He groaned roughly through a snarl. “Again,” he said. She gladly complied. His little game was turning her on. She bounced her breasts. He took a sip of his champagne and watched while she pinched at her nipples. His hand moved to his crotch. Alice moaned shakily, watching him while he stroked his cock through his clothing as intently as he watched her.
“I’m showing you mine. Show me yours.”
A smile curved his mouth. “Would you like that?” he asked, still rubbing his hand up and down along the shaft of his cock slowly. He was killing her. She could see the outline of him clearly though his pants, his stroking fingers molding the fabric against his erection. Her mouth watered.
“Yes, please.”
“How can I refuse a polite request from Alice Reed when the occurrence is so seldom,” he said, smiling at her frown. He fleetly unbuckled his belt and unfastened his pants. He kicked off his shoes and drew off his socks before standing to remove his pants and boxer briefs completely. Alice watched in mounting excitement. He sat back down in his chair and lifted his shirt. She gasped softly at the vision of his erect cock lying against his taut belly, the candlelight casting it in a rosy gold hue.
He cupped his round, shaved testicles and slid his hand along the shaft. She shivered in excitement.
“I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I thought you’d stop,” he said with a dark glance.
Alice blinked. She’d been so mesmerized by the sight of him, her hands had fallen to her sides.
“Hands back on your breasts,” he instructed. “Hold them up for me. That’s right,” he muttered as she did what he said. He stroked his cock more firmly. “Keep holding them up and play with the nipples.”
Alice did everything he asked of her, becoming increasingly aroused by her own touch . . . by the powerful vision of him stroking his cock. In one hand, he held his champagne, which he sipped occasionally as he watched her. His other hand fisted and pumped his erect cock. Alice felt very much on display, like she was putting on a show for his pleasure. Maybe it should have offended her, but it didn’t. Instead, it aroused her intensely.
“Are you getting wet?” he asked her bluntly a minute later. He set down his glass of champagne and twisted in his chair, picking up the champagne bottle. He poured himself another glass and glanced at her, expecting an answer.
“Yes,” she told him a little defiantly. How could she not be wet, standing there watching such a beautiful man masturbating right in front of her. His manner was that of a prince or a sheikh, a man used to having his every command followed. He wasn’t playing a part, though. Dylan was a sexual dominant by nature, and undoubtedly was used to getting what he wanted in this arena. It certainly was true in Alice’s case. It aroused her to do what he demanded . . . but of course, she couldn’t appear to be giving in too easily.
“Slip out of your gown,” he said, leaning back in his chair and lifting his champagne to his lips. “Prove to me you’re aroused.”
“Prove to you,” she muttered under her breath a little sourly. She rolled her eyes. Nevertheless, she lowered the fabric of the gown over her belly and shimmied her hips to encourage it to fall down her thighs and legs. He grunted and began to stroke himself again at the tight shaking of her hips.
“Dip your fingers between the lips,” he ordered thickly. Alice complied, a moan escaping her throat. She rubbed her clit through thick cream. “I can see how wet you are,” he said, his stare glued between her thighs. She circled her fingers and whimpered. His focused attention and jacking hand were making her desperate.
Wanton.
She lifted her hand and let him see her moisture glistening on her skin. Slowly, she lifted her hand to her mouth and slid her moist fingers between her lips. His pumping hand paused mid-staff. He watched her narrowly as she sucked her juices off her first two fingers.
“Don’t try to control the pace, Alice,” he warned softly, his eyes glittering dangerously.
A smile tugged at her pursed lips.
“I think you need something to cool you off,” he said grimly. He let go of his cock and it thumped tautly against his abdomen. “Get your fingers out of your mouth, you little witch, and come here.”
She stepped between his knees, holding her breath as he cradled her hips and then whisked his hands up and down the sensitive sides of her body. He cupped her breasts and squeezed them gently.
“Just what I thought. You’re very warm.” Still cradling a breast with one hand, he picked up his champagne glass.
“Dylan,” she whispered warningly, her eyes going wide as she watched him slowly tip the glass above the breast he held. The liquid reached the lip of the flute and dribbled onto her breast, sliding down the upper curve and dripping off the nipple. She gasped.
“Cold?” he asked, rubbing the champagne into her nipple with his fingertips.
“You know it is,” she said, sounding breathless.
“Yes. I can see that it is,” he said distractedly, studying the proof of her beading nipple. He tilted the glass again. Her sex tightened in anticipation as she watched the golden liquid slip over the rim and splash onto her breast. Again, he ran his fingers over the mounds and nipple, distributing the champagne.
“No, you’re still flushed with heat,” he said, shaking his head.
“Is that a crime?” she asked dazedly, highly distracted by watching his fingers rub her moist skin and nipple.
“No. It’s just an experiment.” She blinked at his seemingly innocent tone.
“An experiment in torture,” she muttered, watching him pinch lightly at her nipple. Her clit gave a twinge of sympathetic arousal at the caress.