by Jamie Knight
“What’s happening?” I asked, doing up my robe as I came into the living room.
“It’s over!”
“What’s over?”
“The lockdown. The situation just went to green. We are open!”
That wasn’t the only thing that was open. Max and I decided to date openly. We actually called a meeting at the office to let everyone know, just so there weren’t any unseemly rumors. To our surprise, everyone was really supportive and actually planned a surprise party for our anniversary.
Things were humming along quite nicely with the company as well. Mitch fully recovered from his cold and the Whitman account came through with flying colors. As did the over $1,000,000 worth of new accounts started by the competition, securing the future for the company.
I wasn’t sure at first, mostly because of lingering memories from our enforced stay months before. Max had already booked the tickets, however, and we would be going alone for what we both understood to be a hot sex weekend.
Another change was the discovery of a painkiller that let me fuck a lot harder and without my brace. We still couldn’t get too crazy, but we could do doggy style, which was something I’d always wanted to try. Being on my side was still my favorite position.
I was still tingling. Max’s beautiful load warmed me to my core. I was on birth control so we could fuck more or less freely. Max divided his loads evenly between my pussy and my mouth. Both of which had their own advantages.
“How many times is that now?” I asked, as Max gently pulled out of me.
“Not sure, sweetheart,” he said, lowering my legs from his shoulders back down to the bed, “I lost count after thirty.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, starting to root through his suitcase.
I was just about to ask what it was when I saw it. A small box covered in black velvet. Something that certainly got my attention. Returning to the bed as I sat up, Max got down on one knee. The tears of happiness were already rolling down my cheeks.
“Yes!” I blurted before he could even ask. The sight of the diamond ring was more than enough of a clue.
“I didn’t even ask yet,” he pointed out.
“Still, the answer is yes,” I held firm.
Knowing when he was beat, Max took the ring from the box and slipped it onto my finger.
“Feel like celebrating?” he asked.
“What do you have in mind?”
I was still a bit sensitive from the almighty pounding he had just given me, making his touch all the sweeter. The moan rose up from deep within me, long and loud.
“Yes, sir!” I enthused.
Relinquishing full control of my body to my brand new fiancé, I laid down on my back at the edge of the bed, exactly how he liked it, and opened my legs wide and gave him full and unfettered access to my excited little pussy.
Taking things slow, he fingered me right to the edge of orgasm, stopping right before I peaked. Waiting for me to come back down, he started to move again. He used his tongue as well, making me get close even faster. Actually allowing me to finish that time, I trembled all over as I came, vibrating with sweet ecstasy.
“Good girl,” he said, kissing me tenderly on the cheek.
After giving me a moment to fully recover, Max turned me over onto all fours. Keeping a hand lightly on my bare hip, he stroked the head of his cock against my pussy lips, making me hum with wonderful contentment.
Then it happened. My beautiful man slipped his cock all the way into my tender young pussy, filling me up to the absolute limit. Making me whimper softly. I kissed him enthusiastically, letting him know he hadn’t hurt me. I had just been overwhelmed by the absurd amount of pleasure that had just hit me all at once.
Giving me a moment to let my pussy adjust to the sheer size of his huge cock. Taking me softly by both hips, he started to move. He worked his magnificent member deep inside me. My pussy lips held on, not wanting him to stop. Not that he was going to anytime soon.
With tender love and careful measure, he gradually gained in speed and intensity until he was fucking me so hard the headboard started banging up against the bedroom wall. The rhythmic slamming of oak on plaster was the last thing I heard as I started to cum.
I came to in the bath, surrounded by soothing bubbles. Max was on his knees beside me, gently massaging my thoroughly fucked pussy. I could still feel his cum inside me.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
“Yes, sir. I’m more than okay. I’m so happy. You make me feel like happiest woman in the world.”
“Good. Because you make me feel the same way. I love you. Always.”
“I love you, too. Always and forever.”
THE END
Under His Suit
Love Under Lockdown, Book 15
A series of standalone quarantine romance books.
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance.
All rights reserved.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
Chapter 1
The AirTrain whisked above stagnant streams of traffic on the Van Wyck below, carrying a few passengers over rows of dark Uber cars flecked with the bright yellow and green of regular cabs. As the modern monorail passed through the suburban sprawl of Nassau County, the sky was clear enough to allow the gleaming heights of New York City in the distance to bound into view.
Victoria Stadler stood with her carry-on bag at her feet, gazing out at what lay ahead with a degree of expectant mirth. A junior at the University of Wisconsin, she had been invited to Nextthing.Net’s Headquarters to receive an award for a Virtual Media Design Contest she’d won for a multimedia presentation she’d been working on ever since High School.
Contest winners had reservations at the W Hotel in midtown. Tory planned to check in, have dinner and get some rest. In the morning, she and the other winners would be joining Nextthing.Net’s design team for a series of interactive workshops. The next day they would recreate their presentations for the Media and Marketing Design firm’s elite team of designers and CEO’s during the day and then attend an awards ceremony in the evening.
