White Lace

Fluorescent light. The harsh, flattening, hospital-grade fluorescence hotels installed to make everything look worse. She stood in front of the mirror and the woman looking back was tired and flushed and had wine on her breath and was holding a shopping bag a fifty-three-year-old man had purchased specifically so she would put on whatever was in it and walk out the door for him.

She opened the bag.

White lace. She pulled the teddy out and held it up and the first thought was: *this isn’t what I expected.* She’d expected crude. She’d expected to feel the insult of his taste and use it as fuel for her contempt and walk out wearing something vulgar and let the vulgarity be the wall between what she was doing and what it meant.

But this was not vulgar.

The teddy was almost beautiful. White lace, delicate, sheer enough that she could see her hand through it when she held it to the light. The cups were soft — no underwire, no structure, just lace that would drape over breasts rather than contain them. A small satin bow sat between the cups. Thong back. She turned it over in her hands, feeling the quality of the fabric, the careful stitching, and the care in the selection was the thing that made her stomach drop. This was not a man grabbing the first slutty piece on the page. This was a man who had thought about it. Who had built the picture in his head and shopped to match.

The perversity of that was worse than anything crude could have been.

She pulled out the rest. A garter belt — white, delicate hardware heavier than it looked. White stockings, sheer, the kind that caught light. A choker — white lace, narrow, with a small silver clasp. She held the belt against her hip and the clips hung cool against her thigh and she understood immediately what it was for. Not the mall version. The real thing — the kind of garment that existed to frame a woman’s legs for a man who knew exactly what he wanted to see between them.

James had never bought her a garter. James had bought her black lace and a wide silk ribbon and a vibrator with a discreet box. A garter belt was a different request — older, dirtier, the kind of thing a man chose when he’d already built the shot in his head and needed her body to match it. She could feel the shot in the weight of the clips against her skin. She could feel what her thighs would look like in the straps. The heat that went through her stomach was not about the garment. It was about the man who’d sat in his apartment choosing it for her, and the fact that the choosing made her wet.

She set the belt on the counter next to the teddy. Her hand was not steady. She did not let herself look at her own face in the mirror yet.

She undressed. Sweater first, pulled over her head, folded on the toilet lid. Jeans. Her own bra — black, practical, the kind she wore to work — and her underwear. She stood naked in the fluorescent light and looked at herself and thought: *James told me to come here.* Not in those words. In the careful, measured, raw-voiced words of a man who couldn’t say *I want you to do this* so he said *what if you went* and *were you hoping I’d say that* and let her close the distance herself. But the distance was his to open and he’d opened it and she’d walked through and now she was naked in a bathroom in Ohio with another man’s shopping bag on the counter.

She thought about his voice asking her to film it. The roughness in it. The need. She thought about what he’d do with the video — alone, in their bed, in the dark — and the thought sent heat through her stomach that had nothing to do with Ray and everything to do with the man who loved her enough to hand her to someone else and hate himself for how hard it made him.

She stepped into the teddy.

Pulled it up over her hips — the lace catching on her skin, whispering against the flare of her waist, settling over her body like it had been cut for her and it nearly had. She adjusted the straps. Settled the cups. Looked down.

Her tits spilled over the lace. There was no other word for it — the cups were decorative, a suggestion, two scraps of sheer white that pushed her breasts up and together and then gave up the project entirely. The fabric was so thin she could see the dark circles of her areolae through it, the brown-pink flush of them, and her nipples — hard already, hard since the hallway, hard since the phone call if she was honest — pressed through the lace like they were trying to escape. The bow sat between them, a ridiculous small satin thing, and the effect was a woman gift-wrapped by someone who wanted most of the gift visible through the paper.

The thong was nothing. A white string that disappeared between her ass cheeks and emerged as a narrow triangle in front that covered approximately what a postage stamp would cover and left the rest — the soft mound, the crease of her thighs, the lips already flushed and swollen from twelve hours of the plug doing its work — visible to anyone standing within ten feet of her. She could feel the string seated between her cheeks, feel it pressing against the plug, and the sensation was so specific and so filthy that she had to put her hand on the counter and breathe.

