Getting Down

by Helena Hunting

  “Maybe I should.” He unzips my jacket and pushes it over my shoulders. His fingers trail over my collarbone and along my throat. He walks his fingers up my chin and slips one into my mouth.

  I suck and bite, easing forward so I can grind up on him.

  That dark look on his face becomes downright lecherous. “You think I should fuck you right here? In this car?”

  There’s my dirty boy. I nod once.

  “You sure you can be quiet? That’s not soundproof glass.” He tips his chin toward the divider.

  “I can be quiet.”

  I suck in a breath of anticipation when he slips his hand back under my dress, searching for the edge of my underwear. Which he doesn’t find. His lip curls. “Where’d your panties go?”

  “They were damp after dinner, so I took them off.”

  “Naughty girl.” He drags a knuckle along my slit. “You’re ready for my cock right now, aren’t you?”

  I make a strangled sound as he lifts my skirt so he can watch two fingers disappear inside me. He drops the fabric and slaps my ass. “Shh. Remember how you said you could be quiet. You don’t want to embarrass our driver, do you?”

  “No.” There’s music playing up front, and it’s unlikely that he will hear, but I don’t want to make it awkward for him. He’s a nice guy.

  “That’s right. You don’t want him to know what’s going on back here, do you?”

  I give him another headshake and bite my lip when he curls his fingers to prevent any unwanted sounds from escaping.

  “You know what you should do right now?” He circles my clit with his thumb.

  It’s incredibly difficult not to moan loudly. I manage one stuttered word. “N-no.”

  “You should get my dick out so you can ride it like you are my fingers.”

  I crush my mouth to his in a bid to quiet the desperate noise I’m about to make. I fumble with his belt buckle, yanking it free of the clasp. Bancroft is zero help since he has his hand between my legs and the rhythmic twist and curl of his fingers is incredibly, blissfully distracting.

  Freeing his shirt, I struggle to undo the button. The zipper gets caught in the fabric, sticking while I tug roughly. At his low chuckle I nip at his lip. That gets me another slap on the ass.

  I gasp. Bracing a hand on his chest, I push back enough so I can glare at him. It’s not super effective since my eyes roll up a little at the angle change. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what? This?” He makes an attempt to withdraw his hand from between my legs, but I grab for his wrist. In all honesty, I’m not remotely strong enough to prevent him from stopping, but he grins up at me and curls his fingers again.

  “Oh. You mean this?” He smacks my ass again.

  I have to fight another moan.

  He kneads one cheek with the hand that isn’t between my legs. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it. I can feel how much you want me to do that again.”

  I try not to clench. I really do. But I brace for the hot sting and the warm flood of pleasure that follows and all my muscles contract. Bane knows exactly how to push my buttons. And one of my buttons is a sweet spanking.

  “You better be on my cock when you come, babe.” It sounds a bit like a threat.

  I let go of his wrist and whine when his fingers disappear. It forces me to refocus though. I shove my hand down the front of his boxers and grip his erection. Bancroft has a magnificent cock. It’s just as huge and gorgeous as the rest of him. The constant flash of lights as we pass under the street lamps and through busy New York traffic gives me a sporadic, but sufficient view.

  Bancroft grabs my hips and pulls me forward. I line us up and drop down. “Fuck yes,” he groans.

  I want to ridicule him for being loud and potentially embarrassing the driver, but he cups my ass and rocks me forward. I only need a few well-timed thrusts and I’m coming. I thread my hand through his hair, gripping it tight. My mouth drops open and I rasp his name, a soft, pitchy sound catching in my throat.

  One corner of Bancroft’s mouth turns up in a wicked sneer. “That’s it babe, that’s what I want, you squeezing my cock, looking at me like I’m your fucking God.”

  Have I mentioned that Bancroft is a cocky, dirty talker when we’re having sex? Especially the public kind. Car sex isn’t super frequent, but we do have sex at his parents’ house pretty much every single time we’re there. Most of the time it’s quick and dirty; the appetizer before the main course when we get home.

