I hadn’t told him. And my little mishap with the skirt upstairs hadn’t been enough to show off the goods. He just knew. Like always.
“I bet you’re still wearing your underwear too,” I said as sassily as I could. Though I was pretty sure his weren’t nearly as wet as mine were at the moment.
He handed the cup out to me. “Drink this.”
“Why? Did you spike it when I blinked?”
He glowered at me. “I don’t need to spike it. I’m trying to help you with the stick up your ass.”
I let that sink in. “Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined you accusing me of having a stick up my ass.”
He dipped his thumb in the cup and then smeared my bottom lip with the liquid. “That’s how wound up you are. You’re the uptight one tonight.”
A shiver ran down my spine and my lungs suddenly felt constrained, like my bra was too tight. I licked the liquid from my lip—sake—and wished I could suck the rest from his thumb.
Except I was still feeling all the other things I was feeling, too.
“Did you consider that I might have reason to be wound up? That the reason might be you?” I took a swallow of the sake, finding it more acidic than I’d expected, which fittingly matched my mood.
He leaned close and the warmth of his breath at my neck accompanied his next words. “I don’t care why you’re wound up. I care what you’re wearing.”
Yep. Panties definitely weren’t dry.
“There’s a restroom in the hall to the left,” he said, believing he had me under his command.
Apparently, he wasn’t wrong. “I’ll be back.”
In the bathroom, I slipped into a stall, undid my garters and, while continuously shaking my head at myself, removed my panties. I still didn’t have anywhere to put them, so I wadded them into a ball in my fist and stopped at the mirror to check my lip gloss and give myself a silent pep talk.
Being mad wasn’t making the night better for me. Nor was being confused or frustrated or hurt. And none of it was meant to make the night better for him. So what was the point of holding on to these miserable emotions?
No point. No point at all.
With my panties still hidden in my fist, I returned to the table, knelt at my place, and dropped them discreetly in Donovan’s lap.
He held them up like they were treasured lace and swept them under his nose as though attempting to identify the bouquet of a wine cork.
“Oh my god!” Nervously I glanced around the restaurant. The people across the hall weren’t paying attention to us, thank goodness, and no one was walking by. The lights were dim and shadows could be seen through the thin walls between rooms, but I couldn’t make out what our neighbors were doing. No one would be able to tell that Donovan was showing off my panties.
“I didn’t have anywhere to put them,” I explained, when I felt less panicked about his display.
His eyes narrowed in on my mouth. “I can think of somewhere I’d like to put them.”
I took a breath but only managed a shallow one. It had been an element of some of my fantasies—Donovan stuffing my panties in my mouth to keep me from screaming. The image was already burned into my mind from previous daydreams, but now I had a feeling that the image was burned into his mind as well.
And, Jesus, there’d been a good reason I’d been wearing panties. Was I leaving wet stains on the cushion now?
Someone walked past our room. My hand shot out over Donovan’s forearm and pushed it below the table, into his lap. “But we’re in public. So you can put them in your pocket and return them to me later.”
“Yes,” he said, with a victorious smirk. “I can put them in my pocket.” He knelt higher so he could stuff them in his pants pocket then fell back on his feet.
I had a pretty good feeling I was never seeing that pair of underwear again.
With my panties no longer a source of distraction, I noticed something new had been placed on the table since I’d been in the restroom—a silver platter with a lid. Next to it was a pair of metal tongs.
I nodded toward the dish. “What’s that?”
He took off the lid and steam rushed out. Several towels were rolled up in a pile inside. With the tongs, he picked up a rolled towel and set it on the table long enough to replace the lid. “It’s customary to wash our hands before the meal.”
He picked up the towel and unrolled it, bouncing it from hand to hand a few times until it cooled enough to hold. Then he gestured for me to hold out my hands toward him. Carefully and attentively, he cleaned between each of my fingers and washed my palms and the backs of my hands.
It was strangely erotic and sensual, but it was also intimate. Tender, even. And so while it made my thighs clench and my blood rush hot, it also made my breath stick in my chest. My head felt dizzy.
The moment was too heavy. Like a weightlifter trying to hold a barbell that’s too weighted, I couldn’t hold it without it pressing down on my chest. Without it crushing down on my heart. Without it meaning something that it wasn’t supposed to mean.
I giggled, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re washing my panties off my hands.”
“Such a shame.” His tone remained thick and humorless, and instead of letting the moment ease, he bore into me with a gaze so intense, it carried its own gravity.
Was he like this with everyone? Just sex. No relationships. Could he really look at a person—look at me—and not intend the burden that was clearly in his stare? Could he really witness this extreme force between us and say it didn’t connect us in any way except sexually?
Was it only me who felt the weight at all?
He finished with my hands and moved to his own then dumped the towel on an empty plate that seemed to be for discarded linens. He poured himself some sake, and we each drank in silence.
I took the moment to knock myself out of the stupid trance I’d been in.
Of course it was only me who was feeling these things. That was why he’d given me the speech about no relationships in the first place. And, in all honesty, I wouldn’t even be thinking along these lines if he hadn’t yelled at me earlier about it and put the idea in my head.