She looked up at the mirror.

*Jesus.*

The woman looking back was obscene. Not in the way she’d imagined on the phone with James — no vinyl nurse costume, no harness with a diagram. This was worse. This was a woman in almost-nothing white lace that made her look like a bride being unwrapped on her wedding night by someone who wasn’t the groom. Her tits were practically bare. Her nipples were visible. The thong hid nothing — she could see the shadow of her own landing strip through the sheer triangle, the dark narrow line of hair that James kept trimmed with his careful hands, now on display for a man whose hands were the opposite of careful.

The garter belt next.

She clipped it at her waist and the silver hardware bit cold against her hip bones. Four straps dangled against her thighs, swinging when she moved, the little clips catching the fluorescent light. She looked down at herself — the belt cinching the narrowest part of her waist, the straps framing the front of her thighs like lines on a map that said *look here, here, follow the straps down* — and something clenched low and deep inside her that had nothing to do with the plug.

The stockings. She sat on the edge of the tub and rolled the first one up her right leg, slowly, the sheer white fabric catching on her ankle, gliding over her calf, smoothing over her knee and up along the inside of her thigh. She clipped the front garter. The back. The stocking snapped taut and the strap pulled with it, drawing a tense line from her hip to mid-thigh, and the strip of bare skin above the stocking top — three inches of naked inner thigh between the lace band and the thong — was the most pornographic thing about the entire outfit. Three inches of bare Jenna between one piece of fabric and another. She rolled the second stocking up. Clipped it. Felt both straps pull, felt the stockings grip her thighs, felt the garter belt tighten at her waist with every breath.

She stood. Lifted her hair and clasped the choker at her nape — the lace settling into the hollow of her throat, snug against her pulse.

She stepped into the heels.

Everything changed.

Three and a half inches of nude leather and her whole body rearranged itself. Her calves went taut. Her weight pitched forward onto the balls of her feet. Her back arched — not by choice, by physics — and the arch pushed her tits forward against the lace and her ass up and out behind her, the high round shape of it suddenly *there*, suddenly the loudest thing in the room, framed by the garter straps and the thong string and absolutely nothing else. The heels made her legs go on forever. The stockings caught the light. The strip of bare thigh above each stocking top was wider now, pulled by the new angle, the skin there so pale and soft it looked like it would bruise if you breathed on it.

She turned to check the back.

Her ass in the mirror took her own breath away and she’d been living with it for thirty-three years. Full, round, high — the genetics and the running and the specific architecture of a body that had been stopping men in hallways since she was nineteen. The thong string ran straight down between her cheeks and vanished. The garter straps framed each side — two taut vertical lines that said *this, look at this, this is what you came for.* The lower curve of each cheek swelled below the straps, bare and heavy and catching the bathroom light, and the shadow between them where the string disappeared was deep and dark and the place her husband had been patiently, tenderly opening for three weeks for a night that was supposed to be tomorrow and was now something else entirely.

She faced the mirror again.

She took herself in — all of it, the full view, top to bottom. Her face, flushed, dark eyes too bright. The thick blonde hair falling past her shoulders. The white lace at her throat like a collar she’d put on herself. The tits overflowing the lace, nipples hard and visible, the small bow sitting between them like a joke about innocence. The narrow waist cinched by the garter belt. The flat stomach. The thong that hid nothing — the shadow of the landing strip, the swollen press of her lips against the sheer fabric, the damp spot she could already see darkening the white triangle because she’d been wet for hours and the teddy was doing nothing to disguise it. The thighs framed by the stockings and the straps. The heels making everything longer and tighter and higher.

She was the hottest woman she had ever seen in her life and she was about to walk out that door for a man who looked like he drove a cab.

