Mr. White

by Tessa Layne

  I turn at the sound of footsteps on stairs, and a door on the wall directly opposite opens. She’s even more beautiful than I remembered. And much, much younger. My heart clutches for a moment at the sight of her. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a messy bun. The kind of hair a man could dive his fist into, the kind I’d love to unpin and see it tumble around her in messy, touchable waves. Her face is makeup free, but her eyes are just as arresting. She’s barefooted, and wearing thin leggings, but what has me staring tongue-tied is the clingy white vee-neck t-shirt that she’s wearing without a bra. Her nipples stand out like beacons, and the sight of her like this nearly brings me to my knees. My mouth turns to ash.

  She stops, hand still on the edge of the door, eyes widening in recognition. So many words I could say, so many I want to, and all I manage to croak is “Hello, Emmaline.”

  “Hello, Declan,” she answers with a hungry light in her eyes and a broadening smile. “What took you so long?”

  Chapter Nine

  So she’s been waiting for me. My chest puffs at her admission. Of course, she’s been waiting for me. It’s not every day you share orgasms with someone in a wine cellar. Suddenly, the Chinese doesn’t feel like enough. I should have brought flowers, or chocolate. Or a bolt of French Leavers lace. “I need a suit,” I say, somehow managing to not stammer like an awkward teenager.

  “A suit,” she repeats, eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. Disappointment flickers across her face but is quickly covered. She nods once. “I see. And did you fill out the contact form?”

  I shake my head. “But I brought this.” I lift the box.

  “I might not like Chinese,” she says, letting go of the door and taking a step forward. It shuts behind her with a quiet click.

  “A gamble I was willing to take.”

  “And what other gambles do you like to take?” It’s a loaded question, but I like it.

  “Come closer, and you’ll find out.” I grin, feeling like the Big Bad Wolf about to devour Red. I’d give my left nut to devour her again. Instead, I settle for extending the box.

  “You make it sound so naughty.” She practically skips across the wood floor, stopping just out of reach.

  “I like naughty,” I confess. Especially when it’s a multi-faceted woman who never ceases to surprise me.

  She glances to the box of dinner, then back to me. “How naughty?” she asks on a rushed outbreath, as if she’s been waiting anxiously to find out.

  “All I could think about while I was jogging this morning was spanking your pretty ass until it was as pink as your pussy,” I say boldly, my cock jumping to life at the stark picture I painted.

  Two bright spots bloom across her cheekbones, and her eyes turn liquid. “What color underwear was I wearing?”

  Goddamn, she’s dirty, and I fucking love it. My cock does too, I’m reminded as it swells and strains against my slacks. “White. Lace,” I rasp.

  “Thong or boyshort.”

  “Thong. What’s the point of spanking lace?”

  She gives me a dirty grin. “Good point. I’ll be right back.” She spins and sprints for the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the shop with rapidly cooling Chinese and a raging boner. I hear her feet pounding on the stairs, then silence. She must live above the shop. But maybe not? There are no sewing machines down here, no projects, no cutting tables. And given the size of the building, I know for a fact, whatever’s upstairs isn’t any larger than the downstairs. Not enough for both living and working. So if she doesn’t live here, where does she live?

  I add the questions to my exhaustive list and immediately push the thoughts from my mind as she bounds back into the shop, a tape measure around her neck and a notebook in her hand. “You can place the Chinese on the counter.” She moves to the dais. Even in leggings and bare feet, she floats.

  I drop dinner and come to stand before her where she waits on the edge of the dais. She’s practically eye-level with me now, and I like it. I catch a whiff of her perfume, or maybe it’s her shampoo. It smells like spring - fresh and wholesome. She drops the tape measure behind my head and gently encircles my neck. I’ve had enough bespoke suits made to know this is the start of the measuring process, yet her touch still sets my veins on fire. She’s silent, but for the directions she gives to turn around, or lift an arm.

