Page 66 of Vivacity
‘It was fine.’ He takes a hurried slug of the champagne.
Uh-oh. ‘Do you want to talk about it, or…’
‘No.’ He takes another generous swallow and sets his flute down on the console with the restless energy of a caged panther who’s decided he’s not messing around anymore. ‘Come here.’
I take a step towards him, admiring the devastating hunger in the way he’s looking at me, although I probably should take it as a warning sign rather than a personal compliment. It’s clear the man needs a hell of a distraction, and I’m happy to be that for him.
He took a huge step today. Often, when we push our nervous system like that, we regress instantly. Retract. And while it can feel like going backwards in terms of progress, it’s very normal. We take a risk, then we scurry back to what we perceive as safety, to our cave, until we feel secure enough to venture forward again. And so on. One step at a time, until we build our tolerance, until we gather enough data to prove that these steps forward are safe.
If Ethan feeling safe means circling back to what he knows—that he can command my body; that I’ll take everything he needs to give me; that I’ll be putty in those very capable hands of his—that’s fine by me. He’s a beautiful man, and I must admit he’s impossible to resist when he’s like this: all wound up and intense and in need of blowing off some steam.
I’m wearing a new favourite dress today. Last weekend, I reluctantly did some winter shopping, and I have to say this Gucci number is spectacular. It’s a Seventies-style shirt-waister dress in ivory wool, with the brand’s trademark navy-and-red striped trims on the collar, the cuffs and the pretty pocket flaps. It’s givingretro air stewardess, and I could totally get on board with stripping for an autocratic Ethan on his jet sometime. Huge gold buttons complete the look. I may have undone another one while I waited for my boss, meaning he now has a perfect glimpse of the ivory lace beneath.
He holds his champagne flute imperiously to my mouth. ‘Drink.’
I let my eyelids flutter closed as he feeds me a mouthful of champagne.
‘Swallow.’
It’s a lovely Bollinger Grande Année. There are definitely worse ways to spend a weekday afternoon. Dutifully, I swallow, and he watches my mouth as I lick my lips afterwards. I’ve matched my lipstick to my Gucci trim today—a classic cherry red.
‘Good. Now take off the dress for me. Nice and slowly.’
Nicely, slowly, like the obedient little thing he longs to dominate right now, I slip the big gold buttons through their buttonholes and shrug the dress off my shoulders. Ethan eyes my body like a very hungry lion might size up a juicy little wildebeest.
‘Lovely. Now reach behind and unhook your bra.’
Micromanagement has never been so hot. I reach behind myself, thrusting my boobs at him as I do, and unhook it, letting it slide over my shoulders and down to the floor.
He raises the arm holding the flute and dribbles a little champagne over my left breast. It’s a cold, wet shock, and I let out a little giggle of surprise. Without missing a beat, he bends and licks a trail down my chest before sucking my nipple into his mouth hard. The ravenous sound he makes at the back of his throat has my pussy clenching just as much as the sensation of his hungry pulls do.
‘There isnothingbetter in the world than drinking champagne off your magnificent tits, sweetheart,’ he tells me hoarsely, glancing up at me through his lashes. I moan in response and grab his shoulder, widening my stance to keep my balance. He proceeds to give my right breast the same treatment, and I stand there, clutching his shoulder and grabbing at his hairand arching into him as he sucks and licks, his tongue flicking over my nipple in a way that makes me need it on my clitnow.
He straightens up. ‘Lose everything and get on the bed. I don’t want a scrap of clothing on you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I tell him, pushing down my thong and unhooking my suspender belt so quickly it’s positively indecent. I shove off my shoes and stockings and practically vault onto the huge white bed before flipping so I’m on my back, up on my elbows, legs akimbo. I hope Ethan sees the mental equivalent of big flashing neon arrows pointing straight at my pussy.
NUMB HERECUM HERE
He stands at the end of the bed looking flushed and gorgeous, his mouth already swollen from his suckling. Without taking his eyes off me, he wrenches off his suit jacket, throwing it on the floor, and makes fast work of his shirt buttons. What he lacks in dexterity he makes up for in general hotness. He tugs his shirt out of his trousers and finishes the job before wrestling his belt and fly open. Down go the trousers and boxers. He bends, gets everything else off, and straightens up.
Holy fuck. So hard. So gorgeous. So good.
He points. ‘Don’t movea muscle.’ Then he’s grabbing not his flute but the actual champagne bottle and climbing onto the bed. Rearing up on his knees, he takes a swig, and I ogle him. Head thrown back, throat working sexily, pecs and abs and delts and biceps looking for all the world like the craftsmanship of the gods, so finely honed are they.
‘Hmm.’ He launches forward so he’s crouched over me, bracing himself on one taut forearm, and covers most of the bottle’s mouth with his thumb, like you would a bottle of olive oil. Then he’s drizzling champagne in cold splashes over myboobs, my stomach, and between my legs. I squeal and flinch, smiling widely, and he bends so he can place the bottle on the floor.
‘I knew you’d be the best fucking distraction ever,’ he tells me, bending to slurp champagne from my bellybutton. ‘But you are fucking useless at following instructions.Don’t. Move.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I snap to attention, ignoring the rivulets of Bollinger trickling down my sides, into my pussy. Having a guy lick vintage champagne off your body is a sure-fire way to remind yourself that you are, in fact, a hooker, and I’m here for it. It could be worse, I suppose. At least he’s not doing lines of coke like one of Thad’s sleazy friends used to insist on doing.
No, Ethan here is getting his rocks off by making it all about me. It’s not alcohol he’s craving a hit of—it’s control. And it’s my job to give it to him. To lie here like a good girl and take every ounce of pleasure he’s giving me as his tongue laps at my skin, as he moves up my body to feast on my breasts like they might actually lactate Bolly if he sucks hard enough.
And if that pleasure grows too intense, if my body starts to struggle with all this need banking inside it, if I begin to shake, to moan, with the effort of staying still when I want to flail and writhe when his fingers push roughly inside me, then I’ll give him that, too. His victory will feel all the sweeter if he knows how hard it is for me to yield all this power over to him.
I’ll be his prize.
The prize he told me I was all those weeks ago, the first night I met him.
