Page 7 of Older Hotter Grumpier
My clit doesn’t care that he isn’t watching. It’s throbbing from the combination of this book and being close to my sexy boss.
“You’re squirming, Miss Button.”
I freeze.
“I am?” I ask in a little voice, as though I’m somehow not aware that I’ve been trying to get some pressure on my clit.
“Why don’t you do it?” he rumbles.
“What?” I’m not understanding this conversation, too fogged from reading this book and from the sensation of his knowing presence.
“You know.” He turns his head slowly towards me and raises his eyebrows. “What you normally do when you read a book like that.”
“How…” I was going to ask how he knows what kind of book it is, but… Yeah. Okay. He saw what I was about to do. He knows what sort of book this is.
At least he doesn’t know all that stuff about blue eyes, and a massive cock, and breeding… The thought of him knowing I like reading that, and making inferences—correctly—about what I daydream about… This time I can’t even pretend the blush is pure embarrassment. It’s not. It’s arousal that makes my nipples peak.
“Lift your skirt, Miss Button.”
Like I’m his puppet, my hands go to the hem of my dress. The dress is soft as it drags up my thighs.
He’s watching me intently.
I pause when the bunched fabric would reveal my white cotton underwear, reluctant to show him. He’s sophisticated and wealthy, and I’m… Just me. In my normal panties with my boring self. I’m his toy.
And that thought makes my clit twitch.
His toy.
I had no idea I had this kink.
“Go on,” he croons. “Exactly as you were going to do earlier. Ignore me.” Leaning back, he slides his hand into his lap and my imagination fills in the gaps as I hear a rustle. Is he hard?
Heart hammering, I push my hand under my dress and let out a little whine as my fingers rub against the cotton.
“That’s it. Touch yourself.”
I’m helpless to do anything other than what he directs. My knickers are soaking.
“Are you wet, my pretty girl?”
Nodding, I writhe. Am I his pretty girl? I’d love to ask, but I’m afraid of the answer. That it’s just a casual word, and doesn’t mean anything. I’d rather stick with my fantasy that I’m his good girl, his pretty girl. As in.His.
Pressing my clit through the cotton, pleasure flares out.
“Let me see.”
It must be the lure of his voice, because I slide my skirt further up, revealing my knickers in all their plain, virginal not-glory.
Mr Blackwood nods. “Very good. My good girl. I can see them glistening. Now part your legs and reach inside for me.”
He’s utterly motionless and controlled as I’m writhing, unleashed and needy. I thought that my book was hot? It was nothing compared to my boss telling me what to do.
I let my knees fall apart and slip my hand into my knickers, and down until I reach slick moisture first, then the soft folds of my sex. I’ve done this plenty of times over the last eighteen months—touch myself and think of Mr Blackwood—but it’s never felt like this. Not so vivid. It’s like I’ve lived everything up until now on a cloudy day, and suddenly Mr Blackwood has shoved me into the dazzling sunshine.
Every movement of my fingers over my clit is a hundred times bigger than it ever has been before. I circle where I’m most sensitive. There’s no resistance, only my hand stretching out the white cotton.
There’s a soft groan from the other side of the room. It’s Mr Blackwood.