  Everywhere she touches as she begins to measure my neck, my shoulders, sends tongues of lust straight to my balls. I can already feel their ache building, the arousal nesting low in my spine, traveling along the backs of my legs. I fist my hand at my side, attempting and failing to think of anything besides her hands on me. Look at the ceiling as I lift my arms and her hands flutter around my chest. I need to look anywhere but at her. It’ll be all over if I look down. I hear her drop to her knees and know what’s coming. Heat builds under my collar and prickles over my scalp. I clench my jaw, willing my dick to back the fuck off, but to no avail. And send me to hell for being a dirty perv, but I look down, because all I can see is the memory of her with her mouth wrapped around my cock, and it’s too much. Our gazes tangle when I open my eyes, hers amused and more than a little hot. She arches a brow and smirks as she measures from the floor to my groin, fingers flirting with my balls. “Miss me, much?”

  I huff out a strangled laugh. “Sassy, much?”

  She chuckles. “Every day.” She makes a last reference in her notebook, then wraps the tape measure around her fingers, rising as if touching my balls were the most natural thing in the world. I shake my head and follow her across the room to where she stands perusing the suiting. “Wool or linen?”

  “Wool silk blend?”

  She disappears behind the credenza and pops back up with a swatch book. “I have just the fabric. She flips through the swatches, and lands on a navy square. “This is sixty-percent Super 140 wool... and forty-percent silk.” She flips the book around. “Here. Touch it. See how it feels.”

  “I’d rather touch you.”

  Her eyes snap to mine, full of amusement. “I thought you wanted a suit.”

  “I want you.”

  “Oh, Meow,” she says with a purr. “What about the food you brought?”

  “Not hungry.”

  She licks her lips like she’s hungry, but not for food. “Pick out your fabric.”

  “That one’s perfect,” I say, not bothering to look down. “In fact, pick whatever you like. Danny says you made the best suit in his closet.”

  She draws in a sharp breath, and for a moment, her eyes turn fearful. What the hell kind of hold does Danny have over her? Heat rises through me as I remember his words. And why the fuck should I stay away? “You saw Danny?” she asks weakly.

  I nod. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with him.”

  She recovers quickly, and when she opens her mouth again, she’s one-hundred-percent bravado. “I have no secrets.”

  I brace my arms on the countertop, and lean forward, my mouth mere inches from her. “I recommend going into a line of work that doesn’t involve lying, my dear.”

  “Is that so?” Her breath skates across my lips, lighting my nerve endings.

  All I want to do is kiss her, secrets be damned. But she beats me to it and closes the distance, brushing her mouth against mine in an invitation for more, which I gladly accept. I bring my hand to the back of her head, threading my fingers through her silky hair. I want that hair covering me, teasing my skin. With simultaneous groans, we’re at each other, tongues lashing, teeth nipping. She tastes of coffee and mint, as if she popped a breath mint on her way down the stairs. Underneath the flavor though, is the heady essence of her that drives me wild, that haunts my dreams and interrupts my sleep. And she’s right - two weeks has been too long. Mouths still fused, we sidestep until we reach the end of the glass case, and then she’s in my arms, and I’m lifting her. She wraps her feet around my waist and runs her fingers through my hair. “Door,” she pants between kisses. “Lock the door.”

  I cover the
distance in three steps and lock the deadbolt. “Where to?”

  “Dressing room.”

  I cross the shop as she bites my neck just under my collar, then licks it. I release the curtain then set her down. The space is larger than I thought and has a sturdy bench across from the mirror. She crosses her hands over her head and yanks off her tee-shirt. Her tits are gorgeous pale orbs with a peach colored areola and darker nipples. I pull her to me, and bend for a taste, taking one, then the other, sucking and tugging until she’s whimpering on every exhale.

  Her hands are at my waist, mine at hers, and in short order, our clothing is strewn across the tiny floor and we’re naked but for my bulging boxer briefs, and her white lace thong. “You’ve been very naughty indeed.” I say, trailing a finger between the valley of her breasts to her navel with the light blue jewel, to the top of her very sheer thong. I slip my finger inside, encountering smooth skin and a very wet pussy. “And wet too,” I rasp, caressing her puffy engorged lips and coating my finger with her arousal. I bring it to her mouth, coating her lower lip with her essence. She bites down on my finger and licks it clean. My cock is weeping with anticipation, the engorged head protruding from my waistband. “Let down your hair.”

