist.
But Eliza wants to touch me too, and she reaches down, fumbling with the button on my jeans, finally working me free.
My cock springs up, angry and red, and she wraps her hand around the massive length, pumping slow and sensual.
There’s so much pre-come that within seconds, the entire rod is lubed and wet.
“Fuck,” I groan, letting her work me for a second. Then I grab her wrist, pin it above her head, and push into her tiny twat in one smooth thrust.
“Ooooh!” she cries out, the sound echoing off the museum walls. “Mmm, yes Daddy, yes! Oooh, that feels good!”
I fuck the young woman hard and fast, her channel so wet that obscene sucking sounds ring out in the museum. Her pussy grips me, slick and greedy, and I lose track of the world outside the radius of her body.
“Fuck,” I grunt. “Baby, you’re so tight.”
“Yes, use my pussy,” she moans. “It’s yours to make yourself feel good, Daddy. Trash it.”
We go like that for what feels like forever—me slamming into her, her whispering filthy encouragements in my ear. “Harder, Jack. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop, Daddy. Mmm, I want it!”
Her words drive me to the edge, and Eliza knows it. She digs her nails into my back, thighs trembling and then lets out a wail when I hit that special spot inside.
“Oooh, Daddy yes! More!”
I clamp a hand over her mouth. “Quiet, unless you want to get caught by the security guard.”
She licks my palm, moans against it, and then I feel her coming apart, the tremors starting in her core and rippling out.
Her back arches as she wails again, the violent spasms of her cunt driving me to my own completion.
I thrust a few more times and then let go, filling her with gallons of salty, virile cream.
“Fuuuuck!” is my shout. “Shit shit shit!”
Eliza clasps my shoulders as shudders run through her curvy form. She bounces a few more times on my thickness, her big breasts swaying and I almost lose it again. Holy fuck, the young girl’s sexy as she pants and moans, her climax incredibly beautiful to behold.
But all good things must come to an end, and soon, the ecstasy subsides a bit. We stay locked together for a minute, my dick crammed up tight in her sweetness, both of us breathing hard. I rest my forehead against hers, the air between us thick with desire and satisfaction.
After a minute, Eliza slides off, straightens her dress, and kisses me again, softer this time.
“Thanks for the tour, Commander,” she says in a naughty tone. “I really enjoyed it.”
I laugh, tuck myself back in, and wonder how the hell I’ve lost control. I just claimed my date in an empty museum, but there are guards on 24/7 duty. We could have been caught, so what the fuck am I thinking?
But it’s only too obvious what I’m thinking because Eliza reaches down then, pulling the hem of her skirt up. Sure enough, there’s virile cream leaking from her just-fucked vag, and she dabbles one finger in the liquid before lifting it to her lips for a naughty lick.
“Mmm,” she coos while smirking at me. “You taste good.”
Holy fuck, did the young woman just do that?
But sure enough, Eliza’s already turned and walking towards the exit.
I stagger in her wake, shoes squeaking on polished concrete, and see an elderly security guard watching from the shadows near the main exhibit.
He shakes his head, and then looks away and pretends not to see anything.
Meanwhile, my girl remains unperturbed. “That was fun,” Eliza quips, grabbing my hand .
I look at the young woman, really look, and for the first time in years, I feel light. My heart feels like a feather, and my entire being feels like it could float away.
“It was fun,” I rasp, tucking a stray piece of golden hair behind her ear. “But you’re a bad girl, you know that?”
“I know. But where to next?” she asks.
I grin. “I’ve got a place.”
We step into the night, and as the moon shines on our forms, something new coalesces in my heart. I don’t know what it is yet … but only this particular young woman can make me feel this way.
La Rosette doesn’t have a sign; it just has a door.
Heavy oak, polished to a spit-shine, with a brass handle that’s cold and heavy as a sidearm.
Inside, it’s low light and old school accents—vinyl banquettes, actual candles, the kind of cutlery you could rob a bank with.
I know the owner, Serge, from the old days: Air Force food procurement in Guam, a pair of black-market caviar scams, and more than a few all-nighters that ended in police stations.
He’s portly now, bald as a missile, but his smile is the same: big, predatory, and full of secrets.