  When I’m done coming, Bane reaches behind me and unzips my dress, pulling it roughly over my head. He ruins my bra when he can’t get it off fast enough. Not that I care. I have lots at home.

  Bane runs his hands down my sides, exhaling a hard breath. Grabbing my left breast with one hand and my right butt cheek with the other he slides down the seat and uses the anchor points to lift and lower me while he pumps his hips and I start grinding.

  “Look at you. You’re goddamn glorious.”

  My reflection wavers in the tinted glass. I’m grateful no one can see in, considering I’m completely naked and Bancroft is fully dressed. I don’t know why it makes the sex hotter. As does the fact that we’re sitting at a red light at an intersection and I’m bouncing away on his lap, heading for orgasm number two.

  “Please tell me you’re going to fuck me again when we get home,” I groan.

  He releases a breast and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me close until my chest presses against his. “You bet your sweet ass I am. This is just a warm up.”

  “I guess it’s good you’re working from home tomorrow, huh?” I ask breathlessly.

  “Damn right.”

  Note to self: insecure Bane is insatiable.

  Chapter 7: Costumes Are Crazy

  Amie

  “We need to pick costumes for the Halloween soirée.” We only have two and a half weeks left. That’s not a lot of time. I might need a dress customized. Ruby has the skill set required to do it, but I’ll need time to find the appropriate pieces to put together and she’ll require time to work her magic.

  Armstrong looks up from his newspaper. “Why can’t it just be a masquerade? Why can’t I just wear a tux and put on a mask and you get a new ball gown that matches my tie and we’re done.”

  “Because it’s not a masquerade party. It’s a Halloween soirée and we need to come up with coordinating costumes because that’s the theme. Your mother’s the one who picked it,” I point out. Although Mimi had a hand in making the decision, thankfully. Otherwise it would’ve ended up being extraordinarily boring.

  Armstrong sets his paper down, possibly aware that I’m not going to let up until we make an actual decision. “Remind me what the theme is again.”

  “Famous couples.”

  “Why don’t we go as royalty. That’s simple. Then I can wear a tux and you can wear a ball gown and everyone wins because you’re dressed in a costume.” He smiles as if he’s come up with the best idea in the world and picks his paper up again.

  I round the table. Armstrong is in his typical bed wear: a white cotton T-shirt and a pair of cotton pajama pants. The shirt fits a little loosely instead of hugging his chest and arms. Although he has a lean build, so that’s part of the reason.

  His dark blond hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck and hanging across his forehead. I run my fingers through it, pushing it back.

  The unexpected affection catches him off guard and he sets his paper down again, looking up at me. I take the opportunity for what it is and sit in his lap. Neither of us has to be at the office early. There’s plenty of time for morning activities of the pleasurable variety. Draping an arm over his shoulder, I ask, “What royal couple would you like to go as?”

  He settles a hand on my hip. “What about Kate and William?”

  I finger the curls at the back of his neck. “Kate has dark hair and William is losing his.”

  “Hmm.” His gaze dips down to the gape in my robe. I’m wearing a pale satin sheath.
My nipples are very prominent. “What about Prince Charming and Cinderella? That should be easy. Or Sleeping Beauty and Phillip.”

  It would be a little odd that Armstrong is so familiar with the names of the Disney princes and princesses if his aunts and uncles didn’t have children who were significantly younger than he is.

  “Or we could just go as Ken and Barbie.” I mean it as a joke, obviously.

  “Your breasts aren’t large enough for you to pull off Barbie.”

  I’m about to push out of his lap, but he tightens his grip on my waist. “I didn’t mean that in a negative way. Yours fit nicely in my hands.” As if to prove his point he cups them. “If at any time you become unhappy with their size, we can always visit a cosmetic surgeon and have them augmented.”

  “You want me to get a boob job?” Never has he ever mentioned being unsatisfied with the size of my breasts.

  “No. No. Not now. They’re quite perky. I just mean down the line, if things should change and it’s something you want.” He pulls at the tie on my robe, pushing it over my shoulders. He traces the satin strap and brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric. “Yes. More than adequate, really.” From Armstrong, that’s a compliment.