  She complies with a slow smile and a white-hot light in her eyes, slowly removing the elastic band and shaking her head. Her hair falls past her shoulders in delightfully messy tumbles, perfect for pulling or caressing. She reaches out and skates her finger over my slit, coating my exposed head in pre-come before licking it off her finger. I fucking have to have this woman. But first…

  “Do you have a safe word?”

  She grins openly and bends over, bracing her arms on the bench and wiggling her ass. Then she peeks over her shoulder. “Mustard.”

  The vision of her in the mirror is erotic as fuck, her ass cheeks pointing skyward, split by a thread of white lace, hair spread out over her shoulders, and her face turned up and lit with an almost feral anticipation. My hand lands on her ass with a loud smack, and she yelps, then giggles and wiggles her ass. “You like that?”

  “God yes, that was perfect.”

  “Just like Goldilocks, not too hard, not too soft, just right?” I say alternating smacks. I pause to peel off her thong, and bury my face in her cunt, tasting her arousal, licking at her tight pink pussy lips. Her hips are rolling, chasing my mouth, but I’m not done with her ass. I smack her again and am rewarded with a flood of liquid coating my tongue.

  “So close, so close,” she whimpers, pressing back into me.

  I take one last lick and grab a condom from my coat pocket before standing. “You’re coming on my cock this time.”

  She surprises me by taking the condom and pulling down my boxer briefs. And before she opens the package, she licks along my shaft, giving extra attention to the sensitive ridge. I swear my cock has never been so hard. Gazing up at me, she rolls on the latex and waits expectantly. I drop to the bench and invite her to sit on my lap. She slowly lowers herself onto my cock, while I hold myself still, fighting the urge to grab her hips and thrust upward. I cradle her ass in my hands as she begins to rock. “Lean back, brace your hands on my knees.”

  She does, and I immediately take a nipple into my mouth, working it over as she rides me. I love the taste of her, not just of her arousal, but the salty tang of her skin, and the essence of flowers that lies underneath. I twine my fingers through her hair and give an experimental tug. She arches more deeply with a moan. “More,” she begs. “Suck harder.”

  I nip, I suck, I lick as the sounds of our breathing cocoon around us, and the air in the tiny space heats with the smell of sex. Her cunt is tight, and hot, and every thrust, every clench of her walls brings me closer to the edge. I imagine I’m fucking her bare, that there are no secrets between us, not hers, not mine, and that there are no barriers between us. It’s a jolt, this thought, but it also drives me wild with the need to claim her. I wrap my arms around her waist and rise, pressing her back against the wall so that I can get the leverage I need to make her body sing.

  She wraps her legs around me, heels digging into my ass as she clings to my shoulders. “Yes, yes, that’s it,” she chants. She bears down with a cry and bites hard on the hollow of my clavicle as her pussy seizes around me, squeezing my cock in waves.

  The sound of her coming is otherworldly, calling to a part of me deep in my soul. The tension coils at the base of my spine, my balls hard and tight, and I thrust into her deeply, with all I have, once, twice, and it launches through me, spiraling upward with blinding energy. I’m incoherent, releasing only sound as I empty my seed into the latex I presently loathe. I thrust upward a final time with a grunt not ready for it to be over. Her head drops to my shoulder with a satisfied sigh, and she gently kisses the bite mark she left. I don’t want to let go of her, I don’t want this to end just yet. I turn, still cradling her in my arms, and push through the curtain and head for the stairs. She’s languid and pliant in my arms, completely at ease. I carry her up the steps, figuring there’s got to be a trashcan in her workspace where I can dispose of the condom. I round the top of the stairs and freeze at the sight before me.