The thought — the absurdity and the cruelty of it, the mismatch that was the whole engine of whatever this was — made her face do something complicated in the mirror. Not a smile. Not shame. The expression of a woman looking at a body every man she’d ever met had wanted and knowing she was about to hand it to the one man no one would choose. The one man who had never once, in three years, stopped wanting it. The one man whose wanting had the weight and patience of something geological, something that would outlast her objections and her marriage and her sense of what she deserved, and she was going to walk through that door and let him see her in this and the seeing was going to feed something in him that would never be full.

She thought about the video she’d promised James. Her face while Ray’s cock was in her mouth. James in their bed, watching it later, his hand working himself to the sight of his wife on her knees for another man. She thought about the expression on her face in that video — would it look like the photo? The dark eyes, the swollen lips, the thread of saliva? Would James watch it and come and then watch it again?

She was so wet the thong was ruined. She could feel it — the fabric soaked through, clinging, useless, the arousal running past what the string could hold. She hadn’t been touched. Nobody had touched her. Just the clothes and the mirror and the knowledge of what was about to happen.

She turned from the glass. Faced the door. Behind it: the warm yellow light, the armchair, the man.

She opened the door.

---

He was in his boxers when she opened the door.

The shirt was gone. The slacks were gone. Just the grey cotton boxers and the body underneath — the broad fleshy shoulders, the chest hair going silver and sparse at the sternum, the gut hanging over the elastic waistband, the ruddy skin that had never apologized for itself. He was sitting in the armchair under the lamp, legs spread, hands on the armrests, and the boxers were doing nothing about the situation between his thighs. His cock was a thick dark ridge pushing the cotton sideways, the head straining toward his hip, the fabric pulled translucent over the crown. He was hard enough that the elastic had given up containing him and the shaft angled out past the leg opening, an inch of flushed skin and a vein she could see from the doorframe.

She’d had a line ready — *your ten minutes start now* — but it died in her mouth because her eyes went to his cock and stayed there two seconds longer than a woman with a clock to enforce could afford.

Two seconds. Long enough for her thighs to clench. Long enough for the memory to surface — the conference that started it all, the other hotel room. The stretch of him pushing inside her for the first time, the sound she’d made that she didn’t recognize as her own voice, and then the condom breaking and the bare heat of him — every ridge, every vein, the depth that reached places she didn’t know she had — and her own voice into the mattress saying *I can feel everything.* Long enough for the plug to shift inside her when she clenched and the wetness that had been building all day to pulse fresh against the ruined thong.

He watched her look. Let her.

“Hi,” she said. Recovering. Squaring her shoulders in the doorframe.

His eyes traveled her body and the traveling was slow and thorough and made no effort to be polite. Her tits spilling over the lace. Her nipples dark and hard through the sheer cups. The bow. The cinch of the garter at her waist. The thong that hid nothing. The stockings. The heels.

“*Jesus* Christ.”

“Blondie, right?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, her eyes narrowing — the posture pushing them up and together, the lace cups straining, her cleavage deepening into a line that made his eyes drop and stay. She knew what she was doing with her arms. She’d known since she was twenty. “That’s what you’re about to say?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” His voice had gone rough. “I was going to sit here and look at you until…”

“Charming.” But the corner of her mouth moved. She killed it. Stepped into the room. The heels sank into the carpet and the motion swayed her hips and his eyes tracked the sway the way a compass tracks north. “You’re in your underwear.”

“Seemed redundant to stay dressed.”

“For a lap dance.”

“For whatever you’re offering.”

“I’m offering a lap dance. That’s the deal.” She stopped three feet from his knees. The light caught the sheer lace across her tits, the shadow of her areolae, the hard points of her nipples. She could feel him looking at them the way she could feel sun on bare skin. “You sit. I give you a dance. Your hands stay on the armrests.”

“My hands stay on the armrests.”

“Until I say otherwise.”

He spread his fingers on the armrests. The thick fingers flattening against the fabric. The gesture of a man showing compliance — his favorite trick, the open hands that said *see, nothing hidden.* She didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust any part of him. But she was standing in his hotel room in white lace and garters and heels with a plug in her ass and his cock feet from her face and wasn’t sure if she even trusted herself.

