Welcome Sunday Snog devotees, this week a Blissemas snog from my new collection, Stories for When the Sun Goes Down. This steamy snippet is from The Champagne Whore and is set in a super posh hotel in wintery London Town.
He props an elbow on the bar and leans in close. “One thousand,” he murmurs. “For the whole night, my rules, I’m in charge—you do what I say.”
“That could work.” I pretend to mull it over and try not to look too excited at the deal about to be struck and what delights might lay ahead. His cool water aftershave and his intensely primitive stare are making me wet for him already.
“But one thing first.” He straightens and his suit jacket stretches across his chest.
“Uncross your legs.”
“You heard what I said—I want to sample the goods before I cough up a grand.”
“You want to sample the goods… here?”
“Oh, yeah, right here, right now, my rules remember.”
I unfurl my legs and slide to the edge of the stool, grateful that apart from a few drivers whizzing along Park Lane I’m hidden from view to everyone in the Champagne Bar.
He stands, nudges my legs further open and reaches to pull his stool closer. He sits back down.
I take a sip of champagne and feel a thrill as the tip of his cool index finger sneaks up the hem of my dress onto my fishnets. I make a point of not reacting to the burst of pleasure as he winds higher and higher onto the warm flesh of my thigh. The material of my dress is bunched and rucked around his wrist and his wandering fingers find and sweep the silk gusset of my lace panties.
I don’t look down though I know I’m on show, exposed, instead I hold a serene, confident expression as his unblinking gaze drills into me.
“You’re hot,” he whispers. “Are you wet, too?”
“Just for you.” I squirm against his inquisitive finger.
“Dirty little whore,” he mouths, a twitch catching his upper lip and a wicked glint sharding through his eyes. He pulls the elastic of my knickers aside and a single thick finger strokes up the soft folds of my now hyper-sensitive flesh and flicks over my buzzing clitoris. Just once, just enough to tease and make me want more.
I pull in a sharp breath and try not to let out a whimper as the barman walks over and removes our empty glasses.
“Would you like more champagne, sir?” he asks.
The exploring finger begins to slowly push into my emptiness, filling me just a little. I can barely register what the question has been.
“We’re fine thanks,” Hunk answers for me as he slides all the way in. I feel my spine soften and curl forward. I need more of what he’s doing but I can’t have it now, not here. I look up at the barman and see a fleeting, unreadable expression cross his face before he turns his back on us.
Hunk pulls slowly out, realigns my knickers and straightens my dress to my knees.
“Well,” I ask, feeling a flush of colour rise on my cheekbones as I re-cross my legs, pretending the whole thing never happened.
My brooding client holds his hand up and the light catches my glistening juices spread on his finger. “Let’s see.” He opens his mouth and pokes his long, moist finger in up to the knuckle. Then, closing his eyes, he withdraws it very, very slowly letting out a small murmur of approval as he does so. “I think…” he says, hardly opening his hooded eyes. “You’ll do very nicely, but I’ll warn you, I don’t spend a thousand pounds lightly, I’ll be getting my moneys worth. You think you can handle that?”
I practically melt into a boneless heap at the thought of him making sure he gets his money’s worth out of me. “I can handle plenty,” I say with a jut of my jaw that belies my jubilant butterflies.
“Good,” he says, standing. “Let’s go.”
He waits as I pick up my purse and then threads his fingers with mine. He leads me past the three men and out into the bright lobby.
“You like my dress then?” I ask conversationally as we head across the lobby.
“Not nearly slutty enough,” is his gruff response.
We step into the waiting elevator. The second the door rolls shut he’s on me. Pushing me against the smoky mirrored wall with his big, powerful body and slamming his erection into my stomach. His mouth presses down on mine and his insistent tongue probes and explores. “No,” I manage to breathe as I twist and remove his tongue. “No kissing on the mouth.”
“No kissing on the mouth, that’s the rule, stick to it or the deal is off.”
He steps back and his weight is gone, I miss it already. A flash of disapproval, or maybe hurt, crosses his face and he runs a hand over his short, sharp hair. I have no time to explain it’s standard whore practice because the door pings open and an elderly, well-dressed couple step in.
“Good evening,” they say.
“Evening,” he replies through a strained voice.
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