She waits for him, with the lights dimmed and her bedroom warm. She slips off her clothes but doesn't look at her reflection. She knows he will join her soon, so she hurries, shivering as the last of her clothes slide to the floor. It is warm enough in the bedroom; the shiver is anticipation, desire.
Excitement builds in her belly as he enters the bedroom, eyes moving over her. She holds her breath as she returns the look from the bed where she now lies waiting as he's told her to, studying his expression as he closes the door, sealing them from the world. His dark eyes remain on her as she gazes at him shedding his own clothes, a layer of material he doesn't need. His movements are slow and relaxed as he meets her look, teasing her, already knowing what she wants.
His naked body, once exposed, is far more beautiful than hers, every muscle toned as if he is a living bronzed statue. Dark hair curls on his chest and she knows how it will feel against her soft breasts. She shivers again, anticipating the textures of him under her hands -- skin so hot and smooth beneath hard muscle, callused hands rough on her body. She revels in the rasp of his rough, large hands on her, like sand, like warm, tingling sand all over her. The stroking of those large hands can make her shiver and shake, make her wet, make her want.
He is still looking at her as he tosses his clothes on the chair, and her eyes move from his broad chest to his flat belly, down to the part of him that excites her most. Her mouth dries instantly as she sees how ready his cock is, how large and proud. She wants so badly to touch him, to run her own soft palm up and down his hot smooth shaft, to wrap her fingers around it, kiss the tip and lick the pearl of pre-cum.
But, as always, he makes her wait. He stands beside the bed, eyes ranging over her body. When one hand hovers over her breasts to cover them he stops her with a word.
"No," he commands, and though she is still shy when he insists she lies like this, exposed and naked for him, she drops her arm, staring back up at him.
"No," he says again. "Don't move."
Lying still she watches him come slowly forward, one knee resting on the bed beside her. She is naked as he wanted her and the thought stains her cheeks with heat. He has told her before she must never hide from him, must do as he says. But sometimes she hesitates, as much as she wants him, knowing she is young and not beautiful like the other women before her. And he has all his years of experience -- a man almost old enough to be her father -- almost. A man who has made love to countless beautiful women -- it is no secret. He doesn't boast, but she knows about his women -- all those before her.
She is aware that she is not like them -- beautiful and sleek. She is all curves, rounded hips and soft thighs. There are no planes to her. His women were experienced, like him. She is young and cannot pretend indifference or composure. And, her eagerness, her wanting of him is plain for to see. She wishes she could hide it but she cannot -- just as she cannot refuse him anything, everything he wants from her.
"Don't move," he says again, lower this time and her eyes, for a second downcast, move to his face. He is watching her. As she meets his dark gaze he lifts one large, callused hand; letting it fall to her shoulder, sliding it slowly down her arm, her hip, her thigh then up over her bare sex, across her belly. She shudders at the friction of rough skin on soft, the heat that transmits from him to her, instantly warming her wherever he explores. She trembles inside as she feels her body's response, a rush of warmth between her thighs, a tightening in her belly. Everything inside her melts for him.
She is still as a marble statue, he thinks as his hand runs up her body, pausing again at her shoulder, all except her eyes, so full of excitement and desire. She is so much more than lifeless marble, always ready, hot and wantonly wet; so eager for him. Her eagerness makes him harder than he ever thought possible though he doesn't tell her this. Her skin is so pale and soft that sometimes, without intention he leaves faint bruises on her skin. He kisses them away afterward but they remain a reminder of how delicate and soft she is, and how wild she can make him.
He understands what she wants; his movements exquisitely slow as he taunts her, aware she will be wet already, hot for him. He cups her face, looking down into eyes as dark as chocolate, skin as pale as cream. There is a faint flush of pink along her cheekbones and her red full lips glisten with invitation.
His large fingers radiate warmth, the scent of his skin is so familiar and overpowering that another rush of desire wets her thighs. She wants him in every way, to do whatever he wishes, anything and everything. His rough tipped fingers rub her cheek. She longs to close her eyes as she imagines him sliding them, hard and rough inside her body until they are soaked in her liquid, in the scent of her. She almost closes her eyes as she pictures him. He stops her.
"Look at me." And, she does. She always obeys, always surrenders. She opens her eyes wide.
"Kiss me."
She knows what he wants, reads it in the shifting of his eyes from her to his own body. Slowly she moves until her mouth is a breath from his shaft. She can feel the heat from him, smell him and she is overwhelmed with need and desire. Pleasure, she wants to give him so much pleasure that perhaps, for an instant, she can make him forget the other women he's lain with and think her beautiful. It is just an illusion of course, a wild hope. He will never tell her she is beautiful, because she is not compared with the others. Yet each night she lives this fantasy -- that he will own her, want her, desire her more than anything else. That she will be enough.