She stepped between his knees.

Close. Close enough to smell him — the musk and the heat, no cologne now, just the animal warmth of a large man’s skin and the sharper note underneath that she recognized from his lap, from his groin, from the base of his cock where she’d pressed her face in her office and breathed him in. Her thighs brushed the inside of his knees. The fabric of his boxers was warm against her stocking tops.

She put her hands on his shoulders. Leaned in. Let her hair fall forward and brush his chest.

“Don’t move,” she said. Close to his ear. Her lips almost touching the lobe.

She rolled her hips.

Slow. One long rotation, her pelvis tracing a circle in the air between them, her weight shifting from one heel to the other. The teddy pulled across her tits with the motion, the lace dragging over her nipples, and the friction sent a line of heat straight down through her belly to the plug. She did it again. Slower. Her hips describing a figure eight, the motion rolling through her waist and her ass and the garter straps pulling taut against her thighs with every shift. She was three inches from his lap. Not touching. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin through the air between them.

His breathing changed. She heard it — the deeper draw, the held exhale. His fingers flexed on the armrests. She watched his knuckles go white.

She turned around.

Slowly. Letting him see the rotation — her waist, her hip, the curve of her ass emerging into view as she turned. She heard the sound he made when the back of her came into full view. A low, broken exhale. The sound of a man seeing something he’d been imagining for three years and finding the reality obscene.

Her ass was inches from his face.

She bent forward. Slowly. Hands on her own knees, her back arching, her spine dipping into the curve that tilted her hips up and back and opened everything for him. The arch was instinct — the body’s oldest presentation, the posture that bypassed every language she spoke and said the one thing language couldn’t improve on. She held it. Let him take it in.

The soaked thong peeled against her skin as the arch shifted it — a small, wet, audible sound in the quiet room, the sound of fabric pulling away from flesh it had been stuck to, and she felt the cool air hit the dampness between her thighs and knew he’d heard it.

The thong string ran straight down between her cheeks and disappeared into the cleft, the white cord bisecting her — pulled taut by the arch, buried in the soft deep crease between the two fullest, roundest, most obscenely perfect cheeks Ray Vogler had ever put his eyes on from this distance. The lower curve of each one swelled bare beneath the garter straps, the skin smooth and pale and catching the warm lamplight with the faint sheen of a woman running hot. The cleft was deep and shadowed and the thong hid nothing inside it — the string had shifted, pulled to one side by the arch, and the dark puckered ring of her asshole was visible. And seated in it, snug and unmistakable: the flared silicone base of the plug. Flush against her. Buried. The skin around it flushed and tight, her body gripping it the way a body grips something it has learned to hold.

Below it — below the plug, below the string, where the thong widened into the sheer triangle between her thighs — her pussy. Swollen. The lips flushed dark and pressed against the soaked fabric, the lace clinging to every contour, the outline of her slit visible through the wet sheer like a word written on fogged glass. The damp spot had spread past the triangle and onto the garter straps at her inner thighs. She’d been wet for hours and the evidence was on display six inches from his mouth.

She heard him inhale. Not a breath — a pull. Deep, through the nose, the involuntary draw of a man hit with the warm sweet musk of a woman’s arousal from six inches away. The scent of her — hours of it, built and layered and concentrated in the soaked fabric and the slick skin underneath — filling his head. She felt his cock jump against the inside of her thigh. Not the half-hard press from before. The full thing. The twitch and surge of a man going rigid, the shaft swelling against her stocking top hard enough that she felt the pulse in it.

She looked back over her shoulder. Down at his lap. The boxers were tented past what cotton could reasonably manage, the head straining against the fabric, a dark wet spot spreading where the tip pressed the cloth.

“Easy, Ray.” Low. Over her shoulder. The smile in her voice sharper than a knife. “I haven’t even sat down yet.”

She rolled her hips — slow, deliberate, the kind of motion she’d learned at twenty-one in a club in Atlanta and hadn’t used since grad school — and the roll rippled through her ass and the plug shifted and his breath hit the small of her back, hot, ragged.

