Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,42
my arm. I even stopped, after pinning up my hair, with my hands resting on the back of my head, because I liked the line of how I looked, clad in all black undergarments with the startling yellow at my wrist. It could almost be a set-up for a fashion photograph. I imagined the framing, the color de-saturated everywhere but the yellow of the sapphires, which would be exaggerated.
“Definitely a sight worth admiring.” I heard Daniel’s voice, but still the image of him right behind me in the mirror startled me, and I dropped my hands with a yelp. I flushed with embarrassment, but as I started to turn, he stopped me. He was fully dressed now, handsome and perfect as usual, and the fabric of his suit pressed against my body, touching all the naked expanses of flesh. His hand splayed out across my stomach.
I studied our image in the mirror just as he did.
“Maybe dinner should wait,” he suggested, his voice in that deep tone that every inch of me recognized. Heat gathered between my legs, making me feel fuller, making me want him. He slid his hand down, over the skimpy fabric of the garter belt. I watched as he lifted the lacy edge of my panties with his index finger. I let out a little moan, as his fingers swept over sensitive skin in their search for my center. Which he then found.
“Daniel,” I whispered his name on an exhalation as I leaned against him. I reached back, clutched at his lapel. He held me firmly with his left hand while his right gave me pleasure, made me shift in his arms restlessly, wanting and needing more.
“But then,” he said softly, against my temple. “Maybe dessert should wait.”
The absence of his hand was torture and I gasped when he disengaged, stepped back.
“You’re cruel,” I accused, stalking away, to where my dress lay draped over a chair, waiting.
“I’m simply a man who knows how to savor a good wine.”
Dinner. Dessert. Wine. I didn’t care what he called our encounters. As I slipped my dress over my head, I knew I could press the point, get my pleasure and his now without much of a fight, but I also knew he was right. I lifted my hair, turned my back to him. As his fingers slid across my back, lifting the zipper, I was primed, on edge, would be all night. And he would be as well.
• • •
A blue Ferrari convertible sat waiting for us in the garage, apparently the car he preferred to drive by the beach. He backed the car out into the courtyard and glanced over at me.
“Roof down?”
“Definitely!” I rested against the leather seats, enjoying the scent and the feel of the car even as the roof slowly retracted. I watched Daniel’s hands as he turned the heater on, operated the gearshift, handled the wheel. I loved the shape of his hands—strong and male, yet with long, well-formed fingers. I knew how the touch of his skin on mine felt, the exact sensation of those fingers between my legs. The warmth of them still lingered.
The wind kissed my face, played havoc with my hair, and I shifted in my seat, simply wanting him. I slipped my hand over his, tentatively playing with the bare skin visible at his wrist. He glanced at me and then turned his attention back to the road. But he moved his hand from the gearshift to my thigh, shaping his hand to the curve of it.
I stroked the skin of his wrist in a tight little circle, playing with the sensitive underside, giving his hand the utmost attention as if it were the only part of him that existed.
Finally, I lifted his hand to my mouth, followed all my little patterns with the tip of my tongue. I glanced at him from the corners of my eyes and had the satisfaction of seeing just how I was affecting him.
He took his hand back to change gears and I studied him, wondered if I could slip my arm under his to reach his leg. But then he rested his hand on my thigh again and looked at me, as if he wanted me to keep doing exactly what I’d been doing before. But I couldn’t just do what he wanted, because that game wouldn’t be fun at all. When I brought his hand to my mouth, I bit the soft pad of skin at the tip of his finger,