Just sex. Got it. I was all for it. I wasn’t into anything more than that myself. Bring the waitress back. I could order this without help, no menu required—just sex. No adornments, no side dishes, no appetizers. Just plain sex.
What else would I want with a man like Donovan anyway? Overnights? Romance? Marriage?
I almost laughed at the idea.
No. There were men who were intended for futures, and there were men who were intended for filth. Donovan was intended for filth, and he was wise to lay it out from the beginning.
I tried not to think about the fact that he’d had a fiancée once upon a time. Because what did it mean Donovan was intended for then?
In all honesty, it probably wasn’t that simple, and I needed to accept that. Otherwise I’d kill myself wondering if what it really meant was that he just wasn’t intended for me.
Twenty-Four
When the waitress returned, she brought someone else with her to help carry the trays of food. Together, the two servers placed dishes of soup and sushi and tempura and fish on the table. Afterward, they stood back with their hands in front of them and seemed to wait for something. For what, I didn’t know.
Maybe we were supposed to taste our food before they left? Tell them everything was all good or something.
I looked to Donovan for guidance.
He brought his hands to his lap, and I mirrored him instinctively. “In Japanese culture,” he said, “before we start eating, we say itadakimasu.”
He’d only said it one time, but he looked at me expectantly.
I gave him my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “I can’t say that. What did you say? Say it again. Slower.”
He started to answer and then seemed to have another idea. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a marker from an inner pocket and took off the li
d with his teeth—another super sexy move.
“Give me your hand,” he said around the lid, though he needn’t have said anything because he’d already tugged it over to him and had started writing.
“You just happen to have a Sharpie in your pocket? Of course you do. Did I mention you were a workaholic? Also, this is never coming off.” Thank god we were coming on November, and I could get away with wearing long sleeves. Sharpie was impossible to wash off as it was, and as I stared at his neat print handwriting on my skin, I wasn’t sure I was planning to try that hard.
“It-a-dak-i-ma-su,” I read slowly from my arm when he was done. It came out better than I’d thought it would on the first try, which wasn’t saying much. I glanced up and found him trying to hide a grin. His eyes twinkled, though, and he couldn’t hide that. “You’re laughing at me.”
“No, you did pretty good. It was cute.” He said the word cute as though he’d never had a reason to say it before.
I rolled my eyes. Cute was not what I wanted him to think of when he thought of me. “What does it mean?”
“It means, ‘I receive this food’. You’re thanking the preparers for their work, telling them you appreciate what they’ve done for you.”
“Oh!” I turned to the waitress and her helper who were still standing in a bowed position, politely waiting to be dismissed. “Itadakimasu,” I told them.
They smiled and nodded.
Donovan followed up with a whole bunch of Japanese words that were not itadakimasu and also seemed to be somewhat instructive in tone. When he’d finished speaking, they bowed and exited the room, shutting the sliding doors as they left.
They shut the doors.
We were alone.
And I wasn’t wearing panties.
“What did you say to her?” I asked, pretending to be more interested in reaching for the miso.
“I told her to shut the shoji on the way out. And not to return until I’d opened it myself.”
“Who knew that dining was such a private event for you.” I picked up the bowl and blew across the top.
“It’s not the dining that I was concerned about keeping private.”
My stomach did a flip-flop. Thank goodness I hadn’t actually sipped the soup yet because I might have swallowed wrong.
Donovan chuckled, as if he could interpret my every thought when I couldn’t understand them myself. I drank from the miso and put the bowl down, and after I did, he was waiting with a piece of sushi that he’d dipped in soy sauce and was now holding out to me between chopsticks.
“Am I supposed to appreciate what you’ve done for me too?” I took a bite of the sushi. “Oh, man, I do appreciate what you’ve done for me.” Like, really really. “Donovan, this is amazing.”
I finished the piece then took the tempura he offered.
As he so often did, he watched me attentively. The amusement in his eyes was gone, and now they were dark and intense, not just with desire but with something else. Something heavier. Like the weight I’d felt when he’d washed my hands.
Whatever it was I saw—whether it was there or I just wanted it to be there, it made me shiver. Made me not want to look away.
“Come here,” he growled, abruptly wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me into his lap. He picked up another piece of sushi, dipped it and fed it to me. “This is better.”
Better for feeding purposes or because now my bare pussy was just inches from the outline of his stiffening cock, I didn’t know. But yes, I agreed it was definitely better.
It was also easier for me to feed him. Since Donovan wouldn’t relinquish the chopsticks and I couldn’t find mine, I used my fingers, which he sucked thoroughly. He let me feed him one more piece like this. The next time he fed me, he reached down under my skirt and drew slow circles on my clit with his thumb at the same time.
“Mmm,” I moaned.
“You like the sashimi?” His eyes taunted as his fingers teased me.
“Yeah, that’s what I liked,” I said sarcastically.
“In that case…” He drew his hand away from where I so badly wanted it.
“No!” I rubbed up against him, begging for his attention to return. “Please.”
