She turns her head to the side, and I can see her lips twist into a smirk. “I never asked you to be sweet with me,” she says, pressing her ass back against me, causing me to slide even deeper into her. Jesus Christ. Hearing her say that turns me on and I can feel myself grow harder.
I raise my hand, slapping her ass, hard, and feel it instantly warm beneath my hand. She gasps, and I don’t give her time to collect herself before I begin fucking her . . . hard and deep, aggressive and rough. I want to fuck the feelings out of her. I want to fuck away the memories of her father killing himself. I want to fuck away all the fucked up images she’ll never get out of her head, but mostly, I want to fuck away all of her pain. I want her to need me as much as I need her. I need her to want me as much as I want her. I want her to love me as much as I love her.
“Holt!” she screams.
“Tell me what you want, Saige,” I breathe into her ear, gently biting her earlobe.
“I don’t know,” she cries out as I pound in and out of her. I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
“Tell me, Saige.”
“Holt,” she cries my name, pressing her forehead against the window again.
“Now, Saige!” I yell at her as I feel my cock hardening inside of her. I pull my hands from hers and grab both of her ass cheeks, pressing my fingers into the soft flesh of her perfect ass. I’ve never been so fucking turned on by anyone in my entire life.
Only the sounds of her heady breaths escape her lips, and I grow angry, wanting to hear her say she wants me. I fuck her harder, growing angrier with each thrust until I finally lose it, releasing my anger into her. Then I growl loudly and pump myself into her before hastily pulling out.
Turning, I stalk toward the bathroom. Why can’t she say it? What’s holding her back? I sigh in frustration as I think that maybe she’ll never want me, love me, need me the way I need her.
But as the door slams behind me, I hear her meek voice mumble the words I’ve been dying to hear. “You. I want you, Holt.”
Saige
This morning’s early sex session against the glass wore me out. I fell back asleep with little effort and now that I’m awake, I see that it’s closer to lunch time than it is breakfast. Holt is nowhere to be found, but I did find a note on the nightstand.
I hope you slept well.
XO,
H
I dress quickly in a pair of black skinny jeans and a gray oxford shirt. I pair this with red jewelry and red flats for a pop of color. Running a large curling iron through my hair, I create big, natural-looking waves, and I apply simple makeup of a light foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and red lipstick.
Within thirty minutes, I’m out the door and headed to Fifth Avenue; this is where Holt told me I’d have the best luck in my shopping endeavors. I have an idea in mind of what I’d like for a dress, but as I hop from boutique to boutique, I’m coming up empty handed. Everything is too glitzy or too glamorous. I need chic but simple.
In between boutiques, I tap out text messages to Holt, but an hour later, he has yet to reply to one. While I walk the busy New York streets toward my last stop of the day, Barney’s, I stop and get a New York hotdog from a street vendor. From a corner street cart with a little yellow umbrella on top comes this amazing hotdog topped with sauerkraut, grilled onions, and spicy mustard. It’s divine.
I enjoy the walk, taking in all of the sights that I can. I’m in awe of the buildings, the traffic, and the hustle of people in a hurry to get everywhere. However, even if I had a week here, I’d never be able to see everything I want to see.
As I make my way through Barney’s, I’m taken aback at its opulence. Everything is pristine and perfect. Every rack, every display, every single employee from top to bottom. I find a sales associate, Deb, who is over the top helpful, which I’m thankful for because I don’t look like I belong in a store like this. I describe what I’m looking for, and in no time, Deb is shoving me into a fitting room with five dresses that all look exactly like I’ve described—simple, chic, and elegant. Within minutes, I’ve narrowed it down to two, and I stand in front of a mirror with the dress that is my favorite. It fits perfectly, hugging every curve, hiding every flaw, accentuating all my assets. It fits my tall frame perfectly, as I pace back and forth in front of the mirror.
“It’s stunning,” Deb says of the olive green dress. “I can’t believe how perfectly this color matches your green eyes.”
“It’s my favorite color,” I admit.
“Shall I wrap it up for you?”