What is it about her, he began to wonder...why does she make me breathe like this? He knew she was there; she was the only person he was aware of. She made him shiver. Cold was the best way to describe it; an aching sensation that began with his skin and sank inward to his inmost parts. Somehow he knew it would be made better if he was closer to her.
The room was filled with men in black suits and women in dresses of all colors. Men of importance - lawyers, businessmen, politicians – milling about the room with a certain satisfaction, the delirium of a party and the search for excellent conversation. Discussions of yachts and finance, polite conversation about politics, art, and gossip. The words came to him – this foreign, invasive feeling could not dominate his excellence as a conversationalist – but he could only mouth them and watch the smiles of the people he was with. Could they see his unease? It wasn't unease; he was so close. It was appetite.
A ravenous appetite. He refused to move toward her, though; he didn't know what he would do. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to fuck her, to worship her, to destroy her, to make her scream, moan, cum, breathe against his face; the urge was even more primal than sex, though the images in his mind proposed only that. He surely couldn't move away.
His eyes strayed over to her; he slid his gaze across her back and ass, cupped gently by the dress. A kind of perfection that seemed mathematical and more, heightened by whatever this feeling was. Something more sublime than mere lust. Her eyes turned to look at him and she smiled, so slightly only he could know. There was something communicated through her eyes; she could have communicated anything, everything, but the message she dripped with was more primal than the civilization of words could emit. She felt the same way. His resolution was broken (or replaced? What difference is there between coercion, corruption, and desire?) He felt himself moving toward her, as though he were being drawn, but there was a bestial impulse to it.
Then it was alright. There was clarity in his mind. They couldn't look away from each other; they were locked instinctively. They had to be alone, to do what they needed. (what they needed, what they desired, what they were forced to do; the distinction had become irrelevant to them) He heard her voice in the clearest and most natural tone; "Excuse us," she said. Her hand touched his chest; it lingered there for a touch too long, enough for them to feel each others' warmth and hate – hate is too light a word - the threads between them. They wanted to devour each other. She pulled him aside.
She pressed herself against a wall and released his collar. He leaned close to her and breathed against her neck; it felt electric. Her hand stayed on his chest; she felt his heartbeat. "We have to get away," she said, her hand tracing down his body, teasing herself on the contours of his abdominals before she discreetly groped his crotch, first just exploring him, then feeling herself melt as she felt his cock harden in his pants. "Do you know where we can..." she breathed.
"Yes," he said, coolly. With a kind of reluctance she pulled her hand away from him.
They slipped away from the gathering. The lights were low; those in attendance were occupied with their own discussions. The two understood the need for discretion, and no one doubted the character of these two excellent people.
The elevator door closed and she nearly threw him against the wall; her hands gripped him by the neck as she pressed her body against him lasciviously. He could feel the heat of her, everywhere; the feeling of her lightest touch had been electric, this was nearly overwhelming. He gripped her by the wrist and stopped her, though he knew – they couldn't and wouldn't harm each other, even if they were...rough. "Somewhere better," he snarled, growled, though his voice never lost the strange delicacy and sculpting it had learned in nowhere but the finest settings. He smiled calmly, even politely, though she understood that there was more than politeness in it. She raised one of her hands to his hair and curled her fingertips in it; she kissed him, wantonly, passionately, lustfully; whatever they did together was an affront to civilization. The elevator rang as it neared the floor and she pulled herself away, smiling at the effect she had had on him, too easily felt between her legs, and brought her fingertips to wipe away the lipstick she had left on him. They were composed when they left the elevator.
"Patience," he whispered. There was no room for words in their minds as they entered his car and drove away.
The door to his apartment was shut for scarcely a moment before he pressed her against the door; they forced each other into another kiss, their tongues twisting in each others' mouths, their hands groping one another's bodies. It failed to satisfy the need that they both had.
It was a strange dance they made to his bed; they couldn't tear their lips away from each other, their hands twisted on one another's backs and legs. Her dress came undone and was discarded on the floor; the coat flowed off his arms. His tie and his shirt were each torn away. They could feel each other's ragged breaths and the heat from each others' bodies.
They came to the bed; she straddled him, her hands stroking his chest, sliding against the flats of his pectorals. She could feel how needfully his dick throbbed against her pussy, even through his trousers and her thong. She playfully ground her hips against his; one of her hands came down from his chest and touched his crotch, her fingertips toying with the belt and fly. When they were finally discarded, she held his cock in her hands against her pussy; a soft moan emanated from her lips.
She moved her body down, her breasts sliding against his cock and teasing it with her cleavage. Her fingertips stroked him; her tongue flicked at the head. It was perfect, she thought – a strange thought, but never one more appropriate. She wanted it inside her; she kissed it as she cupped his balls.
He grew impatient, watching her lick his cock. Surely she could taste how hard he was. He sat up, separating her from his cock; she followed him up, her teeth bared like a predator as she crawled up his body. She cupped her breasts, her pussy once again inches from his cock; the scent of her arousal was intoxicating. There eyes were fixed constantly on each other. Her bra came undone – neither of them knew who did it. She instantly pressed her breasts against his chest, drawing her hardened nipples across his pectorals as she smiled lustfully to him. Her eyes communicated everything.
She was still taking too long; he pulled her against him, and was soon above her. Her attitude, and his, were hardly different; there was nothing about submission here, only primal need. She stroked his cock, seeming to dare him with her eyes; his hands moved to slide her thong away, and her hand came to replace it, fingering herself until her juices covered her finger. He was only too willing to suck them away.
Her legs spread apart. His cock was so hard, she thought; so thick, so perfect. They were so ready. Her fingertips spread her pussy lips for him; her other hand toyed with his hair.