It was her first trip to New York City without family and Tory, as she preferred to be called, had been given some warnings about men and New York City, first by her mother and then by Jude Coleman, whom she had known ever since freshman year.
At 5’8” and Blonde, Tory was hard to miss. She was a robust and curvy size 14, which always seemed to draw a lot of attention to her ample bust and buttocks. Her eyes were a light blue green, her lashes practically translucent, often invisible in the afternoon sun.
Although she merely wore a pair of blue jeans, a light blue suede jacket and her favorite boots, she could feel the shameless gaze of a man whose eyes followed the slightest movement and shift of her curves as if he were deriving something essential to life merely by looking upon her.
At the Linden Blvd. Station, a driver took her bag and walked her out to his car after she found him holding up a small dry erase board, which had “V Stadler” written on it in boxy green capital letters.
As the car got closer to the city, Tory became excited seeing the hustle and bustle of New York City as soon as the black car emerged from the Midtown tunnel. It was late afternoon and already she could see the bars opening, happy hour signage being propped up, groups of friends laughing. In slower traffic, she’d gaze out at the confident stride and trendy heels worn by her much more fashionable peers.
At red lights, her eyes would linger upon the gestures of effective-looking successful men as they gave orders remotely to people by phone while strolling the city browsing bargains and people watching.
There had been talk of the Coronavirus back at Bascom Hall on her college’s campus. The epidemic was spreading rapidly in New York City, making her wonder how she’d spend her free night and day before going back to Madison.
Living at home through her college years didn�
��t often afford her the kind of space for serious personal exploration that she’d prefer to have. There were many parties to go to on campus, but she had often preferred the solitude that allowed her to focus on her work. In many ways, she considered the private time the trip itself presented her with as some small recompense for the years of studious pursuit and valued as much as the prize, her hometown’s accolades and the lavish ceremony to come.
Her check-in went smoothly, and she loved the room. Careful not to mess up the sharp appearance of it, she stripped and showered. Enjoying the water’s warmth and fragrances of tiny products provided by the hotel, Tory closed her eyes and softly began to rub three of her fingertips between her thighs and then over the soft tiny protrusion that made her moan. She pictured the faces of some of the businessmen on the street, the power in their shoulders, the boxy squareness of male hands exploring her body.
Tory masturbated openly, completely abandoned to sheer pleasure, alone for the first time. She felt her clit become harder and wetter as she rubbed it, moaning while she wished she could finally have sex for the first time.
She pictured a tall, handsome man in a suit, who would take it off for her and let her run her hands down his chiseled chest while he kissed her. Then he would have his way with her, and she’d give up the virginity she still carried around with her like an embarrassing secret.
She hadn’t yet met the man in real life who was worthy of it. But in her fantasies, he caressed her body while his tongue was entwined with hers. He grabbed ahold of her large ass cheeks while he gently slid his big cock inside her dripping wet pussy. He thrust in and out of her while playing with her nipples, until she said his name over and over.
In the shower in this gorgeous hotel room, Tory grunted as she came one more time, hoping that soon her fantasy could come to life.
Chapter 2
The elevator door slid open silently. Harlan Dawes stepped out and put his helmet and gloves down on a narrow white buffet table nearby, unzipped his boots and took them off. This afternoon he had decided to ride the Ducati around before dinner.
The motorcycle gave him the much-needed escape from the world of monitors and sleek ergonomic furnishings of the studio. He unzipped his leather jacket and let it fall in a clump as he walked down into the sunken living room.
His 80-inch smart TV came on at his briefest insinuation. An odd-looking man spoke about tech stock futures as worldwide market symbols scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Dawes was twenty-two years old when his eccentric and beloved Uncle Kurt passed away, leaving Harlan his design magazine, Nextthing. Although Harlan had long since given up on the idea of becoming an architect, his Uncle Kurt had always supported his efforts even if Harlan was only designing websites for sneaker companies.
Sixteen years ago, when Harlan took over, it was clear to him that it was time for the small press magazine to catch up with bigger publications that transitioned to successful online presences much earlier.
When he decided to put together an in-house digital design team, it changed the business forever. Many of the marketing professionals who’d made up the magazine’s previous boutique subscribership began using Harlan’s team exclusively and recommending them internationally.
Harlan had been on the cover of Business Week at age thirty. Nexthing.Net occupied the top three floors of a modern midtown building and had just landed an account that put Harlan’s team to work on revamping a popular app’s icon that had been on every iPhone’s desktop for years.
The success of recent years left him feeling challenged socially. Ideally tall, with a full head of dark hair and good bone structure, Harlan never had a problem attracting women when he was poor, but the fish in a barrel reality that wealth provided started to bore him. Certain the models, social media influencers and trust fund set were only sleeping with his status, he felt they were only women who may not necessarily have been in love with his mind.
He missed wholesome, down to earth women, like he had been known to date in high school. But his world was so different now that he wondered how he would ever find one.
