“I hit some traffic.” I step inside and stop when I see Nathan standing by the large windows, his back to me, his eyes on the city lights, faint in the distance. He’s in his customary suit, but has lost the jacket, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I glance at Drew, a question in my eyes. His expression gives nothing away, and I set my purse down, passing my keys to Drew.
“Mr. Dumont, I’ll park the Missus’s car. Will you need me for anything else?”
“Yes.” My eyes close briefly at that response. Over half the times that Nathan has fucked me, Drew has been present, a silent observer whose purpose is completely lost on me. I suspect, more than voyeurism, that it has something to do with control. Control is a food that Nathan seems to feed on, devouring it with a vulgarity that clashes with his smooth exterior. What I’m unsure about is if he is manipulating me or Drew in the process. As little as I understand our dynamic, I understand theirs even less. At times they seem friends, then adversaries, then Drew concedes and plays the role of dutiful employee. It’s a mindfuck that I want no part of. In the times that Drew's watched us, I can't help but wonder what he is thinking. He feigns disinterest, his head cast to the side or down to the floor in a preoccupied, respectful manner. But sometimes, when my head flips back, or when Nathan suddenly spins me around, I catch his eyes on me. Burning green eyes that pin me in place. And in that fire, in that intense stare, I think I see arousal. I think I see want.
Nathan gestures with a hand to the back lawn. “Wait for me in back. I want to spend some time with Candace, then I'll be there.”
From my peripheral vision, I see Drew nod, turning, the door closing, my engine purring a short moment later. He’ll take it to the garage. Tomorrow, it will be detailed back to showroom condition. If I’ve learned anything in these ten days, it is that everything in this house is maintained to perfection. I scrape my freshly painted nails against the front of one thigh. Including me.
“How is your father?”
I smile. “He’s okay. He is very grateful for the new facility. Thank you for moving him.”
“Have they discovered what is wrong with him?”
I swallow. “No.”
He turns away from the window, moving to a large leather chair and settling into it, setting his drink on the table. His eyes watch as I move around the couch, stopping before him. I wait for the command, my body tightening, the silk of my panties already beginning to stick between my legs.
“Come here.” He slides a little lower in the chair, his head against the white leather, his chin tilted up, blue eyes staring out from chiseled masculinity.
I move closer, his legs coming together, then I am straddling him, my skirt pushed up, his hands reaching around me to pull down the zipper. I lean forward, my fingers loosening his tie, his hands gently gripping my waist, his eyes on mine as my fingers work, neither of us saying anything in this moment.
I love his eyes. They are the only way I can read him. His body gives so little away; he controls his emotions so well. But his eyes are traitorous to his carefully maintained control. They blaze when he is angry, they soften when he is yielding, and they grow heavy with need when he is aroused.
Right now, he is aroused. I don’t need his eyes to know that. I can feel it underneath me, straining against the fabric of his dress pants.
His fingers move to the buttons of my cardigan, thumbing the small pearls as he releases them, one by one, his large hands slipping underneath and palming my breasts through the thin fabric of my camisole, the sensation causing a shiver to ripple through me. He yanks at the last button, the pearl popping off, causing a giggle to rise in my throat. Then the silk blend is tossed aside, his hands pulling the cami over my head until it joins the cardigan, and my upper half is bare before him.
“No bra?” he questions, a dark look in his eyes and his hands move, brushing across my nipples, their skin puckering in the cool room.
I shake my head, biting my lower lip, stifling a gasp as his hands grip the weight of me, one breast in each hand, his eyes taking on a gleam of ownership. He pushes with his hands, communicating his desire, and I begin to move my hips, my lace and silk mound grinding over him, my want visible through the fabric.
I need to see more of him, the desire taking over me. My fingers tremble as they move, unbuttoning his shirt, spreading it open so that my hands can explore his skin. I lean forward, lowering my mouth to his hot surface, skimming my tongue and teeth over the hard planes of his chest. His pelvis unexpectedly tilts, pushing me higher until our faces are level, and his mouth is on mine.
I get lost in his kisses. It is where I communicate with him freely, my mouth recklessly pouring out emotions that are best contained. Our tongues have no filter, the heat of our kisses lighting a fire between us that can only be put out with his cock. I reach down, my frantic hands grasping and pulling on leather, clasp, a button and zipper, a concert of hurried motions until I have him in my hand, hard and ready, his skin stretched tight, moisture already present at his tip.
He pulls me down, my hands quickly positioning him beneath me, tugging wet panties aside for his entrance. His mouth reluctantly releases me, his eyes watching me hungrily, fixed on my face as he thrusts up and into me.
I groan at the bare penetration, the thick push of him inside of me, the bare skin against my own, the first thrust almost painful in its stretch. I close my eyes and push fully down, a hiss whistling through his mouth as I rest for a quick moment atop him. My thoughts flicker to Drew and how this must look through the glass walls of the house.
He pulls at my skirt, slipping it over my head and throwing it aside, his hands running through my hair and gripping it tightly, pulling it back so that my neck is exposed.
I lose any thoughts of Drew when his mouth hits my neck, taking a possessive and decadent journey from my jaw to collarbone. His hands and hips lift and pump, a perfect orchestration of rhythm that swiftly takes me up the mountain of orgasm. I dig my nails into his shoulders, letting him take control, the ride one that is exquisite, my orgasm sharp and intense when it comes. He doesn’t stop, his breath hard, pumps rapid, until he reaches his peak, his mouth finding mine, one last shuddering thrust delivered.
I collapse against his chest, his heart thudding through the material of his shirt. There is the slow drag of his fingers across my back and I sigh, melting into his chest. Then he pats my back in the perfunctory way a doctor might test refluxes.
“I need to go outside.”
Of course he does. I roll off of him, swallowing a response, and stand. He doesn’t look at me when he stands. Maybe I’m an idiot for expecting that he would.