[This is erotic fiction meant for mature readers only. Part 1 is here.]
“Unzip me,” he says.
Grace nods slightly. She walks to him, stopping a few inches away. His face looks more handsome closer up, like back when they were dancing in the ballroom before they made their way through a couple of hallways to this study, a room full of books standing close together on built-in bookshelves, along with a fireplace, side bar, and leather chairs.
Her hands touch the front of his trousers. She inhales a little, a sharp intake of breath as she feels his hard cock through the thin fabric. Her fingertips part the fold of his fly and find the zipper’s tab. Just as they had done with her dress. But when her fingers unzip him, his trousers open in an oval, not a V like her dress had done. Fighting the urge to reach into that oval, she forces her fingers to retreat, her hands now at her sides.
Rodrick seems pleased about her control. He’s a man who would admire that. He looks down at her, his height being a few inches more than hers. She simply looks back, controlling her breathing to make it steady. She enjoys the look of his very expensive-looking suit, a classic black jacket over a crisp white shirt, with a very dark gray tie having a barely detectable design in black—a design of diagonal lines that are connected in a pattern. Also, she enjoys the aroma of him, a deep masculine spice. She can’t place the name of the cologne, but that does not matter.
“Pull my cock out,” he says.
Again, Grace fights the urge that leaps inside her. She forces her hands to be patient, and slowly she reaches into the open fly of his trousers, touching the hard, warm flesh, and she takes another sharp intake of breath through her nose. Carefully, she eases his erection up, guiding the head of it from its restrained position to spring forth through the opening of his fly. Her shoulders shudder just a little bit, a tiny movement that escapes her firm control over her body. She curses mentally, knowing that he saw it. But his face does not show any disappointment. His face is calm, steady.
“Touch yourself while you hold my cock,” he says.
Her left hand slides to between her legs as her right hand gently grips his hard cock as if she were shaking hands with it. Her fingers discover that her pussy is quite wet. She isn’t surprised. Her fingers plunge between her labia, plump by being engorged with a rush of blood. Blood pumped all through her by her excited heart. Her fingers gather her juice, coat their tips with it. Her fingers exit, then slide the short distance to her clitoris. A tiny gasp escapes her. Her clitoris is firm, throbbing with anticipation. She answers that want with two fingertips rubbing it, using her own wetness as lubrication. She patiently moves her fingers, not wanting to rush into this action and achieve an orgasm right away. She feels that an orgasm is very possible if she moved faster. Or if he touches her clitoris.
But Rodrick does not move. He is a rock. A sharply dressed, gorgeous statue. A warm one, though. At least his cock is nice and warm. And very hard.
“Do not stroke my cock,” he says. “Just hold it.”
It’s as if he’s reading Grace’s mind. Or perhaps the desire to stroke him is obvious on her face, in her eyes. She looks up at him, seeing the details of his face. His slightly parted lips. The barest beard stubble. His dark brown eyes. Faint lines on his forehead and from the corners of his eyes. His dark hair trimmed short.
to be continued…