Selling Her Virtue - Page 10

And it makes my balls fucking ache.

“Listen,” I say, leaning into her, taking in another hit of her addictive scent. I don’t want to call her Stephanie, but I want to call her something. Something good. Something right. “Listen, Princess.”

Her eyes flash when I say it. “I love that.”

“Good. Because it fucking suits you,” I growl. “Listen, now. I don’t want you to think for one goddamned second that I walked in here intending to buy some virgin for sale tonight. That’s not why I’m here.”

“But you did.” She challenges me with a hard look.

“You gave me no choice.”

She smiles, the hard edges melting away as her eyes crinkle. There’s something about her that makes me feel like I’ve always known her.

“Didn’t I?” she asks, then rubs her lips together and my heart thumps against my ribs.

“None.”

“So if I’m your princess,” she says, “what do I call you?”

She steps into me, pressing her body against mine, hitching her hips so her upper belly presses into my belt buckle.

My cock.

Goddamn. My balls are suddenly working overtime to produce what feels like ten pounds of spunk ready to fill her hot little cherry hole.

“You know what, fuck all these rules,” I say. “Call me by my real name.”

“Which is?”

But the door swings open, cutting me off.

The woman who opened the door for us pops her head back into the room.

“Okay, you lovebirds. Time to get dressed and go back downstairs. We’ve got a party to enjoy.”

I suppress the urge to say a few choice words on this whole fucking situation. She seems nice enough, I guess. But this whole goddamned thing feels like a Caribbean cruise, and it annoys the shit out of me.

Forced fun. Planned events. All these hoops to jump through before I can be alone with her.

But she seems happy in this moment, and much to my surprise, that is what’s most important to me right now.

She grabs my hand, knitting her fingers into mine, as I lead us toward the door.

“Off to the races,” she says in a half -whisper, smiling back at me, all mischief and delight. “You get to pick out what I wear next. Anything you want.”

I have an instant vision of her in my head. Thigh-high black stockings, a garter belt. Retro and fucking sexy. Me unwrapping her, strap by strap, while everybody watches.

“Careful what you wish for.”

“I’m yours to do with as you please,” she offers. She raises her chin, that sweet, sexy smile curving the world’s most kissable lips. “I’m here to serve you.”

“Jesus. We’re not going to make it very far if you keep that up. I might just fuck you right here up against the wall.”

And she hits me with a sweet little wink in return and I’m gone.

She’s mine. Not just for tonight. Not just because I paid for her, but because she just fucking is and if there is anyone here tonight—or in the fucking world—that thinks they can change that fact, a world of hurt awaits them.

Hand in hand, we walk down the long hallway again. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel my heart start to thaw. Just a bit. We’re led to a huge open room and inside, it’s like a department store. Every kind of dress, every kind of lingerie, laying on tables, hanging on racks, just waiting, with women dressed as French maids there to help the ‘shoppers’.

It’s pretty fucking deluxe, actually, though I don’t let on that I’m impressed.

Princess and I make the rounds, hand in hand always. My thumb brushing against her skin, caressing her and I realize, I’ve never fucking caressed anyone before but damn, it feels nice.

I notice that the other couples don’t act like us. The guys are either all over the girls, or the other way around. But it looks so staged, so goddamned uncomfortable.

Then I get a glimpse of us in the full-length mirror at the end of the room.

And we just look.

Well.

Fuck.

We look right together. Exactly right.

I’m jerked back into the moment when she squeezes my hand and I see her looking at the clothes.

“You pick,” she says.

“No,” I tell her. “You pick the dress. I pick what goes underneath it.”

“Really?”

I nod. “I’m not here to turn you into something you’re not.”

“Okay,” she answers with a shrug and a sparkle in her eye. “Deal.”

The dress she picks is beautiful; black sequins, mid-thigh, long sleeves and a low back that’ll go damn near to her ass.

For underneath, I pick out exactly what I had in my vision from earlier. A six-strap black garter belt, with thigh highs with lace at the top. And a pair of embroidered crotchless panties in total contrast to the contrived white dress they have her in now.

“Woah,” she giggles, running her fingertip over the split in the lace.

Tags: Dani Wyatt Erotic
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