Dirty. Megan Hart
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I swallowed, throat dry, but didn’t drink.
There was no sense in denying it, but I would have, had he said the words with a leer or even if he’d moved closer to create a sense of intimacy.
“After lunch” was all he said, and I knew in that moment I had, at last, met my match.
We spoke over our food, sipping our wine. He asked me questions about myself. He had an easy way of drawing out information, a subtle use of interest and follow-up to make it easy to give him what he wanted. He didn’t push, didn’t pressure, didn’t judge. He asked about my education, my job, my hobbies, and I answered. He didn’t speak again of what I might or might not want him to do to me. It didn’t matter.
By the end of the hour, I was so turned on, the simple act of crossing my legs made me shiver at the way my panties pulled across my clit. My nipples rose rock hard inside the satin and lace of my bra, which shielded them from poking through my shirt but stimulated them mercilessly. I was so wet my thighs slid across each other. My hands shook with wanting, and I fisted them on the table-cloth to keep him from seeing.
“Now,” he said at last, when the waiter had taken away our dishes and left the check. “You’re going to go to the ladies’ room.”
His eyes kept me locked in place; after a moment, I nodded. “Yes.”
Dan smiled. “I’m going to pay the check.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll wait for me, because that’s what you want.”
Again, I answered yes, the word nearly unintelligible from the hoarseness of my voice. I got up from the table, for a moment unsure if my legs would hold me. I steadied myself with a hand on the back of my chair. I laid my napkin on the table. I took my purse, and I went down the short hall toward the ladies’ room.
It wasn’t empty when I went in. I smiled at the woman who smiled at me, but my face must have shown some sort of strain because she gave me an odd glance and hurried through washing her hands. I washed mine, too, for something to do while I waited.
My heart hammered, the beat of it loud in my ears. I splashed water on my cheeks, my throat, the insides of my wrists. I placed my hands flat upon the sink and looked at my flushed face in the mirror.
This is the face of a woman about to get fucked, I thought, deliberately harsh to make it all seem real. He’s going to come in here and fuck you, Elle. My pulse leaped until I fancied I could see it in the hollow of my throat.
I looked into my own eyes, the pupils dilated so wide the black almost overtook the normal blue gray. What was I doing here? I watched my tongue snake across my lips, wetting them, and I imagined his tongue tasting me. I moaned involuntarily, low, embarrassed yet aroused even more that I was already so helpless with desire a mere thought could make me make a noise.
I saw him in the mirror first as he came in. He came up behind me, his eyes locked on mine in our reflections’ transposed gaze. The mole on his left cheek now on his right, my slightly higher right eyebrow arching now upon the left. His hands slid into place on my hips, his thumbs finding the twin dimples at the small of my back even through my shirt.
He said nothing. If he’d spoken, I’d have bolted. He didn’t speak. He was bold. Unfaltering. And even so, the glimpse of his face in the mirror showed that same odd mix of emotion in his eyes. Lust and admiration, with a sense of being honored.
He moved me with no hesitation to the last stall, the largest, and he locked the door behind us. Now I couldn’t see him, but he didn’t let me doubt what he wanted. He put my hands up, palms flat, against the cool ceramic tile. His hands slid beneath my skirt, over the tops of my elastic-topped stockings, then between my legs. He held me from behind, fingers curving upward to brush my clit.
I shuddered. I pressed my forehead against the wall. Closed my eyes. My thighs opened, and he spread them wider by sliding his foot between mine and pushing my right foot away from my left. His finger circled against me through the now-damp fabric of my panties.
I heard the small clatter of a metal buckle being undone, followed by the soft sigh of a button eased from its hole. The purr of a zip parting.
His fingers dipped down, then up, to slide inside my panties. He muttered a curse when his flesh met mine. He stroked a finger along my folds as though testing how slick I had become for him.
His chin pressed into my shoulder. His mouth nuzzled beneath my ear and I tilted my head to the side to allow him access to my neck.
The hand he’d used to loose himself now inched up my skirt. My fingers curled against slippery tile, finding nothing to grab. I bit back a moan when air hit my skin, the soft expanse of bare thigh and buttock exposed by my stockings and the edge of my panties. His palm caressed me, traced the curve of my ass.
I breathed in and in and in, forgetting to let the air from my lungs come out, too, until at last it hissed from between my lips in a long, shuddering sigh.
“You want this.”
His words were not a question, yet they demanded an answer.
“Yes.”
He put a finger inside me, then two, stretching me a little. He stroked me, in and out, a parody of what he would do with his cock. And I, shameless, trembled at that small touch and pushed myself against his hand to take him in as far as I could.
“My purse,” I murmured, wondering if he’d balk and preparing for this all to end if he did.
He withdrew. I sighed a protest. He laughed, the sound broken by the harsh intake of his breath.
“Give me half a minute, Elle,” he whispered into my ear.
I heard the jingle of my keys, then the crinkle of paper and sound of tearing, then a low groan as he eased on the condom. He paused, breath still hot against my neck, and a bolt of electric desire arced through me. It centered in my clit and radiated out through the rest of my body. Even my fingertips tingled. I imagined if the lights were off, I’d be glowing with it.
He pulled my panties over my hips and down past my knees, then pressed his cock against me. He nudged it along the cleft of my ass, then pushed between my thighs. His hand guided it toward my entrance, and he dipped down, then up, to push inside me.
“Fuck,” he muttered, then bit down on my shoulder as though to stifle a further outburst.
I gave a strangled cry when he filled me. It had been so long I was almost too tight, but I was so wet with arousal there was no friction. Only a delicious fullness.
He put his hands over my wrists, his front along my back, and slid my hands down on the wall until I bent more at the waist. I hadn’t thought he could move inside me any more, but that small shift in angle let him nudge my tender cervix, and I gave another low cry at the tiny spark of pain that did nothing to diminish the pleasure.
“Christ, you’re hot,” he murmured. “Like a fucking furnace…”
He began to move. Slow, smooth strokes at first, his hands anchoring my hips to keep me from moving. Then, after a few moments, faster. Harder. One hand slipped around front to press my clit in time to his thrusts.
The door to the restroom opened. Dan stopped for a moment, then kept on, pulling out and pushing inside me with excruciating slowness. His finger circled faster.
I heard voices, two chattering women who used the stalls at the far end of the room without a break in their conversation. One of them peed forever, a waterfall of piss, and a bubble of laughter leaked out of me.
My shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it inside. His breath puffed in silent glee on my neck. Stars, the result of lack of oxygen, danced in my vision and I drew in breath after shallow breath, trying not to make a sound.
I laughed, and laughing made me come, writhing against his hand and moving on his cock while he kept his movements almost stationary for silence.
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