  I suck in a quick breath. Armstrong isn’t really a morning sex kind of guy. It messes with his routine, which he’s very particular about. But we have all this time. What’s fifteen minutes? A quickie. Something to take the edge off. And maybe this time I’ll come.

  I push the strap over my shoulder, exposing the nipple. It tightens at the kiss of cool air. “Maybe we should get naked.”

  “Right now?”

  I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “We have the time.”

  He nods slowly, absorbing this potential deviation from his morning ritual. “We do.”

  I go in for a kiss and he turns his head. “I have coffee breath.”

  “I like coffee.” I kiss my way over his chin.

  “We should shower first.”

  “Why bother when you’re about to get me all dirty, anyway?”

  “You know how I feel about . . . freshness.”

  If there’s a way to kill a mood, it’s referencing freshness. I used to find the pre-sex-shower ritual adorable. He’d be all wet and smelling fantastic. I’d join him in bed when I was done cleaning up. There would be a very sexy inspection. At least it used to be.

  I heave a sigh, pull my strap back in place, and grab my robe from the floor.

  “Are you going to shower?”

  How can a man be so damn oblivious? “No, Armstrong, I’m not going to shower.”

  “I thought we were going to have sex.”

  “Apparently I’m not fresh enough.”

  “What about a blow job?”

  I whirl around. “Seriously?”

  “I’m hard now.” He gestures to his lap.

  “I guess you’ll have to figure out what to do with that then, because I’m going to be busy solving my own damn problems.” I stalk down the hall to his bedroom and root through my overnight bag. It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. My travel vibrator. This sweet baby has gotten me through a few unsatisfying nights in the past few months. Now it’s going to take care of my morning problem, too, alone, in the bathroom.

  * * *

  I grab my earbuds and my phone and rush across the hall, through the spare bedroom, and into the private bathroom. Locking the door, I turn on the fan and strip out of my sheath. The mirror reflects my pink cheeks and my heaving chest. My boobs are nice. They’re not huge, but they’re certainly not small. They’re a very reasonable, ample C cup.

  I slap my fake penis on the vanity, along with my phone and earbuds and grab the edge of the counter, trying to calm down. I’m really worked up, and not just in a clit-throbbing kind of way. The ability to come may very well be a challenge based on my level of irritation. But I’m going to try. Forget the shower-before-sex rule. Is it too much to ask for a little spontaneity?

  I turn on the shower, not because I’m planning to get fresh for Armstrong, but to drown out the sound of my vibrator and hopefully the sound of my orgasm. I slip my fingers between my legs. I’m barely even wet. Which makes sense, because I’m more angry than I am turned on. My clit is almost as angry as the rest of me.

  Snatching my plastic dick from the vanity, I decide the showerhead is going to be my friend. Sliding the glass door open, I’m mindful not to be too rough, since shattering it won’t help my situation, even if the destruction will make me feel good.

  I am rough with the removable showerhead, though. Making sure the water isn’t too hot, I lift it from its resting place and lower it between my thighs, adjusting the stream so it pulses against my clit. The warm, direct pressure makes my eyes roll up. It’s almost like being licked, but better, more consistent.

  Leaning against the tile I let the rhythmic pressure do its job. If I had my clit sucker this would be over in two minutes. My agitation is going to make this take longer, but that’s fine, I have time. Plenty of it.

  Reaching for my vibrator—waterproof of course—I turn it on and slide the thick, warm plastic inside me. I don’t imagine that it’s Armstrong fucking me, because I’m too pissed off at him for that to help me get where I need to go, which is the land of Orgasmia.

  The vibrations inside, combined with the warm pulse against my clit, cause my knees to buckle. “Fuck. Yes.” It echoes in the enclosed space, louder than I mean it to. But, God, it feels good. So good.

  A knock at the bathroom door dulls the tingle spreading from the center of my body outward. “Amalie?”

