Page 8 of Toy Shop

When I start scooting myself in, he places a hand on my shoulder, seeing through my nerves. I glance up at him. His serenity hasn’t left. In fact, it’s pouring out of him in waves is another promise, an unspoken one. I won’t let harm come to you.

It sinks in by the time he takes his own seat, the dark pools of need probing me. “I’m going to touch you.”

I gotta hold on to being an equal, somehow, raising my chin an increment. “You or a toy?”

A smirk takes over more than his just lips. His eyes light up in mischief, nostrils flaring at the challenge. From his answers, I’m able to discern he hasn’t heard the word no or had someone challenge him in a while.

Though it looks like he kinda likes it.

“I will. Do I have your permission?”

“Yes.” Though I can’t promise to not spontaneously combust.

John doesn’t waste a second, his palm landing on the bare skin of my thigh. He rubs it, massaging the flesh, each long finger digging deep into my skin.

In the background, I vaguely register the music pouring over the speakers. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit plays loud enough to penetrate through my cloud of lust. The rumbling tune sounds as though I’m listening to it underwater.

The whole world turns dull, everything except John. His fragrance increases in its potency, his features a compilation of rough edges. The words he says reach my ears, lodging in my very soul.

His hand courses up my thigh, teasing the hem of my skirt. “How do you like that?”

I look him dead in the eye, but I can feel my composure wilting. “Fine.”

His eyes narrow, his fingers sliding under the fabric. He flexes them, then clenches furiously, bruising me. “And this?”

“It’s…” I utter past gritted teeth, “…nice.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” Higher and higher he goes, eyes darkening each inch he climbs. “I don’t play nice.”

The drums of the song echo louder—or maybe it’s my heart. Could be both.

John’s palm presses into the bare skin of my pussy, panties free. “What do you know, Miss Nola isn’t crazy about the concept of nice, either.”

There isn’t a moment or space in my lungs to form a coherent reply. John sinks two fingers inside me with no preamble, penetrating and filling me. He curls them inside, probing for my G-spot.

“Oh, God.” My hips buckle, my toes curling in my heels.

He finds it, and he doesn’t let go, stroking and rubbing the inside of my walls. The heel of his palm pushes at my clit, his mouth doting unrushed, calculated kisses to my exposed neck.

“Shit,” he grunts.

His voice over the phone was decadent. The voice I’m listening to now, while his lips coast my jawline and his words reverberate on my hyper-sensitized nerve endings, is as sinister as if Lucifer himself were delivering them to me.

“I thought I fucked up earlier,” he murmurs coarse whispers. “Forgot to ask you to add lube to the order. Glad we won’t need it, after all.”

To make his point, John removes his fingers, swirling them over my clit. His touch is smooth, the pads of his fingers wide, and work my mound deftly. Even though I never let anyone go down on me before, the intense pleasure he gives me is the next best and feels like it could definitely be it.

John spreads the moisture across my pussy, flicking my clit bottom up. “So fucking wet, you’re soaking through this dress, dripping on my chair.”

Awareness snaps into my aroused trance. I cease my writhing, clamping my legs together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t be. I sure as hell am not.” He probes my legs apart, removing his fingers from my pussy. “Not about your sweet pussy soaking through my chairs.”

More worry is added to my panicked state, but John soothes me by opening me wider, thus forbidding me from clamping. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry no one’s offered you this experience before. Whoever you’ve been with obviously had no idea what they had on their hands. They had to be idiots to miss out on this.”

John raises his gaze to clash into mine, my longing gaze an approval for him to go on. His lips twitch. Holding my stare, he brings his damp fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. “You taste as fine as you look, Nolita.”

I gulp, helpless against this slaughter of sexiness oozing off him. I don’t even care about the hint at Lolita, about the young reference. For the sensual experience he’s giving me, I’m willing to take the role of anything and anyone he’d order me to be.

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