26. Georgia

TWENTY-SIX

Georgia

I imagined us falling into one another’s arms as soon as we climbed into the Uber, but that’s not what’s happening at all.

Our driver blasts the music, maybe sensing that things could get out of hand, but instead, we sit as far as possible from one another, on opposite sides of the back seat, silent. The only way I can tell he’s affected is by the clenching of his jaw, the muscles on the side of his face tensing. His hand twitches in a fist by his side.

Finally, he breaks our silence. “This is a terrible idea,” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear above the music.

“Actually, I think this is a fantastic idea,” I tell him.

“—not mutually exclusive,” I think I hear him mutter.

I’m already sick of talking about this.

“I think for this to happen, we need to set some ground rules,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes. “You want me to make a rubric for our performances?”

He ignores me. “This happens once. Tonight. We get it out of our systems. We don’t continue, catch feelings?— ”

“To be clear, I still think you’re annoying as hell?—”

“—we obviously can’t tell anyone about this. No sign that this happened at work. No looking, no touching, no anything at school.”

“So I’m not blowing you under your desk, got it.”

He gazes at my mouth then, eyes molten. I send a blessing up to Rihanna and her Fenty line of lipstick. “As much as I’ve dreamed of that, no.”

I chuckle. “As sick and twisted as I may be, Oliver, I wouldn’t do anything when there are children running around a few feet outside the door of your office. That’s where I draw the line.”

He hasn’t stopped looking at me. “Where else do you draw the line, then, Georgia?”

“Is this the part where we talk about boundaries and safe words?”

“I can be… a bit much,” he says, glancing all over my body. I shiver, imagining his mouth all over it. “I need a certain amount of… control. I’ll need some very clear boundaries from your body before I use it.”

My breasts feel heavy, tips hard, over his choice of words. He notices. “Does that make you wet, Georgia?” he murmurs, reaching over to run his fingers over the outline of my nipple, as if it belongs to him. “The idea of me using your body? Teaching that smart mouth a lesson?”

I whimper. “I… like that. I like the idea of you being in control. Punishing me. I’ve thought about it every day since this weekend.”

Oliver’s entire body is now twisted towards me, eyes zeroing in on my chest, watching his hand play with my breasts, plucking and tweaking and massaging. It feels as if they are connected directly to my clit, nerve endings alive in my jeans.

I squirm in my seat to give myself some relief, then remember that we are in the middle of a conversation. “No pain, or anything, no severe pain, but I—oh—” I say, rambling, when he pinches my nipple and twists it. “Well, maybe a little—I guess—I like that, more, again.” I can’t think; I’m all feeling, no coherence.

I slap his hand away, needing a second to concentrate. I look him dead in the eyes. “Let’s just communicate throughout this. Just promise to listen to me if I say to stop or slow down.”

He nods once.

“Otherwise, it’s your body, now,” I tell him. “Use it as you’d like.”

Oliver slams the front door of my apartment shut the moment we’re through. He advances towards me, a lion stalking its prey with his golden feline eyes. “Is Eloise home?” he asks me.

My mouth is dry when I answer. “No… she’s on vacation. In Europe, for a month.”

He smiles then, sinister, moving forward to wrap his hand around the back of my neck and pulling my face towards his.

Now this , this is more of what I was expecting. Our mouths collide, finally, finally , and it’s electric, hungry, open-mouthed, and borderline sloppy, at odds with his self-reported control. He devours me, demanding. His tongue expertly explores the inside of my mouth, claiming every inch as his. I meet him stroke for stroke, the feeling of our tongues tangling together, sending sparks throughout my entire body. More, more, more.

He growls deep in his throat, and bites my bottom lip, reading my mind. I feel both of his hands wrap around my ass, lewdly squeezing and spreading my cheeks, and suddenly I am airborne. He lifts me, turns us, and slams me against the front door, our mouths never leaving one another.

He wedges his hardness, an impressively sized one, from what I gathered back at Tim’s, into where I need most, grinding and hitting the perfect spot. He pins me to the door with his hips so he can use his hands.

He winds one hand through my hair, close to the scalp, yanking my head to the side so he can have access to my throat. “I’ve dreamed of seeing this fucking hair wrapped between my fingers,” he tells me, licking one long stripe up my throat, from bottom to top, before nipping and kissing the sensitive spot underneath my ear. My eyes roll to the back of my head.

Not stopping his rhythmic grinding, he uses his other hand to wrench my sweater down my shoulder, ripping the front part of the ‘v’, so that he can pull my breast out, thumb brushing over the oversensitive tip. It hangs over the front of the sweater lewdly, and he looks in awe. I preen under the weight of his gaze, my tits my favorite part of my body.

“Touch me, Oliver; please, I need your hands on me?—”

Coming to himself, then, he makes sure both my feet make it to the floor safely before stepping back. I whine, suddenly bereft and ready to beg.

