Out on the town, she looked amused when I offered to pay for a round or pick up part of the check. The cool-yet-withering appraisal of the waiter for deferring to me after repeated and not-so-subtle signals I wasn’t calling the shots.
Elsewhere, over drinks, I brought up an upcoming meeting. Rummaging through her purse, she curtly reminded me to, “Just keep my mouth shut” without looking up.
Seeing my pout, she reassured me I was cute before lighting a cigarette; squinting through the smoke, she was suddenly impatient:”Would you finish that already?”
Groping me outside the house, stripping me in the hallway, pinning me to the mattress before claiming my mouth. Feasting on my writhing form while grinding her wet denim-clad crotch against my naked hip.
That curled-lip smirk as she used thumb and forefinger to pull, stretch, and mark the flesh under the head of her cock. The happy and unrestrained smile when she produced, “Boy Butter,” and a Feeldoe.
The look of yearning – of pure lust – as she grasped my ankles.
The wholly feminine ‘Oh’ of delight, upon entering me.
Smoking, fucking hot.
All of it.