  It’s modest, like I expected, and to the right of the stairwell is a rolling rack with several dresses and a couple of suit jackets, along with a cutting table and bolts of fabric piled at one end. Nestled in the corner is a red velvet covered queen-sized bed, piled high with pillows of every sort. In between us and the bed, however, is a rolling corkboard filled with lingerie sketches, and samples of feathers, lace, and sheer fabric. Strewn across every available surface are bolts of the finest lace, expanses of leather, velvet, and every other kind of luxury fabric imaginable. But it’s the gold logo at the top of the corkboard that stops me in my tracks.

  Emmaline stiffens, as if suddenly realizing where we are. She raises her head and meets my eyes with a guilty smile.

  “You are So. Busted.”

  Chapter Ten

  Half of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of scolding her while I’m still more than a little stiff inside her. I wind my way through the chaos and hold the condom with one hand, while I set her down on the bed. “Don’t move,” I say darkly, as I turn in search of a trashcan.

  “By the sewing machine,” she calls softly from behind.

  “Is there a bathroom up here?”

  “The door at the top of the stairs.”

  I didn’t even notice a door at the top of the stairs. I stalk across the room, and to my surprise, there’s a beautifully tiled bathroom, complete with pedestal sink and an enormous clawfoot bathtub. I clean myself off, then grab a new washcloth, wetting it with hot water for Emmaline. She’s repositioned herself on the bed and stretched herself out on the red velvet, propping up her head with a hand. She might be slender and leggy, but she’s no less sensual than Marilyn Monroe, or any other pinup girl from the forties. I sit on the edge and offer her the warm washcloth. She rolls onto her back and drops open her knees, offering her pussy for my complete perusal. “You do it,” she invites with an avid look in her eye.

  “Such a conundrum, Emmaline,” I comment as I gently wash her. “How can you be equal parts wholesome, elegant, and dirty?”

  Her answer confounds me. She gives me an unfathomable look and lifts a shoulder. “I’m me.”

  That much is clear, whatever facet of her personality is present, it’s entirely her. And completely authentic. I don’t think there’s a pretentious bone in her body. I toss the rag on a basket of towels and stretch out next to her. “Confession time.”

  She pops up. “Food first.”

  Before I can catch her wrist and pull her back to me, she’s off the bed and slipping into a sheer silk robe. “Don’t move.” She tries to imitate my baritone voice, but it comes off as strained. I drop my head as a belly laugh rolls through me and she glides through her piles of fabric and notions and down the stairs. A moment later she returns with the box and pauses behind the sewing machine. When she reaches the bed, I can see s
he’s added two pasta bowls, silverware and napkins to the box. A flannel blanket is draped over her arm. She hands me the box, then spreads out the small square, making a makeshift picnic on the bed. “I love Shanghai Express, by the way,” she says as she hands me a bowl and a fork.

  I put them aside. “Oh no. The only proper way to eat take-out is out of the box, with chopsticks.”

  “I’m not very good at the chopsticks,” she says with a little pout.

  “Good. Then I’ll feed you.” I shove the pillows onto the floor and prop myself up on the headboard, patting the space next to me. “Get your pretty little ass over here, woman, and let me feed you.”

  She pulls the box within reach and curls up next to me. My heart squeezes at the domesticity of it all. I’m not the kind of man that does naked Chinese after a no holds barred fuck. I’m more of a wine them, dine them, seduce them, and call them an Uber kind of guy. And I don’t cuddle. Ever. But I can’t stop touching Emmaline, and I just want… to be near her. Even if it’s eating Chinese on her bed, naked.

  She picks up the first container. “What’s in here?”

  I have no idea. I think I ordered half the menu. “Open it and see.”

  She squeals when she spies eggrolls. “Ohmygod I love these. Do you have plum sauce and hot mustard packets?”

  I scoff. “Of course. You can’t eat an eggroll without them.”

  She roots through the box, and triumphantly holds up a handful of packets. She hands me the mustard, and we spend the next few minutes squeezing mustard and plum sauce into one of the bowls she brought.

  She reaches for an eggroll, then glances over, eyes questioning. “You don’t eat these with chopsticks, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t, but here, let me feed you.” She hands me the roll, and I dip it in both sauces, making sure the end is completely smeared, then I hold it up.