22. Miss St John #3
With Dylan’s body flush against hers, Greta tilted her hips back. Wanting to give as good as she was getting, she slowly slid her arse along the vertical strap.
‘Fuuuck,’ Dylan breathed. It was very obvious to Greta that whatever Dylan had planned was likely to come apart due to Dylan’s weak will when it came to her.
‘Keep your—’ Dylan started, but Greta pushed again, her grind slow and insistent.
She pressed her hands into the door, finding the leverage to push back with force.
Two strong hands suddenly clamped onto Greta’s hips.
‘Keep your arse still,’ Dylan demanded, though Greta suspected that what she really wanted was to pull her dress up and fuck her against the door.
‘I’m sorry. Miss St John,’ Greta’s smugness carried on her tone, knowing all too well the allure she held for Dylan.
The heat of Dylan’s breaths landed heavily on Greta’s neck as her flat palms and outstretched fingers ran firmly down her thighs, seeking the hem of her dress.
Greta could feel Dylan’s gaze over her shoulder, watching as her chest heaved, the fabric of her dress rising and falling with each breath, every exhalation laden with want.
Agonisingly slow, Dylan slid the dress over Greta’s hips, choking back a groan as her fingers ran over Greta’s exposed naked flesh.
Pressing her forehead against the back of Greta’s head, Dylan’s desire seemed to almost consume her completely.
Dylan quietly cleared her throat. ‘Do you want me to fuck you against every wall in this room?’
‘Fuck. I do,’ Greta whined. ‘I need you inside me, Dyl—’
‘Are you wet?’ Dylan whispered into Greta’s hair, running her flat palms over Greta’s naked arse.
Greta widened her stance ever so slightly, defied the newly imposed rule and tipped her hips towards Dylan.
‘I’m fucking soaked,’ she breathed, pushing back to seek the much-needed pressure and friction of Dylan’s pelvis and hidden strap.
Much to Greta’s dismay, Dylan denied her the contact, slowly pulled down her dress and took half a step back. She leaned forward to bring her mouth to Greta’s ear and whispered, ‘You’d better clean yourself up, Doctor Vincent.’
‘What?!’ Greta choked, bereft beyond words at the loss of Dylan’s touch and violent change in direction. She dragged her hands down the door before turning to face Dylan.
‘We’ve got a table booked downstairs in fifteen minutes,’ Dylan said, unable to hide the amusement in her voice.
‘At The French? Strapped and commando? What the actual fuck, Dyl—’
‘Miss St John,’ Dylan interrupted, her sing-song voice an octave higher, a wry smile on her lips.
Shaking out a leg, Dylan pinched at the fabric in her crotch, while dipping to reposition the strap in her trousers.
‘I’ll wait here while you use the bathroom.
’ Dylan jutted her jaw toward the bathroom door. ‘Old times’ sake.’
‘I have no fucking underwear on, Dylan, I can’t—’
‘I knooow. How hot is that?’
Greta stared at Dylan with a look of pure incredulity. ‘Are you being serious?’ Unsure herself if she was angry or amused.
Dylan tongued the inside of her cheek and gave a cocked smile as she checked her watch. ‘We now have thirteen minutes, so,’ she warned, clapping twice to the words, ‘chop chop!’
Snatching her clutch from the chair, Greta made her way into the bathroom, muttering under her breath while Dylan pressed two fingers to her lips to suppress a laugh.
When Greta reemerged a few moments later, her makeup was touched up, and she was ready for revenge.
Her eyes were smoky and lined, her natural lashes long and curled, and her lips a sharp red against the dark, full waves of her hair.
‘Are you seriously going to take me out strapped?’ she asked, staring at the bulge just visible in Dylan’s trousers.
Dylan fastened her suit jacket, tugging at the hem as if that would help conceal anything. ‘Are you seriously going out like a boy? Nicholas Knickerless,’ Dylan chuckled, biting her bottom lip to stop it curling into a smile.
‘You told…’ Greta’s voice flew up an octave.
‘You know what?’ She mellowed, her defiance returning as she raised her chin.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ After spritzing each pulse point on her neck, she dropped the small perfume bottle into her bag, snapping it shut with her fingers.
Already at the door, Dylan smiled and held it open as Greta sauntered towards her.
Stopping just inches away, Greta let her gaze drift from Dylan’s eyes to her crotch, before slowly dragging it back up her body.
She leaned in until her lips hovered just above Dylan’s.
As Dylan leaned to meet her, Greta denied the kiss, canted her head, and arched a perfect brow.
‘We’ll see who caves first, Miss St John. ’
Biting her lip as Greta passed, Dylan kept her eyes trained on her. Knowing she had Dylan’s full attention, Greta’s hips swayed perhaps a little more elaborately than usual as she walked down the hotel corridor.