Page 85 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
He stays seated, his eye line forced upward as I approach. It’s not an angle I’ve had much experience with, but I like it. The look in his eyes tells me he does, too.
I stop just shy of him. “Dinner is going to have to wait.”
The book hits the floor with a hollow thump.
Watching him, I reach under my left arm for the tiny hook and eye at the top of my dress, unfastening it with my thumb andforefinger before taking hold of the zipper. I ease it down, feeling the teeth separate as the form-fitting garment loses tension, Ian following the descent of the pull with unblinking focus. He tracks my hand just as intently as I reach up and back for one of the trailing ends of the bow securing the halter, not moving as I coil the ribbon around my finger and pull.
The bow comes apart, but the tension I have on the ribbon keeps the dress from falling off me. I watch Ian’s chest rise and fall with a long, controlled breath. And then another. I hear the pop of a knuckle, and glance at his hands, fingers white-knuckling the armrests of the chair.
I let the ribbon unfurl. The dress falls to the floor.
Ian stops breathing mid-inhale.
Points for boldness, Break Me.
Clad only in a lacy black thong, I step out of the circle of my dress, resisting the impulse to drape it over the back of my desk chair, my eyes fixed on my quarry. Still no sign that he’s breathing, but the throb of his heartbeat is visible against his light sweater.
Speaking of…“I need to touch you.” I nod to indicate the layer. “Take it off.”
The unfinished breath rasps into him, and he’s all action, sweater and shirt coming off in a blur, joining my dress on the floor. Bare-chested and panting, he leans back in the chair, awaiting further instruction.
Bending forward, I gently press his legs together. His eyes are impossibly large as I rest a knee to one side of him, then angle my opposite leg over him to straddle his lap, resting my rear on his thighs. I take his hands, the fingers still tense, and press them to my bare sides. He’s stopped breathing again.
I run my palms over the expanse of his chest, raking my nails through the hair, kneading the slope of his trapezius, then cradling his face in my hands. Leaning in, I draw on his lower lip, nibbling it gently, and his hands relax as he kisses me back. After another moment of coaxing, his hands slide down to my waist and back up to my rib cage, thumbs gliding over the tender skin below my breasts.
I break the kiss, lifting my face from him just enough to ask, “How are you?”
He chokes a laugh. “How am I?” His right hand meanders along my side, coasting down my hip crease toward my center. His fingers smooth over the edge of my thong, and I whimper. But he doesn’t go any farther. He just teases along the border of flesh and fabric. “I thought you didn’t like that question.”
“I don’t like it being asked ofme. But I couldn’t come up with a euphemism for letting you know I’m”—a finger bypasses the elastic—“ready.” He traces the edge of my opening, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “Soready,” I moan.
“Are you?” His finger continues to skirt the heat of me as I pant, unable to speak as he traces up, circling my clitoris, then easing back down. “I think you could use some more time.”
Incredulous, I roll my head to the side to glare at him. He laughs.
“Notmuchmore,” he assures me. “Not unless”—he runs a finger down my seam, parting me—“you want it?”
“Please.”The single, desperate word rips out of me, and gray eyes flash as one of his fingers enters me. I grab his shoulders, nails digging in. He eases in and out, gently, his focus on my face, and I can barely keep my eyes from rolling back.
“You’re sure?” he says thickly. “You’re not in any pain?”
“None.”
“Then I think I should tell you about the stimmy.”
The— I gawk at him, my face still half buried in his shoulder. He is manipulating me like a finger puppet, and the dumbest series of syllables has just fallen out of his mouth.“What?”
“It’s a byproduct of your body’s stress response. From lifting heavy. Like the back squats you did this morning.”
“Why?” I shake my head, bewildered and probably oxygen deprived. “Why are you doing thisnow?”
“Because you’re willing to skip a burrata for the chance to fuck me,” he says, decisively. “The least I can do is make sure you’re set up to get the most out of it.”
I… can’t argue with that? “Okay?” I concede, and force myself upright, gripping the back of his neck for support. “Then do some boob stuff, too.”
His free hand cups my right breast, and I moan. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“Stress response?” I remind him.
