by Roxie Noir
“I bet this place is haunted,” he murmurs, after a moment.
It’s not what I was expecting.
“Haunted?”
“You know, with ghosts.”
“Oh!” I say, and roll my eyes. “I thought you meant the other kind of haunting, with kangaroos.”
“Kangaroos?” he asks, voice low, still walking me backward. “That’s just —”
Seth grabs my ass with one hand, squeezes.
I squeak with surprise.
“— shit, that’s a frisky ghost,” he says, grinning. “I didn’t think somewhere this fancy would have ghosts who would be that inapprop —"
This time he grabs my ass with both hands, and I start laughing.
“I think he’s trying to tell us something,” Seth whispers.
“How do you know it’s a male ghost?” I whisper back.
He’s still walking me backward, ass firmly in both hands, his fingers sliding a little with the dress at every step.
“Maybe it’s a lesbian,” I go on. “I’m very popular with Lainey’s derby — oof.”
I didn’t know there was a wall behind me until Seth backs me into it, takes his hands off my ass, slides them over my hips, along my torso.
“Can’t imagine why,” he says, and kisses me. It’s a short, teasing kiss, and I stand on my tiptoes. “You’re just some feisty, tattooed redhead with an incredible rack and a gold medal ass.”
I’m still laughing as we kiss again and I take his lower lip between my teeth, just hard enough to let him know I can.
“Thanks for the compliment, but I’ve never even qualified for the ass-Olympics,” I say.
“I could arrange some tryouts,” Seth says, his voice low and gravelly and teasing.
I slip two fingers under the waistband of his trousers, nothing between the hard warmth of his hip except the tail of his white dress shirt.
“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” I murmur into his mouth.
I pull him closer, on my tiptoes. He’s hard as a rock already and I shift my hips against his erection, his tongue in my mouth, my heart pounding. It’s all I can do not to pull down his zipper, wrap my legs around him, and let him fuck me against this wall.
“It doesn’t have to be good,” he says, as my other hand strays to his open collar, finds the next button. “It just has to work. Quit it.”
“You let me before,” I say, fingers still fumbling.
Seth grabs my wrist, pulls it away from his shirt.
“You can’t just undress me here, you know.”
“It’s just one button.”
“There are only so many on a shirt,” he says, not relinquishing my wrist. “Keep undoing them and the whole thing comes off.”
“Is that how that works?” I tease, faux-astonished. “What about pants? Same thing?”
“You can’t take those off me here, either,” he says, and lets my wrist go.
I kiss him again, my back arching. His shirt rides up under my fingers and the feeling of skin on skin sends a jolt up my spine.
My hand’s on his chest, and I find the button again.
“Just one,” I bargain, teasing.
“Absolutely not,” he says. “You know one thing leads to another and then your entire family is going to round that corner only to find me on my knees with my head up your skirt, and then Vera will never invite me to another event, ever.”
I’m silent for a moment, thighs squeezed together, grappling with the thought of Seth under my skirt, the heat inside intensifying to a slippery ache.
I haven’t had sex for two years, and now I’ve had plenty of champagne and the man whose business cards should say good with his tongue is talking about eating me out practically in public.
I’m somewhat aroused, is what I’m saying.
“I don’t think she’d invite me either,” I finally say. “She was mad enough about the tattoos.”
“And she doesn’t even know about all of them.”
“She knows about enough to hate them,” I say, playfully tugging at the button.
“But not the new one.”
“Nope.”
His nose brushes mine and we kiss, open-mouthed, as I tug him toward me by his clothes.
“She know about the garters?”
“Please.”
“How about the butterfly?”
As he asks, he puts his palm right over the spot where it used to be, the crease where my hip meets my thigh, and he squeezes. Silk slides over my skin, my dress moving slightly askew, every tiny hair on my body standing at the sensation.
I prop one foot against the wall, knee against the outside of his leg.
“What butterfly?” I ask, all innocence and eyelashes.
“The one you like licked,” he growls, his thumb moving over the spot again. “Don’t tell me you got rid of it.”
“It was a terrible tattoo.”
Now his thumb’s circling that spot, catching on the edge of my panties, and with every stroke my hips move like he’s winding them up.
“I liked it,” he says. “The garters? Don’t tell me the garters are gone.”
The button on his shirt finally pops open beneath my finger as his thumb moves and my hips respond, my other hand fisted around his belt, my knuckles against warm flesh.
“Those old things?” I tease.
“I liked those old things,” he says, and his hand moves away from my hip and down my thigh. “You can’t just get rid of all your old tattoos.”
“I could.”
His hand closes around my thigh, exactly where I’ve got a tattooed lace garter.
“You didn’t,” he says, his voice lowering. “C’mon.”
“Find out,” I tell him, bringing his mouth back down to mine.
Instantly, there’s cool air on my leg and I make a hmmm? noise into Seth’s mouth. It takes half a second for me to realize that in one flourish he’s grabbed my skirt, pulled it up, and now he’s hiking my knee against his hip and steadying me with his other arm and then pulling away from our kiss to look down.
