Page 18 of The Lawyer
I’ve found myself sipping the final glass of it out here on the terrace and watching the last of the evening light go by below, perhaps a little too absorbed in her mouth moving around words.
Idiotic. Ten p.m. That’s what I need.
Ten p.m. and something to amuse myself with.
I turn at the sound of the apartment buzzer eventually blaring and walk slowly for the door, rolling my sleeves up as I go with a smile on my face. I don’t know what I expected when I opened the door, but finding an elegant red mask partly hidden behind a long, black, hooded cloak wasn’t it.
“Good evening,” I murmur as I widen the door and wave my hand to invite her in.
She doesn’t answer, and my eyes remain glued to her as she walks into the hallway with the cloak billowing behind her. She seems smaller than I thought she was. Or maybe that's just my height now I'm standing near her. Narrower at the shoulder, more slender. It isn’t until she reaches the lounge area and casts her own gaze outside at the view that I realise I haven’t planned this out at all.
The bedroom would be befitting for a dance like she’s about to perform, but then, who am I to assume that’s what she’d allow. Given the lists of limitations that Jackson sent through earlier, I’m doubtful she’ll even speak let alone stay a minute longer than necessary.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, coming up behind her. She spins at me skittishly and backs up a few paces, shaking her head in the next breath. “Alright. Where would you like to dance?”
She turns and moves out onto the terrace. “Rather open for the type of thing you’re about to do, isn't it?” I ask, following her. Not that anyone can really see us this high up under the shroud of darkness, but there’s an element of me being covetous about her body. Especially while she’s in my apartment.
Still she doesn’t speak. She opens a small bag and gets her phone out instead, red-gloved hands searching for something on it. Ah, music, of course. “Link it up to my system if you like,” I offer, moving to the large bank of soft seating. She holds the phone out to me, a run of music on show. “This would be a lot easier if you spoke.” But she just shakes her head.
I chuckle and link up to the system, then spin through the tracks myself. All classical, all moody rather than light and frivolous. I select a track at randomand pause it immediately, handing the phone back to her. It’s a good start. Low and mysterious. After that, she can choose which track she’d like to dance to. “Any chance that mask’s coming off?”
Again, another head shake.
I chuckle again and let my eyes wander over everything that is mine for the next half an hour, desperate for that cloak to come off. “Alright. Start whenever you’re ready.”
Pouring a glass of brandy, I get comfortable and shift my weight around so I can ease the room in my trousers. I’m already hard at the thought of this, and the likelihood is I’m going to get off without much effort on my part. I’d like to see her do it, too. I’d like to see those fingers inside her rather than just skirting her skin. I’d also like to be the one helping her do it, but it was yet another fucking stipulation that I’ve agreed to.
No touching unless she instigates it.
Music begins to float in the air around us, soft notes letting the song begin. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it, years ago actually, and I watch as she begins getting herself into a poised stance. The cloak drops the moment she’s ready, and I snatch in a sharp breath. Perfect. Long, olive-toned body. Feminine musculature making her tight and firm. Light, near sheer excuse for lingerie covering barely anything at all. I look over the black netting, shifting again the moment I get a sight of her nipples taut because of the cooling night around us. Red flashes of satin on the bra straps, a deep V of it covering her pussy and keeping it from view.
I lick my lips as she moves her hips, circling to the rhythm she’s getting herself lost in. I’m so mesmerised by it that I barely notice the change of music into the next song. All I can see is her skin, her curves, the way she flows effortlessly into the next move she presents me with. And that tattoo on the side of her ribs. What does that mean? A stag, deer? It moves with her, the antlers almost beckoning me to her as she moves.
A light sheen of sweat starts forming after a while, both heightening the arousal in me and the breathy sounds that keep coming from her. I’m so close to grabbing for her I can't stand the tension. My cock’s rigid, my breath just as fucking laboured as hers—more so. And my fists are tight at my side, partly so I don’t snatch for her and break the rules, keeping her here for me and me alone.
On and on she goes, all of it filled with every inch of filth she can make of it. Gloved hands wander everywhere, including up her thighs and so close to the covering satin I can almost feel her in my hands. Soft fingers, skimming, kneading. And then they're so tight into her flesh that she'd damn near scratch herself if it wasn't for the gloves. It’s all too much, even for a seasoned voyeur like me. Years I’ve watched this kind of thing, and not once has a woman got me as close to coming as this one is doing now.
And then she dances closer to me.
She’s in between my thighs before I’ve caught up with the move. My head rears back, fists tighter than I can ever remember them being. “Fuck,” falls out of me. “Back up if you don’t want me to touch you.”
She doesn’t, not completely anyway. She hovers one leg there instead and then lifts it until the pointed tip of her shoe is mere inches from my balls. The hips still circle as her hands draw up and down the smooth lines of her thigh. One hand lands over her satin clad pussy, fingers spreading slightly to emulate slipping inside her. “You need to back the fuck up, woman,” grunts out of me.
She does. Thank God. Even I have limits I can’t stop myself under. This is about it.
A low chuckle falls from under her mask, her body turning and moving away until her arse is five feet away from my face and she’s bending over and spreading those legs wide. The red flash of the mask flits about, her shoulders and back arching high and strained, and then her hands are on her arse to spread that wide too. It’s near fucking impossible to keep the come from racing through my body as she moves and grinds, and my hand moves to my cock, the heel of it pressing down to bring on the last of it.
I don’t know if she knows or not but the groan that comes out of me when I finally let it go and the sight of her slowly spinning to watch me, her body stalling for a split second, makes the money I’ve paid for this irrelevant. I’d pay twice as much again, and at least four times as much if she’d lose every last piece of covering she has on—including that damn mask.
Panting, my head leans back on the couch, my own gaze lazy and languid, as she carries on until the end of the song eventually comes to its finale. The moves slow down. Her breath eases to more of a relaxed quiet. Even her limbs seem to shrink inwards somehow, as the flow of her eventually comes to a halt. No perfectly poised ending this time. There is only her and the way she fills the entirety of this terrace for me. The view behind her has gone. The millions spent on this penthouse are gone, too. Just her.
Wild hair gently moves in the light breeze as she looks at me. I wish I could see the smile on her face or the reality of her wanton eyes watching me. I can’t, though. She’s as much of a mask as I normally am. Hidden and shielded.
“How much more do you want to take the mask off? In fact, how much to fuck?”
She moves sideways and picks up her phone from the table, then reaches for her cloak. No answer. I stand, damn sure I have enough money to buy anything I want, including a look at her face while I get this out of my system. “How much?"
Her gloved hand goes up the second I’m close enough to touch her, head shaking. For all my frustration, I stop immediately and swallow, shoving my hands in my pockets to stop them again.