“Jack!” he shouts, arms wide, and then lowers his voice when he sees Eliza.
“And mademoiselle, what a pleasure.” He gives her a once-over and nods approvingly.
“You have my best table. No one will bother you.” He escorts us through the restaurant’s main room, past the glitterati of St. Cloud—if such a thing exists—and into a nook screened off by tall planters and a half-wall of vintage Champagne crates.
It’s almost a booth, but not quite, forcing us to sit on the same side or risk brushing knees every time we move.
We decide to occupy the same side, and Eliza slides in first, smoothing her dress around her knees, blonde hair a golden wave on her shoulder.
I take my spot next to her, close enough that our thighs touch, and within seconds, Serge is back with a bottle of red and a basket of bread still steaming from the oven.
“You want to start with the house favorite?” he asks, already uncorking.
I nod. “And bring whatever you think the lady will like for dessert. The best.”
He winks and is gone, leaving us with a bottle, two glasses, and the velvet hum of other people’s lives just out of sight.
Eliza pours herself a glass, swirls, sniffs, and takes a long, slow sip. The wine leaves a stain on her lips, dark and glossy. “This is amazing, Jack. And the museum was incredible too. You really know how to impress a girl.”
I raise my glass. “You’re the one who’s amazing, sweetheart. But I’m glad you enjoy it because I do my best.”
The pretty blonde leans in, voice low. “But is this what you do on all your dates? Private museums, fancy dinners?”
I shrug a little and grin. “Only for the good girls who deserve it.”
She bites her lower lip, and it’s either the wine or the lighting, but her pretty pout is so swollen that I have half a mind to whisk her out of the restaurant before devouring her in my car.
But that would be incredibly caveman-like and so we talk.
And by talk, I mean we truly communicate, layer by layer.
She asks about my last deployment; I tell her the PG version, then the real one, just for her.
I ask about her job, and she admits she hates being a paralegal, despite being incredible at her job.
“Then why do you do it?” I ask, brushing her knuckles with my thumb.
She shrugs. “It’s all about leverage. I need the references if I apply to law school. I need the experience on my resume. Otherwise I’m just another girl with a psych degree and nothing to show for it.”
I shake my head, eyes serious. “You’re not ‘just another’ anything.”
Eliza sips her wine, eyes downcast. “You don’t know that.”
I lean in, so close our noses almost touch. “I do, sweetheart. I’ve seen a lot in the world, and you’re someone special. Exquisite. Delicate, yet strong. Sweet, yet with a backbone of steel. You’re amazing, Eliza.”
There’s a moment, then, where neither of us moves, and the air between us is thick with feeling.
The tension isn’t new—hell, it’s always been there, but this time it’s different.
It’s not just about the physical because I connect mentally with Eliza too.
We understand each other, and the intimacy between us has grown.
At that moment, Serge appears with food: steak for me, duck for her, potatoes for both. He pours more wine, cracks a dirty joke in French, and vanishes again.
Eliza slices her duck, spearing a perfect bite, and smiles. “How’s your steak, Commander?”
I chew, swallow. “Perfect. How’s your bird?”
She licks her mouth, making her lips glossy, and smiles coquettishly again. “Delicious.”
She’s doing it on purpose, the little minx.
Every time she raises her glass, she makes sure her fingers brush mine.
Every time she leans in to whisper something, a big breast grazes my arm.
By the time dessert arrives—a triple chocolate mousse—it’s a miracle I haven’t just thrown cash on the table and hustled her in the coatroom.
Eliza dips her spoon in the mousse, then holds it up, glossy and sweet, right in front of my mouth.
“Taste?” she purrs.
I close my lips around the spoon, suck the chocolate off, and lick it clean. Two can play at this game. Her eyes go wide. For a second, the whole world narrows to her breath, her flushed cheeks, the brightness of her eyes as she watches my mouth.
I take the spoon, load it again, and feed her this time, holding it steady as she parts her lips and takes it in. She drags her tongue along the edge, slow and sensual.
“Good?” I ask.
She nods. “Better than good.”
A few feet away, someone laughs too loud. Silverware clatters. The restaurant is alive, but our alcove is its own reality, pulsing and tense.