Page 47 of Surprise Me Tonight
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he growls, his voice a mix of satisfaction and dominance. “Tell me, Stella, how much you want this.”
I stare outside, the city lights a blur through the glass. “More than I can say,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I want you to take me.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of my knickers, pulling them down slowly, the fabric sliding over my thighs. I step out of them, leaving them on the floor, a discarded reminder of my surrender. His hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me, his touch both gentle and commanding.
“Spread your legs,” he orders, his voice firm.
I do as he says, my thighs parting, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the heat pooling between my legs. His hand slides between them, his fingers teasing my folds, his touch deliberate and slow. I bite my lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway, a soft sound of need.
“Such a filthy girl,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing harder, his thumb brushing against my clit. “You like being used like this, don’t you? With the whole city watching?”
I gasp at his words, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment and desire. The idea of being exposed, of the city spread out below us, unaware of what’s happening here, only heightens the thrill. “Yes,” I breathe, my voice barely audible. “I do.” I never realised dirty talk could do this to me, but the way he speaks has me burning up.
Without warning, he steps closer, his belt already undone, his trousers loosened. I feel the tip of his cock press against my entrance, thick and insistent. “Hold onto thewindow,” he commands, his voice a mix of urgency and control.
I grip the frame, my knuckles white, as he thrusts into me in one smooth motion. A sharp cry escapes my lips as he fills me, his size stretching me, his hardness a stark contrast to my softness. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, pulling back before slamming into me again, his rhythm relentless.
“Stardust,” he groans, his voice strained. “You feel so good.”
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my skin as he pounds into me, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the quiet room. My palms pressed against the thick glass, the city lights a dizzying blur as my head falls back, my hair cascading over my shoulders as he pulls of the bobble.
“Look at us,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear. “Letting me fuck you against a window for the whole city to see you. You like that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I pant, my voice broken. “Yes!” I know we are too high for anyone to even notice us but it doesn’t make the thrill any less exhilarating.
His thrusts quicken, his control slipping as he chases his release. I’m close too, my body tightening around him, my orgasm building like a storm. “Come for me,” he demands, his voice harsh. “Come on my cock.”
His words push me over the edge, my body shaking as pleasure washes over me, my cries muffled by the glass. He follows moments later, his grip on my hips tightening as he empties himself inside me, his grunts of satisfaction filling the air.
For a moment, we stay like that, his body pressed against mine, our breaths ragged, the city below us. Slowly, he pulls out, his hand sliding down my back, his touch tender now. He turns me to face him, his eyes searching mine, his expression unreadable.
But as our breathing slows and my pulse steadies, I feel it — the weight of his gaze. Still locked on me, like he’s trying to pin something down that he doesn’t quite have language for.
I brush my fingers his hair before I cup his cheek. His skin is warm beneath my palm, and mine feels flushed and alive, as though I’ve just remembered I have nerve endings.
“Come shower with me,” I murmur, not quite a question.
The bathroom is vast — glass and stone, rainfall shower, white towels the size of blankets. The kind of hotel luxury that feels a little absurd until you’re here, under the water, his arms braced on either side of me, steam curling around us like a veil.
There’s no sex in the shower. No grabby hands. Just warmth and hands through hair and the kind of silences that don’t ask to be filled.
Afterwards, we end up tangled on the bed, the duvet cool against our skin. He lies on his back, one arm folded behind his head, his other hand resting lightly on my hip. I lie facing him, head on his shoulder, the city still glittering quietly through the massive windows beyond.
It should feel strange — lying naked in a five-star hotel with my boss, after technically one and a half dates, if we’re being generous — but it doesn’t. It feels like something that’s been waiting.
“Tell me about your daughter,” he says, voice low.
I smile. “Vicky.”
“Yeah. What’s she like?”
I trace my finger lazily along the line of his chest tracing the outlines of his tattoos. “Bright. Stubborn. Beautiful. She’s studying psychology in Leeds, wants to be a therapist, probably because she had to grow up with two emotionally constipated parents.”
That gets a low laugh out of him. “You don’t seem emotionally constipated.”
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, “that took work.”
He shifts slightly, enough to tuck me in closer. “You’re proud of her.”