She straightened. Brought her hands off her knees. Reached back and found his thighs — the thick muscle under her palms, the heat of him through the cotton — and used them as rails. She lowered herself. Inch by inch. Controlled. Her thighs spreading over his, her back sliding against his chest, the gut warm and solid against her lower back, and she felt the head of his cock catch against the curve of her ass before she’d fully settled — the blunt pressure nudging up between her cheeks, finding the groove, and she sank the last two inches and let her full weight drop into his lap.

The heat. The length. The *thickness* — the shaft pressing up between her cheeks, the head reaching past her tailbone, the entire rigid line of him fitting into the groove of her ass like he’d been engineered for it. The thin cotton of his boxers and the thinner string of her thong were the only things between his bare cock and her skin and they might as well have been nothing. She could feel every inch. She could feel the ridge of the head. She could feel the vein on the underside pulsing against the inside of her cheek.

She ground down. One slow roll of her hips, pressing her ass back against him, and the plug shifted inside her and a sound fell out of her mouth before she could stop it — a small, wet, broken *ah* that she tried to catch and couldn’t because the sensation was too much: the plug pressing deep from the roll of her hips, his cock pressed against her pussy through soaked fabric, the head nudging her clit through the lace on every forward grind. Plug in her ass, cock against her pussy, and her body trying to fuck both of them at once.

“Look at you,” she breathed. “Hands right where I’d put them, good boy.”

His fingers were gripping the armrests so hard she could hear the fabric creak.

She ground again. Rolled her hips in a slow circle, her ass describing the shape of what she wasn’t giving him, and the wet slide of her thong against his shaft made a sound in the quiet room — a soft, slick, obscene sound, the sound of soaked lace dragging over hard cock. She was so wet it had soaked through the thong and through his boxers and she could feel the damp patch spreading between them.

“You’re destroying my underwear,” he said. Rough. Strained. The voice of a man holding onto something with both hands.

“You deserve it.”

She leaned back against his chest. Let her head fall against his shoulder. The mass of him behind her — the gut pressing against her lower back, the chest hair rough against her shoulder blades through the lace, the heat of him enormous. She reached back and put her hand on the back of his neck and rolled her hips and felt his cock twitch against her and his whole body shuddered underneath her.

“You like this?” Low. Against his ear. The dirty-talk voice — the one that belonged to her bedroom, to two AM, to James. She was using it on Ray. “You like me in your little outfit, grinding on your cock? This what you were shopping for?”

“*Yes.*” Not performed. Genuine. Wrecked.

“You sat in your apartment picking out bows and garter clips and thinking about my ass in your lap.” She rolled again. The plug shifted. Her eyes fluttered. “Thinking about this. About — *fuck* — about exactly this.”

She stood. His cock dragged against her as she lifted off and the loss of contact pulled a sound out of both of them. She turned to face him — slow, letting the rotation do its work, her hips and the garter straps and the lace moving through his line of sight — and then she was straddling him. Knees on either side of his thighs, the armchair barely wide enough, her hands on his shoulders. His cock pressed up against the soaked thong between her legs. Her face close to his. She could see the sweat on his upper lip, the pulse in his throat, the small dark eyes trying to look everywhere at once.

His hand left the armrest.

She felt it before she saw it — the thick palm settling on her hip, fingers spreading across the lace, the grip warm and heavy and proprietary. She should have stopped him. That was the rule. Hands on the armrests.

She didn’t stop him.

His hand slid from her hip to her ass. Cupping. The span of his palm covering half of one cheek, his fingers pressing into the soft give of her flesh through the thong. He squeezed and a small sharp inhale escaped her and she hated the sound and couldn’t stop it. His other hand came off the armrest and found her other cheek and now both of his hands were on her ass, gripping, spreading, his thick fingers kneading the muscle while she ground on his cock, and the size of his hands on her body — the way they engulfed her, the way her ass, her *ass* that she knew was extraordinary, disappeared under his palms — made her feel small in a way that lit something up behind her navel.