“Take it off,” he commands, and I pull my arms out, rip it over my head, and throw it on the floor.

He stares and stares. “I fucking knew it,” he says, mostly to himself. He meets my eyes. “Touch them. Push them together.”

My body is on autopilot, incapable of coherent thought, blindly following his orders. I take them in both hands, massaging, making sure my nipples are visible between my fingertips, feeling good, but not enough.

Growling, he steps forward again and slaps my hands away, replacing them with his own. I moan, closing my eyes, incoherent at the feeling of his rough, calloused hands against the softness of my tits. He alternates between soft and hard, tenderly kneading, then pinching, twisting the tips until, groaning, he bends down to wrap his lips around the end.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I’m chanting, as he holds my left breast, squeezing lightly with his hands and sucking and licking the tip with his hot, wet, heavenly mouth. He uses the thumb of his other hand to make tight circles around my other nipple. The feeling is indescribable, as he switches to bite on the other side.

“These tits, Georgia,” he groans, in between licks. “I’ll be fucking these later,” he says, pushing them together and admiring the sight. He slaps one, a quick tap, more noise than force, and my eyes cross, the sharp feeling directly connected to my clit. “Is that okay?” he asks, quietly.

I nod.

He smirks, and I watch his beautiful mouth close around a nipple again. I see his hands working the button and zipper of my jeans open while he sucks. He manages, with one hand, to get my jeans and my underwear halfway down my thighs, then seems to get distracted and stops, my legs pinned in place. He reaches around, mouth still working my boobs, and squeezes the bare skin of my ass obscenely.

“You’re beautiful,” Oliver tells me, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I congratulate myself for getting a wax over the weekend. He slides his hand down my front, in between my thighs, and I almost fall over. “Christ,” he mutters, “you’re fucking dripping,” and I can feel it, feel that I am, as he gathers my slickness and moves it towards my clit, circling. “Is this all for me, angel?” he asks. The rough pads of his fingers rub me from front to back, back to front, stopping to circle my clit each time.

He reattaches his mouth to my nipple, biting and sucking, while his hand finds a perfect rhythm. I’m so close, embarrassingly so, after edging myself for hours at this point, whining and moaning and grinding down on his hand. He dips a thick finger in, one, then two, then pumps in and out while maintaining a rhythm on my clit with his thumb. “So fucking tight.” He groans. “You’re soaking, princess.” He lets me ride his palm now, two fingers still inside me. “Are you about to come all over my hand? That’s it. Right there. Give it to me, gorgeous,” he mutters in my ear. He wraps his mouth around my breast and takes one last hard pull.

An explosion of brightness behind my eyes, fireworks that start from my center, and I’m coming like a freight train, warmth and tingles radiating outwards towards the tips of my fingers and toes. I’m rambling, half crying, making unintelligible noises, as Oliver lets me ride out the aftershocks on his hand. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful when you come.”

I open my eyes to see honey whiskey eyes gazing down at me, warm, open, honest. I laugh, a sharp one. “Unbelievable,” I tell him. “Five out of five.” I feel like melted ice cream. I tell him so. He chuckles and kisses me, once, softly on the lips. Then again, deeper, hungrier.

Oliver steps bank and yanks my underwear and pants down to my ankles, taking one foot and slipping it out of the contraption. He kneels, takes my leg and rests it on his shoulder. He gazes at my core with something like wonder in his eyes. “I need a taste,” is all he gives me, before he dives right into my pussy, starting with one long lick up the center.

I’m still incredibly sensitive from my orgasm not moments ago, so I’m squirming, half-screaming as he circles and nips. He takes the fingers of one hand and uses it to spread my lips, exposing the hood of my clit. Licks up one side, circles, licks down the other. He works me perfectly, expertly, as if he knows my body, reading my cues at the beginning and doing it over and over and over. “Give me another, Georgia,” he murmurs, as he slides his fingers in, two at a time, shallow, rubbing in the spot he discovered earlier and lapping at my clit with a stiff tongue.

This one hits quickly, out of nowhere, sharp, yet not as all-consuming as the first. “Holy fuck,” I groan, grinding on his face like a lunatic. “The fuck, Oliver?!”

Oliver pulls away, then, a smirk on his beautiful lips, now wet with my release. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, that motion in itself getting me hot for round three.

He stands, looming over me, nipping at my lips once more. He backs up towards the couch and sits down, still fully dressed in his suit. He loosens his tie.

I watch him like a hawk, unsteady on my feet.

He leans back and spreads his legs, spreads his arms along the back of the red velvet couch, owning it and claiming it as his own personal Porn Couch. I’ve never been so aroused just watching someone.

He cuts his eyes to my bag laying on the ground. “Put on more lipstick,” he orders, in that gravelly voice, hoarser than usual. Then he dips his head once, gesturing down at his crotch straining behind the zipper of his pants, and commands, “Then take it out.”