A sample from THE DESIGNER

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The kiss is soft, almost hesitant. Like he’s not sure. But it’s not a lack of confidence I feel coming from Hampton. It’s respect. Wanting to see if the bitch he’s apparently come around on — a bitch that, to be fair, hasn’t liked him much, either — wants this to happen too.

Wants what to happen?

The answer makes me shiver. It’s been a while. I’m a small town girl, I’m single, and I don’t believe in hookups. Even thinking of what’s about to happen, if I let it, makes me want to blush.

This isn’t me. At all.

I barely know this man, and we’re nothing alike. I spent weeks hating him and all he stood for. I never sleep with anyone casually. To consider doing it with Hampton Brooks—

Our lips part.

“I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

“Then we’ll stop.”

Stop what?

My mind plays over the what-ifs as its own naughty little game.

What if he licks your pussy, Stacy? What if you come with his face between your legs?

He leans in again but stops short. I meet him in the middle.

“I can’t do this, Hampton.”

I pull him in again. The next kiss is wetter. Deeper. Heat spreads through my body. An insistent tickle between my legs. I’m getting wet. But I can’t lose myself. That’s not who I am.

I step away. “We’re confused.”

“I’m not confused,” he says.

I see the swelling in his trousers. I think of what lies beneath. I want to hold it in my hand, hot like a throbbing heart.

“You don’t even like me.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“And I don’t like you, either.”

There’s a hard moment. Hampton seems to swallow, to summon some interior force of will. Then he nods and says, “I’ll go.”

“Wait.”

He stops. I reach for the case on the table.

“You need the sketches.” I hold them out. My chest won’t stop rising and falling, gulping air more than simply breathing it. I can hear my pulse. I can feel it in the tips of my fingers.

Hampton reaches for the case. He comes toward me. I come toward him. He takes the sketches for a half-second, but neither of us stops moving. We collide with the case pinned between us. Hampton tosses it to the floor.

His hands are on my face, mashing his lips into mine. My hands are behind his back, pulling us together.

“If you want to stop, tell me now,” Hampton says, breathless.

“Stop.” I reach up. I jam my fingers into his tie knot, struggling to untie it.

“I mean it,” he says.

“I mean it, too. Stop it.”

The tie is aside. I’m unbuttoning his shirt, feeling his smooth, firm chest. My hands slide inside, beneath the fine fabric. His sides are full of washboard ridges.

His mouth moves to my neck. Kisses it. Sucks it; nibbles it. He makes his way down to my collarbone. My head falls back like nothing’s supporting it; it’s as if I’ve lost all my bones. A sigh escapes me. He attacks my newly exposed length, kissing back up my neck to my lips.

“Don’t you dare open my blouse,” I tell him.

He opens my blouse.

“And don’t even think about taking off my bra.”

He unfastens my bra. The air feels cool. My flesh prickles. My bare nipples stand erect, flinching as his hands run across them.

One of us pushes. I don’t know which. We pivot and stumble until we’re back against the wall, knocking a full rack of bobbins to the floor. It’s more ornamental than useful — the stuff I use is in the back room — but the thing is big, and the clatter is large.

And my family lives in the apartments upstairs.

“I’m sorry,” Hampton says, awkward.

“If you’re sorry, clean it up.”

He stoops, but rather than going for the mess, he yanks down my pants. I’m standing in my shop, not far from the window, with my folks on the top floor, against the wall with my panties showing. They’re nothing fancy. Nothing like Hampton’s supermodel dates must surely wear. But when he begins to run his fingers over the cotton there, I stop caring about the mess, the window, the fear of getting caught. I stop thinking about tomorrow. There is only now.

He rubs harder with two fingers, pressing my panties into my cleft.

“Hampton, we have to—”

But the coming orgasm stops me. I have five full seconds to feel it happening, knowing exactly where this is headed. I don’t like the idea of showing him my loss of control. I don’t want to lose my shit right here, right now, in plain sight of anyone who might be passing. I don’t even think we locked the door.

“Oh God.”

He stands. T-minus three seconds. But the hand is still there, working. He reaches my lips before my eyes close.

I crumble.

Try not to make a sound.

And fail.

I’ve never come this hard. It’s not just between my legs. Not just in my erogenous zones. It’s in every piece of me. For almost half a minute, I’m defenseless. So much for pretense. This is what I look like when I’m putty in another person’s hands.

“More,” Hampton says when it’s over. “Again.”

“Again what?”

