It was okay. We were going to have more sex.
Once I got her inside my hotel room, I pushed her against the door and gave her all the groping, sloppy kisses I couldn’t give her at dinner. I yanked off her coat while she pulled off mine. We dropped them to the floor. She tasted like wine and her hair still held the currant-floral scent of the restaurant. When we returned to New York, I was going to buy her flowers. I was going to send dozens of them to her apartment to recreate that smell.
By the time I broke the kiss, she was gasping, gazing up at me with eager appeal.
Yes, I know you want to fuck. Yes, I’m going to torture you for a while first, because that’s what I do.
I brushed back a lock of her dark, curly hair. It was so much lovelier than her bleach-dyed, straightened, Miss Kitty hair. She was so much lovelier in every way, now that I wasn’t paying for her, now that she was herself: complicated, conflicted, rueful, charming. Smiling. She was smiling at me with a sex-drunk look on her face. She was opening up to me. I cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb across her lips.
“You little slut,” I said. “Were you grateful I allowed you to orgasm at the restaurant?”
“Yes, Sir. Very grateful.”
“I’m sorry I missed it. I bet you put on quite a show. Did you stand or sit?”
“I stood. Germs, you know, on public toilet seats.”
I found that hilarious, that she worried about germs and not the fact that I’d sent her to masturbate in a restroom stall. I pulled up her dress and slapped her naked ass, and gave her another rough kiss. “I’m going to put my fucking germs all over you tonight. But I like this vision of you standing up. It seems so desperate.”
“Oh, I was desperate. You should have seen me.” Her smile broke into a grin. “It’s really hard for me to orgasm while I’m standing up, but I managed.”
“And you only did it once?” I watched her face closely. I’d know if she lied to me, but she shook her head with a perfect lack of guile.
“I only did it once.”
“Was anyone else in the restroom?”
“Yes.”
She blushed. Naughty slut. I decided she was going to get another orgasm right now, because the image of her standing in a bathroom in a ritzy Oslo eatery, jilling herself to oblivion, was too enticing to resist. I grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up and over her head.
“I want you to do it again,” I said.
“What?”
She watched as I folded down her bra, exposing her nipples. I loved her sexy, structured bras, and the way the doubled-over cups made a perfect shelf for her flawless tits.
“I want you to do it again,” I repeated. “I want you to sit on the edge of my bed and spread your legs and make yourself come. I’d like to see it.”
She hesitated. I waited, my expression darkening. “Or perhaps I should make you stand up, if it’s more difficult for you.”
“Please, no. It’s just…” She bit her lip. “The whole time…at dinner… I thought when we came back…”
I waited patiently for her to make her point, because I figured it would be entertaining.
“I mean, it’s been so long since you…”
“Put my cock in you?”
“Yes.”
“And whose fault is that?” I turned her toward the bed. “Go spread ’em, starshine. I want to see a show.”
She gave me a long-suffering look. Silly girl. I was going to fuck her to pieces before tonight was through, but I wanted to play with her a while before she got the cock she hungered for.
“Get to it,” I said in my most threatening voice. “And spread your legs wide enough for me to see everything, or I’ll use my belt on your pussy and make you come that way instead.”
She probably would have loved to get whipped on her pussy, but she wasn’t in charge here. I was, and I wanted to see her jack herself off. She went to the edge of the bed as I’d instructed, sat down and spread her thighs. Oh God, her legs, her tits, her shining, swollen pussy. I sat in a chair by the desk and leaned back, and unzipped myself.
“Spread them a little more,” I said. “Arch your hips. I want to see every fucking thing you’re doing.”
“I don’t know if I can come with my hips arched.”
Her and her sassy mouth. I glared at her. “You’d better try.”
With one more sigh of protest, she started to stroke her clit. She was a little slow to warm up—it was hard to get off when you were angry—but soon she was going at herself with rough, jerky movements. Well, I knew she liked it rough. Why wouldn’t she masturbate rough?