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After one more sip, I set my drink on the sleek table.
I stand, I look Jackson in the eyes, and I unzip my dress.
This time, I don't remove it slowly. I let the fabric fall to the ground. I push my beige panties off my hips.
I stand in front of him, naked except for my heels, on display to anyone who happens to walk by, and I wait.
He looks me up and down slowly, savoring the sight. There's patience in his gaze.
He's ready to wait a long, long time.
I'm not.
I pull the condoms from my purse and toss them on the bench.
He follows the movement, notes the rubbers, returns to staring with infinite patience.
I move closer.
Closer.
Close enough, he curls his hand around my hips.
He looks up at me as he draws a slow line right to my clit. He teases me with a soft stroke.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a firmer pressure. More of his hand. More of him.
It's been too long since someone else has touched me. It feels too good. I nearly come on the spot.
I have to close my eyes to contain my desire.
"I want to come on your cock." The words fall off my lips without passing through my brain. Maybe I am drunk. Or at least tipsy. I'm not usually this free of inhibitions. Or maybe it's the way I feel with him. The trust I feel with him.
"Are you warmed up?" he asks.
"Almost."
He curls his hand into my hip as he slips a finger inside me. He pushes deep enough to stretch me.
The pressure is intense—it's been too long—but the sensation fades to pleasure.
He adds another finger, stretching me wider. Again, it's too much for a moment, then it's just right.
He teases me with a few thrusts of his fingers.
Slowly, my body relaxes around his digits.
Enough to take him.
Fuck, I want to take him.
"Fuck me," I breathe.