Harlan worked out daily to maintain a chiseled appearance so he could be assured every woman’s compliment was at least based on something, unlike the hollow laughter and feigned enthusiasm often encountered for his personal pursuits.
Whenever he had met a woman he was attracted to, who had risen to similar status in a similar or related profession, she was as domineering and jaded as he himself felt he was. In most cases he was inspired by many of them, had hired or had been hired by some others, but it never led anywhere else.
An email inbox alert pinged and Harlan sat on a sleek dark leather sofa in front of the TV.
“Open new email,” Harlan commanded his virtual assistant.
A window opened and expanded. It was the list of design contest winners, their photos and bios coming from promotions.
The sunset’s warmest hues played over the chrome and white lacquers surfaces of the surrounding furniture. Harlan stepped over to the bar and made himself drink while his smart TV read the email to him.
He may have lacked for human company and interaction these days, but at least he had technology to make his life easier.
Chapter 3
The first hours of the workshops were quite exciting. Tory learned a couple of interesting interface solutions and software hacks she couldn’t wait to try out.
As the sessions went on, she became distracted by one of the contest winners from Italy talking about the awful wave of Coronavirus deaths in Milan and other cities. Her name was Giada, and like Tory she was a junior, except that she went to school in Manhattan. She had plans to go back home to Milan and was starting to worry about it.
Another contest winner was a programmer from India named Mahira Shah.
Mahira told them about a 14-year-old Indian prodigy, Abihigya Anand, who predicted a world crippling pandemic during the previous summer.
All three young women had accommodations at the W and shared an Uber car back to the hotel after the final sessions. In the lobby they ran into Peter Pratt, the Font design winner, who was also at the W, and who joined them for dinner. The evening was cool, and together they walked along 3rd Avenue from 28th Street up to 33rd before unanimously deciding on a Sushi bar.
After dinner, Peter walked with them back to the Hotel. He had plans for the Lower West Side and rushed up to his room to change. Giada wanted to go up to her room and Skype with people overseas.
Mahira and Tory sat at the bar in the lobby and ordered cocktails. Watching people walk back and forth outside the plate glass, they talked about the spread of the disease in NYC and joked about meeting guys at the bar for one-night-stands. Tory was just playing along with what Mahira was saying, because she had never had a one-night-stand and felt she would be too nervous and scared to do so if the opportunity presented itself.
Mahira asked Tory if she’d seen Harlan Dawes in person yet.
“I don’t think so,” she said, thinking about it as Mahira scrolled through the content on her phone.
“I like these,” Mahira said, passing her the phone.
They gigglde, passing back and forth publicity pics of Harlan from an interview he had given while driving a new electric sports car with a bikini-clad Estonian Supermodel getting comfortable in his lap.
“Do you think he’s playing into his image in these photos or are these photos images of him at play?” Mahira asked, then sipped her drink.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Tory told her and motioned to the bartender for another round.
Up in her room, Tory drifted off to sleep with the news on, the cacophony of the city churning beyond.
She dreamed of careening along a sinuously treacherous mountain road at sundown, graded hairpin curves, and blind slopes in a silent electric sports car.
On Harlin’s lap, she opened herself to him as much as possible, his right hand squeezing the triangle of cloth between her thighs while trying t
o position her solidly onto the throbbing bulge in his pants.
As the road narrowed absurdly and the sun plunged into the depths of surrounding valleys, the swimsuit began to shrink, getting smaller and tighter, working its way up between her legs, shriveling to bright swatches of cloth tightening rapidly on her huge swollen nipples.
The sports car seemed to hit a barrier or membrane of darkness, slowing it and everything else down as her orgasm expanded around her like fireworks at speed of ripples spreading in a pond. She woke up breathless, damp and still a little drunk.
She laughed a bit, flipped her pillow over to the cool dry side and went back to sleep until she finally had to wake up and get ready for the day.
***
Nextthing.Net had a small auditorium, modern and modular, with clear nods to Deco or perhaps Bauhaus in the detail. Comfortable in a dark pantsuit, hair pulled away from her face in a neat French braid and her dark rimmed glasses, Tory gave her presentation as confidently as possible, hoping that no one noticed her almost caution pronunciation of multisyllabic words and exotic jargon.
Knowing that Harlan was somewhere in the darkened audience of CEOs, designers and press people distracted her with random flashes of her dream, mixed in with the look of erotic surrender on the supermodel’s face in the interview photos. She felt her delivery came off as somewhat spaced, but she couldn’t care less, since the prize had already been won and the day's presentation was merely a formality for Nextthing.Net and the media.
Before going back to the Hotel to change for dinner and the awards ceremony, Tory went back into the modern auditorium when it was empty to take some pictures of it like that. Upon hearing voices, she was immediately silent. Harlan was speaking to a black clothing-clad assistant, with a sleek Bluetooth unit twinkling in her ear. She read something to him from a tablet while speaking to someone else.