His eyes flashed with an idea. He reached behind me and grabbed the Sharpie that he’d tossed on the table after drawing on my arm earlier. Again, he removed the lid with his teeth—unf, super sexy. With my skirt gathered up around my waist, he bent low so he could write something on the skin at the top of my folds, just above my clit. Then he capped the lid and put the marker back in his jacket pocket.
“What did you wri—?”
But my question was cut off by the return of his thumb on my clit, and seriously, I didn’t care much after that. I didn’t care much about anything except the whirlwind building inside of me and trying to maintain enough composure to eat what he gave me when he offered it.
I managed for a while. I even managed to feed him most of the teriyaki salmon at the same time. But then Donovan abandoned the chopsticks, feeding me with his fingers instead, and with the thumb of his other hand still on my clit, he slid two fingers inside my very slick hole.
After that, I was a goner.
“Fuck, you’re so wet.” He pulled his fingers out and the next time he drove them in, he added a third. “You’re so wet, you could take my cock right now. Couldn’t you?”
I’d eaten the entire piece of sushi, but I clutched onto his hand, sucking on his thumb and forefinger as if they were his cock. “Uh-huh,” I moaned, my mouth full.
“Take it out,” he ordered. “Take out my cock.”
I was dazed but I was still aware. Aware of where we were. Aware that we were in public, that the walls were thin, that I could hear the clatter of dishes and the buzz of conversation on either side of us. I could see the shadowed movement of other guests through the shoji. Could they see us? Could they hear us? Did they know what we were doing?
Probably not. But it was possible.
And that possible was all it took to be one of the hottest things I’d ever done.
Without further hesitation, I scrambled with Donovan’s belt and pants. I pulled his underwear down far enough to release his erection. It sprung out, tall and thick and alert. By this time, he was ready with a condom he’d retrieved from his jacket pocket. While he continued to finger me, I unwrapped the latex over his cock.
As soon as I’d gotten him fully covered, he moved his hands to dig into my hips underneath my skirt. He hoisted me up a couple of inches, and even though he was working quickly, all I could think was that he wasn’t moving nearly fast enough. I needed him inside me. I needed him now. Now. Now.
And then there he was at my entrance.
He was right—I was so wet, I could easily have slid down over him. But, like every time he’d been inside me before, he didn’t hesitate or let me take the lead—as soon as he’d notched his head at my hole, he drove up into me without mercy.
“Ah, fuck,” I whimpered, feeling like I was in the first car at the top of the big loop on a rollercoaster. Adrenaline and excitement surged through my veins, my body ready for the ride.
With incredible stamina, he hammered into me, pounding my pussy with such vigor and force that he was soon sweating. Even through his clothes, I could see the strain of his muscles as he struggled to hold me up. He bucked into me so hard I knocked repeatedly against the table behind me—not too loud that we caused a disturbance, but loud enough that people might have noticed. My breasts jiggled despite the fact I was wearing a bra. Something clattered to the floor. Sake spilled and dripped at my side.
I clung onto him desperately, wrapping an arm around his neck to steady myself. With my other hand, I reached down to massage my clit, which started me again toward the orgasm that had already been building.
I was close. He was too. I was tight in this position already, but I closed my knees in tighter against him and tensed my pussy, both to reward and to torture him.
He had h
is own version of reward and torture—it came in the form of kissing. When his rhythm was established, and our positions were perfected, he leaned forward and claimed my mouth with his. His lips were frantic and frenzied against mine, as though no matter how much I gave him—and I gave him everything—it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. His tongue plunged deeper. His pressure grew stronger. Still, it wasn’t enough.
But it was enough to send me soaring. Higher, higher, higher.
When I came, he came with me, brutally, like two savage animals fucking in the wild. I practically screamed, and he had to push my face into his jacket to muffle the sound. He wasn’t quiet himself, grunting his release into my hair. My legs trembled and my muscles stretched with the fierceness of my climax. Instead of rolling over my body in waves, it hit me like a truck, smacking out of me in one terrible, amazing rip of ecstasy. It hurt how it crashed through me, as though it was too much pleasure to be experienced at one time. As though my orgasm didn’t know about Donovan’s rule to fuck and run, and it had built up expecting that it would be dispensed in bits and pieces and not all in one dose.
I fell on his shoulder and closed my eyes to let myself catch my breath. When it didn’t feel like the world was spinning anymore, I sat up. He was waiting to kiss me once more, slowly this time, with his hand holding my cheek. It was a sweet kiss, even as he controlled it. It was soft. It was something much lighter than the heaviness that every other intimacy with him carried.
Too soon, he was finished. He lifted me off of him and stood me on the floor beside him.
He tied off the condom, wrapped a napkin around it and stuck it in his pocket. After he’d put himself away, he got into the platter with the hot towels and grabbed one to clean me up.
“Turns out the hot towels are just as useful after the meal,” I joked when he lifted my skirt and swiped the wet rag over my pussy. “More like warm towel now, but perhaps that’s for the best.”
He didn’t say anything, and I realized he was already pulling away, as he always did afterward. I wondered how difficult it was for him to extend this courtesy, to help me clean up. Did this bother him because he’d made rules about his life? Or did the rules about his life come because things like this bothered him?
Dirty Filthy Rich Men Page 21
