12

                                    

                                          
Isabella
Blake is waiting downstairs, combating boredom while sprawled across the couch, cigar in hand, counting how long we're all going to take to finish up and head to the club. The bitter tang is strong in the air...maybe he's occupied and wouldn't mind a couple minutes with the comfort of his cigarette. And Aya and Seb―they won't be out for a good ten minutes. I can have a lot of fun in the span of ten minutes.
I stomp over to the door, the clack of my heels against the floorboard resonant, and twist open the knob. Before I invite myself into the confines that store lustful promises, I let him react. Maybe he doesn't want me in there. The band of his tracksuit snaps.
"Over here, beautiful."
The sight before me is a temptation. A hand has slipped beneath his pants, moving gently, and the other is rested upon his thigh. His chin is slightly lifted, and he smirks as he says wearily, "I couldn't help myself. You just look so...delicious. I'd love your help."
His strokes speed with my every step towards him.
"You want me to work for your sake?" I reach him, and as I look down, I can't avert my eyes from the movements playing under his tracksuit. "What if I just walk out?"
A deep, lazy chuckle escapes him, and that just makes me more inclined to rip open his pants and suck him off. But I won't feed him a bite of my desperation. Not yet.
"You can do whatever you want. You've already done enough by looking so perfect, and now I have a marvelous image in my mind to get me started." A glance at his lap. "An image that's already got me started, sorry. Will you stay here and continue looking pretty for me?"
One of those treacherous tendencies of mine conquers my limbs and takes me onto his lap. He gasps and works faster, his focus jumping between my breasts and face. I hold onto his shoulders, and they become tense on my touch.
"Show me what's under your dress," he exhales.
I'd walked out of Aya's room with a clear plan put in place. I wanted to give Andreas a clear view of my body, show him exactly what I wasn't going to give him, strut past without a second glance, and engage in some dirty activity at the club. Then I'd return home with smeared make-up, a rumpled dress, swollen lips, and walk into his room, heavy with the product of lust.
All of it has gone to shreds. I draw my dress up above my hips, watching as he's absorbed by every inch of revealed skin and moves his hand faster with the view of me in my thin black panties. I set my elbows on his chest, wrap my hands around his neck.
His gaze wanders around my appearance―my face, the opening of my dress, my cunt hidden beneath a lace that's becoming soggy. He's groaning as he fucks himself, masturbating below me, using my body for his pleasure, and I'm enjoying it. If Jasper were in his spot, I'd jump off him and puke in the sink. He never gave me anything, and from Andreas, I've already had the two best finger fucks of my life.
When he gasps, struck by the beginning of his release, he pulls his hand from underneath his pants and takes my hips, squeezing. "Get on the floor," he pants. "I want to see how pretty your mouth looks wrapped around my cock, and if I like what I see, which I know I will, then I'll put our toys away and I won't be using them to keep you here for tonight."
"What if I want to use them?"
"Oh, you clueless girl. You seem to be presuming that it'll be a friendly experience for you. Come on. On your knees." Whacking my hand across his face would be a suitable exertion for demonstrating how not-calm I'm feeling right now. I'd do it if I wasn't aching to taste him.