His right hand moved. Thumb sliding along the thong string, down between her cheeks, following the cord into the cleft of her ass with the casual certainty of a man who knew the territory.

She felt the pad of his thumb press against the base of the plug and she went still.

Completely still. Her hips stopped. Her breath stopped. The room contracted to the point of contact — his thumb on the flared silicone base, pressing, the touch deliberate, a man confirming with his hands what his eyes had already found when she’d bent over for him thirty seconds ago.

He didn’t say anything for three seconds. His thumb circled the base. Slow. Learning the shape of it.

“I saw this.” Low. Almost conversational. The voice of a man who’d been sitting on information and choosing his moment — because of course he had, because that was what Ray did. “When you bent over. I saw it and I thought — *she walked down that hallway with this inside her.*”

“Ray—”

“You’ve been wearing this all day.” Not a question.

She didn’t answer. Her face was hot. The confession was in her body — seated inside her, pressed against his thumb, the evidence of three weeks of training that James had done and Ray had initiated and she had walked down this hallway carrying like a secret she’d swallowed.

He pressed the base. Gently. The plug shifted a quarter-inch inside her and her whole body clenched and a moan leaked out of her, thin, involuntary, the sound of a woman caught.

“That’s not the small one.” His thumb circled the base. Exploring. Measuring. “That’s bigger than the one I saw in your office.”

“Medium,” she said. To the wall. Not to him.

“Medium.” He pressed again. She gripped his thigh. “*Husband* been busy.”

“Shut up.”

“The graduated set?” His thumb hooked the edge of the base and rocked it — a small motion, barely a centimeter of movement, and her hips bucked back against his hand and the moan that came out of her was louder than the last one and she could feel his cock jump against her through the boxers. “This what James has been up to? Every night? Working you up? You’re telling me you walked down that hallway with this in your ass.”

“I’ve been wearing it since six this morning.” She didn’t know why she said it. The same impulse that had made her tell him about the plug at dinner in the last draft of a life she wasn’t living. The confession falling out of her body first, her mouth just the messenger. “Through the meeting. Through dinner. It’s been inside me for sixteen hours.”

The sound he made was not a word. A low, guttural, almost pained noise — the sound of a man whose fantasy had just been exceeded by a margin he hadn’t thought possible. His hands tightened on her ass. His cock throbbed against her so hard she felt it through both layers of fabric.

His face was inches from hers. Sweat on his forehead. The pockmarks. The heavy jaw. The small eyes that had been reading rooms for thirty years and were now reading her at a distance of three inches and finding the same thing they always found — the gap between what she said and what her body did.

“You wore a plug for me,” he said. Quiet. Certain. “Not for your husband. He doesn’t know you wear it outside the bedroom, does he. He doesn’t know you think about my cock stretching your pussy on the couch with my finger up your ass every time it goes in, does he?”

She didn’t answer.

“That’s mine.” His hand came up. Cupped her jaw. The palm rough, warm, enormous — her jaw disappearing into his grip the way her ass disappeared into his hands. “That plug. What it does to you. The way you’ve been squirming in that chair all day. That’s not his project. That’s mine.”

“It’s not—”

“It’s mine.” He kissed her.

Not gently. His mouth covered hers and his tongue pushed past her lips before they’d decided to part and the thickness of it — wider than James’s, more insistent, the same overwhelming proportion as everything else about him — filled her mouth and she tasted wine and something bitter underneath and her hands came up to his chest and she didn’t push him away. She pulled him in. Fistfuls of chest hair and the slack skin over heavy muscle and the heat of him pouring into her through every point of contact.

She kissed him back.

Her hips moved on their own — grinding forward against his cock through the wet fabric, the plug rocking inside her with every roll, and the dual sensation was building something in her that had its own momentum now, its own gravity, a warmth that was pulling everything toward the center of her and she could feel the orgasm in the distance like weather approaching. His hands were on her ass again, both of them, fingers digging into the flesh, spreading her cheeks around the plug, and every time he squeezed the base shifted and she moaned into his mouth and he swallowed the sound.

