Page 64 of Look, Don't Touch

“Now recenter with two meaningful breaths.” I do as I say, hoping for sanity. Then I drop my hands. “You can meditate for as long as you’d like. Before bed might be a great way to unwind, shoes off in the grass.” I shrug and head for what I believe is the exit he was headed for earlier.

He follows close, making an effort for me to hear his footfalls. The cold slaps me in the face, but I don’t feel it. I’m too worked up over this man. I give a wide berth to a truck I’m surprised fits on the city streets. Then see a four-bay garage. One door opens with the click of a button. He walks to the passenger side of a charcoal-colored sports car and opens the door.

I slide between his body and the low-slung car. The whiff of him is the best aphrodisiac. Talk about positive association.

“Thank you.” I choke as I sit with my feet still outside the car and gather my coat close.

“My pleasure.” His voice is so raw and unique.

It is my pleasure. It filters through my ears and slides into my brain, drugging me. He makes no move to step away or close the door. Instead, he leans on the open frame. His teeth grab his lip, and I’m entranced.

Looking at him and seeing this man's nuances has me yearning for things I’ve never dreamed of wanting. Things that actually terrify me, with him, seem impossibly attainable. An oxymoron if I've ever heard one.

His presence calls to my body. As if it knows what I need better than my brain. I’m making a mess of my panties.

Again, I’m thankful for my coat, but it’s as if he can see beneath it and read me like a large print coffee table book splayed wide in the midday sun.

He licks his lips.

My clit pulses, and I have to look away. Of course, the bulge in his pants probably isn’t the best place to look. But I do. His length travels across his thigh while his girth tests the tensile strength of his finely knitted trousers.

The blood whooshes in my ears.

He drops to his knees on the gravel. His chest heaves in the confines of his suit coat and almost touches my knees. The intensity of his gaze tugs me like a riptide.

“Tell me to stop,” he demands.

I should. Nothing good can come from this. My body doesn’t care.

The shake of my head is small and slow but concise.

“Open your legs.” This order is softer and more tentative. I obey without hesitation. The heels of my high boots bracket the sides of his body without touching. My skirt creates a sagging tent between my legs.

His hands hook around my stocking and skirt-covered knees. He pulls me closer, as though he’s put his hands on me a hundred times. I guess, in a way, he has touched me more than anyone before. He tugs until my ass sits on the precipice of the leather seat.

My hands shake, and my heart bucks like a wild thing trapped inside the cage of my chest. We’re face-to-face. Tits to chest. V to D. I might pass out. If I don’t, I think this will be the most death-defying thing I’ve ever done.

And that’s saying something.

He grabs the back of my neck. It propels a gasp from my lungs. He doesn’t touch. But he’s touching me, my skin. I don’t kiss. But I’d let him press his lips to mine.

“Fuck me,” he snarls.

“If…you need to stop, we can.” I can kick myself for those words. If he stops, I might actually die.

“No danger of that.” He levers me back. “Elbows on the console.”

I’m too amped to fully appreciate his progress, or mine for that matter. I do as I’m told and stare down at the mass of exquisite man between my legs. He releases his hold on my neck, grips both my ankles, lifts my boots off the ground and wedges the heels inside the frame of the door.

Slowly, he pulls my long peach skirt over my knees, along my thighs, and across my aching cunt. I’m open, fully exposed, except for the belt of my garter and the thin lace of my panties.

“Remember your safe word?”

I’m nodding before my mouth can form a sound.

“Let me hear you,” he orders.

“Yes, I remember my safe word.” I pant.

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