Dear. Lord.
This is why I said the black dress and nothing more. For this moment, when we hear the laughter of the party through a closed door. It’s good we’re in the drawing room. Running my fingers across you until I almost draw a quiet orgasm out of you is appropriate. I’ll stop just before you swear and shake. We are guests after all, and I have something in mind that doesn’t allow for you to let go.
We’ll return to the party so I can watch you walk the floor. Engaging in polite conversation, knowing you aren’t listening. Knowing the longer you are made to wait the deeper that ache gets, until the shortness of that dress becomes a liability. Part of me would love for them to see what I’ve created with my fingers. For them to see your secret slowly wind down your legs, past the hem. But that’s for me.
I’ll leave the ghost of my hand echoing beneath the dress, knowing how furiously your cunt is betraying you. Knowing you can’t stop looking at my fingers around the tumbler of scotch I’m holding. Knowing you can still feel them against you. Knowing that standing here with all these people, on fire and nearly dripping in a short black dress, has your heart pounding. Knowing each beat of it is felt deepest between your legs. Knowing each pound is filling your body and pushing your secret closer to discovery. Knowing the thought of being exposed this way has just broken a wall in you, sending rivulets down your thigh to merge into one thick bead just below the edge of the fabric.
I’ll let it and you hang there.
Then we’ll take our leave, with polite goodbyes. As you walk with me to the door, that bead will break and run down your leg. You will want to run to the car, to match the pace of it. Once we are inside, you can hike that dress to show me the paint you made for me to work with. I’ll bring it slowly back to the source while you tell me how that bead was your undoing. How easily it cracked a wall you so carefully built, but never really wanted.
I’ll tell you how I saw it break you. How it made me smile to watch you undo yourself. How I can feel everything that was behind the wall, pent up, waiting to be released. How I’m fighting my own nature to take it with a stray brush of my fingertip against the center of your ache. How I simply won’t let that happen. How we will drive and I will slowly push your lust everywhere but the center of your ache, and watch as more pours from you. How this maddening act will make me swell and you writhe, pleading in a quiet voice for me to pull over and fuck you. How I’ll drive on, taking pleasure in watching you plead after hiding this for so long. How watching you will make my cock so thick it hurts. How I’ll hold this thick ache from you until we’re somewhere deserving of everything you had behind that wall. How I think I could breathe on you and watch you break. How you will break on this thick ache the instant it starts to split you. How I’ll bury it in one furious stroke and watch your breath leave you. How both you and this gorgeous pouring cunt will sob when I do. How cruel these last four miles will be.