“I meant later,” I say, a little breathless. “I was trying to be coy —”
“Didn’t work,” he says, looking down at the tattoo, then up at me, grinning. “Coy? For fuck’s sake, Delilah.”
“A girl can try.”
He runs his fingers over the inked lace, circles them to the back of my thigh where I’ve got a bright red bow tattooed, a matching one on my other leg.
After I got divorced, I went through kind of a wild phase. I wore a lot of short skirts, tried burlesque, smoked, drank too much, had my first and only one-night stand, and got lingerie permanently tattooed on my body. The phase didn’t last the year, but tattoos are more or less forever.
Besides, I got rid of all the short skirts. No one ever sees the garter tattoos.
“Being coy doesn’t exactly play to your strengths,” he says.
His fingertips push underneath the gathered pink silk on my thigh. I look down, watch his fingers disappear underneath the fabric: knuckles, hand, wrist, and then he finds the edge of my panties from under my skirt, toys with them.
My heartbeat feels like it’s pounding through my whole body, my skin one big delicious ache. I have to remind myself to breathe, my corset-bra tight over my ribcage.
“Seems like it’s working now,” I point out, sliding my hand around the back of his neck.
“That’s because your attempt wasn’t very coy, was it?” he asks.
Lightly, almost casually, he flicks the tip of his thumb across my clit.
My entire body jerks, and I gasp.
I swear to God Seth’s pupils dilate, as if he’s a predator who’s spotted his prey. The wickedest smile spreads across his face.
“Want me to try again?” I whisper.
“To be coy?”
He moves his thumb again, this time sliding it over my clit through my panties. This time I’m ready and the only part that moves is my hips, rolling towar
d him, seeking a rhythm.
I just nod to answer his question, and his hand keeps moving: slide, slide, his movements becoming tempo, even if it’s slower than I’d like.
“Go ahead,” he says, that hungry, delighted grin still on his face. “Tell me something coy while I play with your clit right outside your sister’s wedding.”
He moves the tiniest bit faster, and my eyes stutter closed. My head goes back against the wall, and I take a deep breath, bite my lips together with my teeth.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
“I don’t think that’s it.”
I force my eyes open and look at him.
“This isn’t…”
A wave of pleasure knocks me backward. My train of thought dissolves. My eyes are closed again and the back of his neck is cool beneath my fingers.
“Go on,” he says after a moment.
He’s laughing. I can tell. I’d like to kill him but then he’d stop.
I haven’t had sex in the two years and few months since the last time I fucked Seth. In all that time it’s been me and a few different vibrators, and while I’m strongly in favor of some self-love, it’s not the same.
A vibrator doesn’t slowly tease your clit the tiniest bit slower than you want. A vibrator doesn’t move a little faster when you make a noise. It doesn’t bite your earlobe when you turn your head to one side, cool plaster under your cheek, wainscoting gripped in your other hand.
And I’ve never once heard myself whisper, “I’m gonna come,” to a vibrator, nor has a vibrator ever whispered back, “Please.”
Somehow, when that wave crests and slams through me, I don’t make a noise. I don’t moan or shout Seth’s name or even whimper, I just gasp for breath and press myself against the wall and feel my face flushing and my legs tremble.
Seth pulls his hand away. My skirt hasn’t even hit the floor when he kisses me again, his hand going to my face and his fingers locking into my impossible hair, pinned back and sticky with hairspray and a dozen other things.
He pushes me against the wall like he can push me through it, kisses me like we’re fucking. His shirt’s come untucked and I slide my hand under it, his happy trail tickling through my fingers.
“The fuck are you doing?” he growls, into my mouth. “I already told you not to undress me here.”
I don’t answer. I just slide the palm of my hand down until it finds his cock, thick and hard as fuck below the zipper of his pants.
“I don’t need to undress you,” I tell him. “Just unzip.”
He pushes me even harder, his hips driving his erection against the flat of my palm as he groans softly, into my ear.
“Cabin,” he says. “Now.”
“It’s a chateau,” I tease as I stroke him again, tip to root.
“I don’t care what it’s called, we need to go there before someone catches us fucking against this wall.”
“Is that a prom—”
He puts the pad of one thumb over my mouth.
“You know goddamn well it’s a promise,” he says.
I open my mouth. Lick his thumb. He pushes it between my lips and I close them, suck on it gently.
His cock twitches against my palm, and I lick his thumb one more time, let him pull his hand away.
“It’s the last one in the row,” I say. “Number twelve. Here.”
I pull the key from my pocket, and Seth takes it, those ferocious eyes alight.
“You’re not coming?”
“I better be.”
The key’s in his pocket, both hands on my ass. He squeezes in response.
“You’re not accompanying me?”
“I’ll be there in five minutes. Ten, max.”
“That long?”
His fingers find the notch between my ass and my thigh, slide inward, and I want to climb him again.
“At least let me pretend I’m not the bad sister.”
“Oh, you’re the very good sister.”
“Ten minutes,” I say, and tug on his waistband again, pulling him in for another long, slow, deep kiss.
“If you’re not there in ten minutes I’m finding you and throwing you over my shoulder,” he promises. “And I’ve had more than enough whiskey to make good on that promise.”
