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He grunts when I move toward the bottom, freeing his shirt from its tucked position and finishing the buttons. I reach myhands in, much like I did to his suit jacket a moment ago, but I let my cool hands wander along the planes of his warm skin.
He’s toned, firm, and hard everywhere, and I push his shirt off. I allow myself a moment to run my fingertips along the marble ridges that make up his abdomen.
He’s a professional athlete, and the hard cuts of muscle on his body showcase the amount of work he puts in.
“God, is this cut from granite?” I ask.
“Steel,” he jokes.
I move in closer to him until I feel his erection against my body. Speaking of steel…
He shifts his hips. “You’ve seen what’s beneath the paisley. Time for me to see what’s beneath the leaves.”
Instead of waiting for my reply, his hand circles my throat, and it’s the first time I realize I’m up in a man’s hotel room, and nobody knows where I am.
He might play for my dad’s team, but he’s still a virtual stranger.
I only know about him what the media has portrayed, and that’s not much to go on.
I should be scared.
But even though his hand is on my throat and he holds all the control in his hands, I’m not.
There’s something in his eyes when they fall on mine that tells me even though he has the reputation he does, he’s still a good guy.
He keeps his hand on my throat as he backs me up toward the window, and he holds me there once my back is up against it, his hand never leaving my throat as his other hand moves up to grab one of my tits. He’s rough with me, and it’s hot.
I’m trapped, and I want him to use me however he wants to.
His mouth collides down to mine, and he finally moves his hand off my throat as he uses it to slide down my torso andaround to my ass, which he squeezes firmly. I bring my hands up to lace them around his waist, and he moves so quickly I barely even realize what’s happening.
He spins me so I’m facing the view out the window, and he grabs both my wrists in one of his, holding them there behind my back. He reaches around the front of me and pulls the top of my dress down so my tits spill out over the top of it, and he pushes me against the window so the cool glass meets my nipples.
“Show those pretty tits to everyone on the Strip,” he mutters close to my ear. “Show them what’s fucking mine tonight.” His mouth presses to my neck, and the hand that’s not still binding my wrists moves down, skating over my hip toward the bottom of my dress.
He bends down and pulls the material at the bottom of the dress up until it’s at the height he’s satisfied with, and then he yanks my hands to the side as he bumps his cock against my ass with a grunt. At the same time, he slips his fingers down the top of the barely there, nude-colored thong I chose to go with my dress tonight, and he feels the soft, bare mound of my pussy. He moans, then slides his finger between my folds, his breath close to my ear as he feels how wet I am.
“Fuck, that’s a dripping wet pussy,” he moans.
I grind down on his hand, desperate for relief, desperate for him to slip past the folds and push his finger inside, desperate for friction against my clit, but he keeps teasing me as my tits remain pressed against the window for anyone walking down below to see us.
The chances are slim that we’d actually be spotted. We’re way up on the top floor, and the windows are tinted. But still, the exhibitionism of it all is something I didn’t know I needed.
It makes me want to find places where he can fuck me, and nobody would ever know.
It makes me want to continue seeing him after this, after I confess to him that I’m his new coach’s daughter, but in secret since nobody can ever know.
It makes tonight an illicit secret that I want to keep repeating.
He continues teasing me, my hands still bound behind me as his fingers move everywhere except where I need them to be, his cock slamming against my ass as he tries to find some relief, too, and when I feel like I might combust if he doesn’t finger me, I start to beg. “Please, Asher,” I whine as I don’t even recognize my own voice.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice low and gritty.
“Finger me,” I beg.
“Now ask nicely. Say it all together,” he demands.
I tug on my wrists, trying to surprise him enough to let go, but he doesn’t budge. I move my hands as I try to feel around for him, and he sees what I’m doing. He shifts my hands so they’re straight behind me and right where he was thrusting toward me, and he stops to rub his cock on my open palms.
