Show me

A kiss in an elevator turns into a night of watching, touching, and finally, giving in

The night air is a shiver of cold against my skin, a welcome antidote to the feverish warmth of the restaurant. It did nothing, however, to cool the heat she ignited in me. I glance over at her, a silhouette of dangerous curves against the city lights.

“Tell me you enjoyed that as much as I did,” I say, my voice lower than I intended as I hold the car door open for her. “That pasta was a sin.”

She slides inside, in her crimson dress and those sexy red heels that make her legs look fabulous. “It was perfect. Thank you for… such a perfect evening.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” I murmur, closing her door and circling the car. Spoiling you is my new addiction, I think to myself. I want to be the sole reason for that smile. I see the compliment land, a delicate flush blooming high on her cheeks. Dena. A vision I’d been cursed with since a work event three weeks ago. She’s like a beautiful ghost haunting my every waking thought.

This is our third date. The script tonight calls for chivalry and for patience. But that script is burning in the hellfire of my imagination. That tight, crimson dress is a masterpiece of torture, hugging every curve I am dying to worship with my hands and mouth. I want to tear it from her, to unravel the elegance and find the raw, trembling truth of her beneath. Just the thought sends a jolt of pure, primal need straight to my groin, and I can feel my cock hardening against the restraint of my zipper.

During the drive, I let her choose the music, just to watch that smile again. My hand finds hers on the console between us. Her fingers don’t just lace with mine; they clutch, a silent, desperate pact. The look she shoots me is not one of gentle affection, but of shared, simmering madness.

When I pull up to her building, the air in the car is thickened with unspoken hunger. My original plan was a pure, gentlemanly kiss goodnight, but I can tell she’s flustered, as her breaths are coming in shallow little puffs. I reach out, my fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Her eyes, which look like dark pools of wanting, hold mine.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

Her question, laced with a nervous tremor, is a match thrown on gasoline. It hits me with a physical force, and I can now feel my cock swelling to a painful, undeniable hardness against my pants. I make no move to hide it. Her gaze drops and lingers, and when it finally returns to mine, her smile is one of sheer, wicked relief.

“Well,” she breaths, her voice a husky whisper. “It looks like the answer is definitely yes.”

A guttural, hungry sound is all I can manage. “Yes.”