She bit his lip. Hard enough to taste copper. He grunted — the sound vibrating into her mouth, through her chest, into her nipples where they pressed against the coarse hair of his chest through the lace. His cock was leaking. She could feel the wet heat of pre-come soaking through his boxers, mixing with her own wetness, the fabric between them a warm soaked ruin. She ground against the head and felt it push the lace into her — not in, almost in, the blunt pressure of it spreading her lips through the thong — and they both made a noise at the same time — his a groan, hers a gasp.

She pulled back. Breathing hard. Her hands on his chest. His hands on her ass. Two inches between their faces. Lipstick smeared on his mouth. Spit on his chin. His eyes — small, sharp, stripped of every performance — locked on hers.

His hips shifted underneath her. A roll — subtle, deliberate, the salesman’s incremental advance. She felt him reach between them with one hand, felt the elastic of his boxers pulled to the side, and then the head of his cock was free and pressing against the soaked lace of her thong — bare skin against wet fabric, the blunt heat of him sliding along the crease of her pussy, nudging the thong aside at the edge. The wet sound it made — the slick drag of his head through the mess she’d made of the lace, the obscene sucking noise of soaked fabric and arousal and pre-come — was loud in the quiet room. He rolled his hips again and the head caught at her entrance, the thong the only thing between the tip and bare contact, and she felt herself open against it — just the pressure, just the parting of her lips around the shape of him through one thin string of wet lace.

She grabbed his wrist.

“Ray.” Her voice was different. The heat still in it but the edge underneath — the edge that had filed a complaint, that had said *I’m not done* in this room an hour ago. “I’m fertile. Right now. This week. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

His hips stilled. The head of his cock stayed where it was — pressed against her, the lace between them, the heat unbearable.

“If that goes inside me, I could end up pregnant. And I promise you, Ray — whatever you’re imagining right now, it is not worth the version of me you’d be dealing with if that happened.”

He looked at her. The calculation running behind the small eyes. Then his hand came away from his boxers. Settled back on her hip, and the grip said *for now* louder than his mouth could have.

“So.” She loosened her grip on his wrist. Let her thumb trace a circle on the inside of it — light, almost idle, the cruelty of a soft touch after a hard no. “You got your dance. You got to put your hands where they weren’t supposed to go. You got to kiss me.” She tilted her head. The corner of her mouth doing something dangerous. “And since you dealt with that prick Garrison so well today, I’ll get on my knees and let you find out if my mouth has gotten any better since my office.”

The sound that came out of him was almost a laugh. Almost.

“You’re negotiating me down to a blowjob like it’s a concession.”

“It *is* a concession.” She rocked her hips once — a single slow grind against his cock, the wet slide of it, a reminder of what she was taking off the table. “A generous one. From a woman wearing your outfit and sitting on your cock with a plug in her ass. You should be writing me a thank-you note.”

His hands squeezed her hips. The thick fingers gripping and then releasing. The restraint visible in his arms, the tendons standing out, the effort of a man choosing to take what was being offered instead of reaching for what wasn’t.

“Your show,” he said.

She slid off his lap. Her knees hit the carpet between his thighs. She looked up at him — the gut, the grey chest, the face — and reached for the waistband of his boxers. He lifted his hips. She pulled the cotton down and his cock fell heavy against his belly, thick and flushed dark and already slick at the tip — slick with her, she realized, her wetness shining on the head and the first two inches of the shaft — the head swollen wider than the shaft, the vein on the underside pulsing.

She wrapped her hand around the base. Her fingers didn’t close. They never closed with Ray — not in the hotel, not in her office, not now. She looked at it in her hand and felt the specific vertigo of holding something that was too much for her grip and too much for her mouth and too much for any part of her and wanting it anyway with a need that had no words for itself.

She looked up at him. Dark eyes. Swollen lips. The bow between her tits crooked. Mascara starting to smudge at the corner of one eye. Her hand wrapped around his cock, her face inches from the head.

---

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