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I kept my hands on the couch. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done my own tax return.
Scarlett noticed. Of course she did. She straddled me, her knees sinking into the velvet either side of my hips, and looked down at my hands gripping the cushions.
“You’re actually doing it,” she said.
“You said those were the rules.”
“Everybody says yes to the rules. Then everybody tries it on in the first ninety seconds.” She sounded surprised and, for the first time, a little bit shy. “You’re sweet, Owen.”
Then she leaned down and put her mouth right against my ear. “That means I get to break them for you.”
She took my right hand off the couch herself and laid it on her bare waist. Just that. Her skin was hot and damp. She moved against me slow and deep, my cock pressed hard along the soft crotch of her knickers, and she let out a tiny, real gasp when she rolled over the head of it.
“Fuck,” she breathed. “You’re really hard.”
“Thirty minutes of you will do that.”
The red light hummed. Somewhere down the corridor another song started. She kept riding me through my jeans, slower and slower, her forehead resting against mine, breath mixing. I could feel how warm she was through the lace.
Then a soft buzz. Time.
She sat back, flushed to the collarbones, and looked at me like she was making up her mind about something.
→ I tip big and tell her I’ll stay until close if she wants me to