“Go,” I whisper.
One last kiss, and he does. I watch Seth as he walks from the dark hallway into the brightly lit foyer. He nods at someone I can’t see, and I take a deep breath, lean my head against the wall. I think my legs are still shaking.
Seth doesn’t bother getting his jacket from the ballroom. He just heads for the outside door, looking casual as you please, shirt half undone, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, hair looking like someone’s been grabbing it.
He gives me one last look as he exits, eyes filled with smolder and promise, and then he’s gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Seth
I don’t understand why this place is a thousand dollars a night. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice. It’s nice as hell — stone fireplace, two leather couches, separate bedroom with an enormous four-poster bed, marble-covered bathroom complete with Jacuzzi — but a thousand dollars?
I’m just saying, I’d spend it differently.
While I wait for Delilah, I flip every switch in the place. I turn the lights on, then off, then dim them halfway. I check the blinds. I start the fireplace, find another in the bedroom, start that one too. I even plug my phone into the provided charging dock, and she still hasn’t shown up, so I sprawl on one of the couches, both arms along the top, and wait.
I think about the way she gasped when she came, up against the wall. I think about my thumb in her mouth, about her saying just unzip, about the garter tattoos that she still has, and I’m so hard it hurts.
She’s still not here. It’s been nine minutes. She gets two more — one because she said ten, and an extra one because I’m fucking polite — and then I’m going in there after her.
Just as I’m about to get up, the doorknob turns and the door opens and there she is, that pink dress swirling around her, the fur cape around her shoulders, cheeks and nose pink from the walk.
“I see you didn’t get lost,” she says, unclipping the cape and hanging it neatly on a hook.
“I assume this key only works on one door,” I say. “C’mere.”
Delilah bends down, takes her shoes off. She leaves them in a pile by the door and walks over to me, the drapes of her dress shining dully in the low light, the sway of her hips mesmerizing.
I think I could watch Delilah walk for hours.
“You said ten minutes,” I tease as she crosses the room.
“What’s it been, eleven?”
When she reaches me she pulls her skirt up, over her knees, and then she’s straddling me, her heat and her weight right against my aching cock.
“Closer to twelve, now,” I manage to say, pushing her skirt higher over her thighs, her flesh cool from the cold walk.
Delilah leans in, puts her forehead against mine. She rolls her hips and slides a hand under my shirt and I almost groan out loud, half from sheer desire and half from the pleasure of knowing she wants this just as bad as I do.
Someday, I know, she won’t. Someday she’ll move on without me, but not today.
“You had two whole extra minutes and you’ve still got your clothes on?”
My hands are all the way up her skirt, gripping her bare ass, my fingers sinking in, her skin cold but quickly warming.
“I like it better when you do it,” I tell her she she rolls her hips again and we both hold our breaths for half a second, that whisper of friction utterly delicious.
“Even though you stopped me twice?”
“That was all about context,” I say. “Your fancy chateau is a far cry from the hallway where anyone could walk in.”
Friction. I grab her tighter, pull her against me, and I can’t tell if I imagine the sound she makes or not.
“Door’s locked,” she says. “Is that enough, or sho
uld I go jam a chair under the knob?”
“That depends,” I say, and now my hips are just barely rising to meet hers, both her hands on my skin. “Are you gonna be so loud someone calls the fire department?”
Delilah pulls my tie through my collar and tosses it across the couch, finishes off the last few buttons of my shirt, pulls me forward and I tug it off, follow it with my undershirt.
“Me, loud?” she asks, and her mouth is on mine, her heat grinding into my erection like she can fuck me through our clothes. “I didn’t make a peep before.”
I’m back against the couch as her fingers trace down my chest and the kiss deepens, my tongue in her mouth as I taste her, explore her. Rediscover her.
She undoes my belt, unbuttons me. She sits back with her weight on my knees, lips flushed pink, unzips me.
My hips are off the couch the moment her fingers wrap around my cock, still boxer-clad. She grabs the cushion behind my head to steady herself. Squeezes. Nuzzles her face against mine and grazes her teeth along my earlobe and strokes me again, tip to root and back, until I groan.
“Jesus, I want you,” I whisper. I thrust again and she squeezes even harder, the friction of the thin fabric torture and pleasure all at once.
Then she pushes herself upright. Stands. Regains her balance. I replace her hand with mine, stroking, watching as she pulls her skirt up with a teasing smile on her flushed face, hooks her thumbs under her thong, wiggles as she pulls it down.
Delilah leans in again, her long skirt falling over her as if nothing happened, but before she can straddle me again I grab her, push her onto her knees on the couch, and then I’m standing behind her. I sway, regain my balance as she does the same.
Laughing, earrings swaying as she steadies herself. I find her spine beneath her dress and run a hand up it, slow and steady, and she arches into me as I do until my fingers are at the nape of her neck and the underside of my still-boxer-clad cock is pressed against her slit, pink silk separating us.
This time she moans, and it’s not my imagination. She moans softly and pushes back against me, and before I know what I’m doing I’m taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into me, my other hand in the notch where her hip meets her thigh.