But it’s obvious. He’s slipped the crotch of my panties aside, and his fingers are playing in my wetness, electric with fluid friction.

“Hampton, I’ve never been prone to …”

He’s back on his knees, his tongue on me.

I’m so wet. I paint his face as I squirm.

And then it happens. Again. Never prone to multiple orgasms or not, here comes an encore.

And another.

I’m a noodle as he moves me to the couch. Even with lust in his eyes, he moves the sketches reverently aside first, lest we threaten to crush them.

Crush them doing what?

But I’ve already come three times, bang bang bang. If that part of my still head wants to play demure, I’ve got something to show it.

My brain is a porno. In my mind, Hampton has already fucked me in every possible position. I’ve had his cum all over my tits, my belly, my face for all I care. He’s fucked me with all sorts of filthy toys, all at once. There is no demure left inside me. My brain is a slut. My imagination is a whore with a thousand holes. Nobody has to know. This theater of perversion is all mine, hidden where no one can see it.

Hampton pulls off my shoes. My bunched-up pants. My panties. My open blouse stays on, my unhooked bra dangling pointlessly inside it.

Then he moves to himself. The shirt was open; he pulls it off. He unbuckles his belt in a rush like I might run away. Everything below is off a second later, his hard cock springing free.

It’s thick and proud, big but not so big that it worries me. I want it all. Its head is blushed pink, straining like it wants to escape from its skin. His erect member twitches, a tiny drop of fluid gleaming at the tip.

I’m on my back. I spread my legs, welcoming Hampton inside.

My pussy is gushing, both from my juices and Hampton’s spit. It’s hot and thrumming with my pulse. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex. The moment overwhelms me, too long coming.

He moves between my legs, compressing the shoddy couch. When his tip is inches from my opening, he stops. It seems to take extraordinary effort. His cock twitches a little, his balls hugged close to the underside. As eager as his hard cock looks, I picture it going off without so much as a touch.

My imagination shows me what that would look like. My skin tells me what that would feel like, his hot come spattered across my belly, up my chest, maybe to my tits, my neck.

He’s still waiting, cock so close I can feel its radiant heat.

“Last chance.”

“You asshole.”

“I’m just trying to be respectful.”

I don’t want you respectful right now. I want you to fuck me into tears. I want you to leave me limping. Tomorrow is for regrets. Today is only for this feeling.

But that’s barely me. Not me at all. There’s a devil on my shoulder and Hampton is right; I may feel stupid tomorrow if we do this.

Stupider than if he just eats you out then leaves you to go upstairs and jill that shit until you’re chafed?

It’s an excellent point. I reach for his dick. Grip it. And guide him to my pussy like a ship to the dock.

I sigh with pleasure as Hampton’s cock slides inside me. He moans, his length gliding in until his balls rest against my ass.

In. And out. And in.

Our tempo increases. I’m vaguely aware that we’re probably making too much noise, that we sound like animals in a tussle as Hampton fucks my pussy with his thick dick. Any second now, someone could descend from above. Maybe my little brother. Maybe my little sister.

But it’s not like I’m going to stop now.

We move faster and faster until I can barely catch my breath. I think I come again; it’s all lost in euphoria. My pussy grips his cock, and in the same moment he seems to swell inside me, then he thrusts one last time and stays there, mated hard against me.

I feel heat inside. And when he pulls out to lay beside me, his seed trickles out. I have the presence of mind to reach down and tuck the armrest cover under us. Customers will sit here tomorrow. There shouldn’t be come stains.

With Hampton’s arm around me and my pleasure draining back into normality, I wait for the shame to descend. For regret to creep in, because I never do this, and I barely know him, and I’m still not sure I like him at all.

But the regret doesn’t come. The shame never arrives.

It’s like Hampton can read my mind.

“What does it mean,” he says from behind me, my ass spooned against his flagging member, “that I feel no urgency to call my pilot and tell him when I’ll show up?”

I don’t know the answer to that question.

I feel too satisfied to care.

WANT TO READ MORE? Click here to get your copy of The Designer!

5 Replies to “A sample from THE DESIGNER”

  1. Corina says:

    Oh my. Damn. This is very steamy.

  2. Maylene says:

    Wow!!! (Fan self.!) That was smoking hot!

  3. Maylene Hilliare says:

    Sweet!!

  4. Lynette Assels says:

    HOT!! HOT!! Another hit on your hands!!

  5. Kelly Anderson says:

    Yummy!!! More, please…

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