  I close my eyes tight and press the showerhead harder against my clit. Lowering myself to the floor of the tub I rock on the vibrator. And I moan.

  “Darling? Are you crying?” Armstrong’s voice rises at the end with panic. “I’m sorry—” The doorknob rattles. “Why is this locked?”

  I bite my bottom lip, picturing the confused expression on his face. His hard-on tenting his pajama pants. It makes me smile and brings me closer to the orgasm I’m chasing down. I groan as sensation builds in waves, water pulsing over my clit, streaming down my legs, and the buzz of the vibrator makes a heavy, tinny sound against the tub.

  “What is that? Is that the pipes? Darling, are you okay?” The door continues to rattle.

  I’m so close. So, so close. And knowing he’s on the other side of the door, unable to get to me, confused and unsatisfied, helps push me to the edge and hold me there. I move the showerhead a few millimeters to the right. “That’s it. Fuck me.”

  I’m so engrossed in the pleasure that I fail to notice the silence on the other side of the door. The orgasm hits me, clit throbbing, muscles contracting hard, waves of satisfaction sweeping through me, draining out my anger, replacing it with bliss. I chant the words fuck and oh god and yes over and over again.

  A loud click is followed by an even louder bang as the door slams open. Armstrong stands at the threshold, one hand on the jamb, his expression morphing from panic to confusion to disbelief. “What’re you doing?”

  The reflection in the mirror across the room draws my gaze away from his. His toned back flexes as his arm lifts, fingers running hard through his hair. Armstrong is a very attractive man. His features are regal, his body is toned, though not heavily muscled. He’s taken his shirt off, so I watch the sinew pull and tighten with his movements.

  I look beyond him, to my own cloudy reflection. My expression is exactly the opposite of his, heavy lids and parted lips, satiety clear on my face. On my knees, legs spread with the showerhead still pressed firm against my pulsing clit. I drop it and turn off the faucet.

  Rising up on my knees, I ease the vibrator out; the whirring grows louder, and then echoes through the room as I lose my grip and it drops into the tub, bumping its way across to the drain.

  “Are you masturbating?” His incredulity is only offset by the lump in his pajama pants.

  “Not anymore.” I grab the bar and pull myself up. The
bottom of the tub isn’t very nice to my knees, which are a little on the wobbly side. But at least that took the edge off. I’m slightly less angry now.

  “You were masturbating.” He blinks several times. It’s very strobe-like.

  I don’t know why he’s so surprised. “Don’t you masturbate?”

  His brow pulls down, causing a crease to form between them. I wonder if he knows that happens and whether it will make him want the Botox injections his mother is so fond of.

  He lowers his hand to his crotch and strokes his erection through the fabric. “Well, of course, on the days I don’t see you, I take care of myself, when it’s necessary.”

  I don’t know what that means. He’s in his twenties—late twenties, but still. I would think every day would necessitate a lone-love session to keep constant hard-ons from happening. But then I do have a higher drive than he does. Maybe he doesn’t need to come every day like I do. I suppose I’ll find eventually out if this is the case, once we’re married and living in the same space. And then maybe he too will want to have sex every day.

  “But you—” he flails a hand in my direction. “I’m right here and you locked the door.”

  I prop a fist on my hip, intent on making my annoyance clear. I don’t think I’m very convincing what with my being naked and wet from the waist down. “You turned me down. I wasn’t fresh enough, remember?”

  “But you’ve showered now.” His expression grows serious. “I want you to come for me like that. Like you just did.”

  “Guess you better get to work then.” I hold my arms out, inviting him to take on the challenge.

  His face registers shock first. Then determination. Here’s an interesting thing about my fiancé. He cannot resist a challenge. I don’t know what it is that drives him, but when he’s taken to task over something, he likes to be the best at it. Which is part of the reason I initially faked a few orgasms. I think I suffered from orgasm performance anxiety, which drove his.

  Also, sometimes the friction gets to be too much when the licking or rubbing becomes excessive. But I’m already primed. I’ve come once. The second time is always faster and easier. I might as well get something out of his current remorseful state.