Instead of touching me, he backs away, turning at the last second to face the wall where a built-in iPhone dock is located. Those speaker docks are in every room of the house, including the bathroom. He sets his phone on the dock, scrolls through his songs until he finds the one he wants. A fast electronic beat fills the garage, and I immediately recognize the song. It’s “Palladio” by Silent Nick, one of Dawson’s favorite songs to work out to, and one of my favorite songs to dance to. He approaches me with a sway to his hips, a bounce in his step. Of course, he can dance. He can do pretty much anything.
He takes my bare hips in his hands and moves my body with his, a sensual writhing of our bodies to the music. In rhythm to the music, I reach up and pull his slim black necktie free, drape it around my neck, and then slide his coat off. I slip his buttons free, one by one, popping them loose to the beat as we dance together, and then toss the shirt to the floor on top of his coat. As we move, his hands slide up my sides, hold my ribs just beneath my swaying br**sts. His eyes lock there, so I accentuate the movement of my upper body, making them jiggle and sway even more, and his lips curve in a smile. I unbuckle his belt, whip it free of his pants, toss it aside, far from the car, and then slowly work his pants open. His body ripples in time to the music, his sculpted abs shifting and tensing as he dances with me, cupping my backside, tangling his fingers in my hair, tracing the curve of my belly to hips. I let his dress slacks fall to the floor, and he steps out of them.
He’s in nothing but his boxer-briefs, dark maroon cotton molded to his taut backside, bulging where his manhood strains at the cotton. There’s a dot of moisture where his tip touches the fabric. I run my fingers around the gray elastic waistband, gradually working it down his hips to the beat of the music, swaying my hips, shaking my cle**age at him, leaning in to steal a quick kiss, and then I grow impatient and shove the underwear off him and he steps free, kicking it away.
And now we’re both naked in the garage, dancing, our bodies reflected in the mirror-finish of his Bugatti, his darker skin blending with mine. The song has shifted, another entrancing, quick-beat house song. We keep swaying, keep dancing, our bodies closer. My br**sts brush his chest, and he dips at the knees to take a nipple in his mouth. I gasp, and he suckles until my knees flex, and then he’s back upright, dancing chest to chest with me. His hand steals between our bodies and I shift my legs apart to let him in. By the song’s end my cheek is pressed to his and I’m panting as we sway together, losing the rhythm as I come apart under his touch.
Dawson turns me in his arms as I come. He’s still moving to the music and all I can do is let him hold me as waves shock through me. He leans me forward over the hood of the car, his erection hard against my backside. I’m anticipating him inside me, but I’m still not sure what his plan is.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first day I met you,” he growls in my ear.
“Do what?”
“Make love to you on the hood of this car.” My body is pressed to the cold surface of the hood. “Open your eyes,” he commands. “Look at us. Watch us.”
This close, our reflections aren’t distorted. My breath has fogged the mirrored surface where my cheek was pressed to the metal, but I can see him behind me, all brawny bulk, ripped stomach and massive shoulders and thick arms, and my breath is lost as it always is by how perfect he is. I see me, my face, my cheeks flushed red, my hair coming loose from the up-do Luisa, my stylist, put it in. Thick strands flutter around my cheeks and mouth. My eyes are wide and my neck is curved as I watch us, and the reflection of my br**sts merging with my flesh as I’m bent over the hood.
His hands are on my shoulders, and his eyes meet mine in the reflection. He caresses my back, my spine, my shoulders, my ribs, my hips. He settles his grip on my hips and pulls me hard against him, and I can’t help grinding into him, needing him inside me now. I need it. I’m as insatiable as he is. I never take the lead, though, not until we’re in the moment together. When I feel him close to release, that’s when I take over and bring him to climax. Otherwise, I let him take me as he will, let him decide how he wants me. I love the mystery of it, because he’s always inventive and creative and always thinks of my pleasure before his. He’s never come before me, unless I use my mouth on him. So now I’m still, and waiting. But I need it, so badly, and that little grinding roll of my hips is my way of telling him to hurry.
He lets go of my hips and takes the generous bubble of my bottom in both hands, and then his finger, the middle finger of his right hand, slips into the crease and finds my rear entrance. I shiver and gasp and shake, sure of what he’s going to do now, and not entirely sure I’m ready for it. I want it, I do, but I’m not sure I’m ready.
His finger glides over me, back there, and I flinch. “I want you, here.”
“Now?” I gasp the question.
“No, baby. Not yet. You’re not ready.” Even as he says this, his finger presses, just slightly, the gentlest application of pressure.
“I’m not?”
“No.” He chuckles, but then quickly sobers, and his eyes narrow. “You sound…almost disappointed. You want that?”
A little more pressure, and I’m trying not to squirm away, but the pressure is gentle and relentless, and now there’s an ever so slight intrusion, and I’m breathless. “I’m…oh…god…I’m curious.”
“You’ll love it. I know you will. You’re so perfect, so sensual. So responsive.”
“I’m loud.” A little more, and those two words are all I can manage. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this, but then, yes, I can, because I love anything and everything to do with him, and I trust him. And it feels…so good.
“I love that about you. I love that I can make you scream. It’s a game I play with myself. To see how loud I can make you scream. When I f**k you in your ass, I might have to do it somewhere far from people, because baby, you’re going to scream.”
I moan as the intrusion becomes presence, and my hips push back, just a little, of their own accord. My eyes are closed, and I feel his other hand find my cleft and my clitoris, and I’m unable to stop the small shriek of ecstasy as he brings me to climax again. I’m out of patience now. I lift up on my toes and rub my folds against his hardness, begging him silently.
He slowly and gently withdraws his finger. “Are you ready, babe?” His voice is silk sliding over me, his mouth against my ear, his chest against my back.