Two highball glasses sweated on the side table, because first things first: their lips on each other, him still standing behind the sofa, having just brought in the drinks from the kitchen, and her seated, as he bent down over her upturned face and tasted those lips at last.
After a few weeks of appreciative looks, then flirtation, then out for drinks, then dinner, he had her home. She liked the slow pace, the game of it, the little bit of nervousness she read in the way he seemed to deliberate over his every move. It flattered her that he wanted to make a good impression. And the way his mouth now savored hers -- lingering on her lower lip, tracing her cupid's bow, grazing her teeth with his tongue -- was making a good impression indeed. She loved to be kissed, and loved when a man took his time with it.
She patted the sofa next to her. "Come around and sit down," she said, "so we can get to know each other better."
He reached for their drinks. "First, a toast. To getting to know each other better."
She raised the glass toward him, keeping his eyes as she sipped. It was strong. Bourbon and ... she couldn't quite tell, and sipped again. She nearly asked him what he'd made for them, then decided to file that question away for later in favor of kissing him again.
His fingers stroked her jawline as his mouth memorized hers. He didn't break the kiss as his hands went to the buttons on her white shirt.
Then he leaned back for a first look at her low-cut black bra. Its lace trim framed her breasts and collarbone, the half-cup forms serving as much to display her curves as to cover them.
It was clear he liked what he saw. "I could spend an hour on these," he murmured.
"I hope you do," she said with a teasing flick of her tongue. "Guys always say that, and then after a few minutes of pawing and licking, they're unbuckling their belt. Nobody takes it slow."
She was smiling, playing with him, and though he smiled back he raised an eyebrow. "Challenge accepted." He kissed her again, and she felt the desire in his lips, but when he spoke again his voice had an edge to it.
"And the side benefit is that before I'm done you'll be begging me to fuck you."
She smiled. "I'll beg you now if you want," she purred.
"No. I'm going to wait until you mean it."
"I mean it! I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
"I know. But just wait till the hour is up and you'll see what I mean."
He reached for their drinks again, and checked his watch as they sipped. It was 8 o'clock.
Brushing back her open shirt from her collarbone, he leaned back again to take in the view. "A black bra under a white shirt. You're a bit of a tease."
"I am." She arched her back a little, pushing her chest forward, but he made no move to touch her.
His eyes, however, never wandered. They seemed to be tracing the lines of her flesh, creamy smooth, where it lay against the black eyelash lace. Then two fingertips reached out to do the same. With a light touch he followed the top edge of the balconette bra, up the strap to her collarbone, her shoulder, into the hollow at the base of the neck. The exploring touch made her aware of her every breath, how her chest rose and fell, how her lips parted, how the smallest motion felt under his fingers.
He leaned in to plant kisses along her collarbone and slid her blouse off her shoulders. Then he followed the path again, with lips this time, inching along her decolletage with feathery kisses and puffs of breath.
His fingers found a nipple and squeezed it through the fabric, as if he was reaching out to pluck a berry and testing it first for ripeness. Then he pulled down the front of her bra and tilted the nipple up to his mouth.
His tongue circled it, then his teeth grazed against it, then his lips widened to take in more, each move slow and deliberate. He pulled back and puckered his lips; a stream of cool breath teased the hardening nipple, an effect he accelerated with a flick of a tongue. He moved to the other breast. But instead of tasting the nipple, he lifted the band of her bra and traced the underside of her breast with the tip of his tongue. Her skin flushed: The sight and the feel of him tasting her curves felt like prickles of electricity.
His arms encircled her briefly. A quick motion of his fingers along her back, and the bra was loose and discarded. He sat back again to study his new playthings.
They were glorious. Round and full, tipped upwards a bit at the nipples, like they were offering themselves. Dusky blush-colored areolae surrounded dark nipples that were made to be licked, already hard from his attentions and almost trembling with the rise and fall of her breath.
His hand claimed one breast and his mouth claimed the other. He rolled one of those perfect nipples against his tongue while his fingers tested the other, listening to the shivers of her breathing as he squeezed, then twisted, then squeezed again. She was mesmerized by the sensations, gasping when he pinched her gently, and gasping when he stopped.
"Take your skirt off," he said.
She shook her head a little to clear it, then checked the clock. A shadow of a smirk crossed her face. "8:14," she said. "That was 14 minutes."
She stood up and stepped out of her black skirt, then started to remove her underwear.
"No, leave those," he said. "And those stirrup stockings, nice. Leave those on too. And put your shirt back on."
