Grace

 

Seeing the way two pairs of eyes ate me up was enough to set me alight. It was far more potent than the glass of red in my hand, far more affirming than even the gross amount of money Thomas Heath would pay for the pleasure.

He couldn’t stop looking at me, even though he tried to disguise his constant stare with an arrogant nonchalance. I knew his dick was already hard for me under the fine suit he’d virtually ironed onto his body. I knew he was clammy at the thought of what was to come, even through his cucumber cool veneer. Just as I was.

And just as my husband was, too.

Brett was keeping a tight lid on it, but I could read the way he shifted his weight from one hip to another and scratched a nervous itch on his jawline. I could see the tiniest hint of sweat at his temples, even though he kept his smile firm and bright.

No sooner than I was settled on a barstool and enjoying my drink, I blinked and the hour was ending.

I watched the big hand on the clock on the far wall make its final click onto the hour, and despite it being out of his eyeline, Thomas Heath got to his feet on cue.

“And so it begins,” he said. “Drink up.”

I could barely swallow my final gulp of wine, my throat tightening as the nerves slammed back hard. Bye bye, confidence. Hello, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

Brett got the lights from behind the bar and plunged us into a shady darkness that made the light of the beckoning staircase beam all the brighter. He dropped under the hatch and appeared at my side, slipping his hand into mine with a comforting squeeze.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he commented, and I squeezed his fingers right back.

Heath beckoned us on ahead of him and I flashed him a glance over my shoulder as we walked on by. I could feel him there all the way, his warmth scorching the back of me, even though he was two steps behind.

My feet felt slippery in my heels, my thighs awkwardly tight as I climbed the stairs mute alongside my silent husband, wondering if we were really going to do this at the final hour. If this was really, really going down.

We arrived at the top suite and the man who’d paid to use my body slipped his key into the lock and pushed open the door. I stepped across the threshold first, fighting back a gasp at the scene before me.

It looked barely anything like the room I’d changed countless times. The mattress was stripped bare and cloaked in the thick waterproof sheet I’d seen in a box the night before. It looked seedy. Dark and foreboding in its purpose.

The dresser was covered in every filthy toy imaginable. Towering dildos and curvy vibrators. Plugs and clamps and shapes I couldn’t even comprehend. Floggers, whips, and cuffs were hung over the knobs of the chest of drawers, resting within easy reach of the far side of the bed. Two chairs were positioned with purpose, one at the side of the bed facing across to the window, and the other at the bottom of the bed facing the top.

“For you,” the man with the plan said to Brett and tapped the back of the chair facing the window. Only it wasn’t facing the window, not really. It was facing the mattress, close enough that he’d see everything, smell everything, feel everything.

Our dirty blonde guest tapped the top of what looked like a black box on the bedside table nearest us. A thin line of red light presented itself on the carpet.

“This is the boundary,” he said as I struggled to fathom what he was talking about. “Cross this line and the money in the holding account reverts to mine. Agreement null and void.”

I could hear the pride in Brett’s growled response. “I won’t be crossing the fucking line. A deal is a deal. Just make sure you stick to your end of it.”

The other man raised his hands with a laugh. “I think I’ve already demonstrated how serious I am. I trust you enjoyed spending the first instalment.”

Neither of us said a word, Brett simply squeezing my fingers in one final gesture of support before taking his seat as instructed.

He was tense, his legs rigid and spread wide, foot tapping as he braced his elbows on the armrests. I didn’t blame him.

“And what about me?” I dared to whisper. “Where do you want me?”

I’d grown used to his smirk, but this time it came with a filthy glint in his eyes that set my spine tingling. I could have bolted for the door quite happily, even as my pussy tingled behind my fancy lace panties.

He gestured to the side of the bed, between Brett and the mattress, and I shifted slowly on my heels, tiny steps edging me in his direction. I wondered if this was the moment. If he’d grab me in those solid toned arms and manhandle me every which way he wanted me, but no sooner had I reached his appointed spot than he took the other chair for himself, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles.

I was dithering in the open space, two pairs of eyes scorching me from different directions.

“What now?” I asked, despising how uncertain my voice sounded.

Where was the diva from my bathroom that could take on the world? Where was the woman who’d pictured riding Thomas Heath like a filthy slut while Brett stared on, proud of the seductress blooming strong in his lovely wife?

“Nothing,” Heath said with a smile. “Let me look at you.”

I shrugged like a petulant teenager, catching my own ridiculousness before beginning a slow turn for him. I felt like a fool, and a clumsy one at that, regretting my hooker heel choice in a heartbeat.

“Like this?” I prompted after one full spin.

“Like however you want it to be,” he said, and I forced myself to take a breath.

No big deal. The more time I spent entertaining him with my poses, the less time he could spend double fisting my asshole.

I stopped twirling, instead sucking in a deep lungful of air and settling into my own skin. I parted my legs a little to gain more balance, sliding my hands down my waist to rest on my hips, checking out my reflection in the mirror behind him.

I looked considerably more composed than I felt inside.

I didn’t want to face looking at my husband while I was still wrestling my nerves, so I didn’t. I kept my eyes on my reflection, shifting smoothly from hip to hip as my bare arms goose-pimpled at the scrutiny. I tipped my chin up high and pulled my shoulders back enough to showcase the swell of cleavage his bodice gift was helping with so beautifully.

And then I looked at him. Thomas Heath from North London with his piercing eyes that matched mine in colour behind his geek chic glasses.

There was no smirk on his face. Not even a trace of amusement as his gaze roved up and down the length of me. I couldn’t fight the way my heart fluttered, couldn’t fight the thumping pulse that pounded hard throughout my entire body.

“That’s good,” he said, and his voice was quiet yet commanding. “Relax.”

I took a long breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, wetting my lips — which were drying out even under glossy lipstick — with a quick sweep of my tongue.

“Now take off the dress,” he told me.

My fingers were trembling as I slipped them behind my back to pull down the zipper. The fabric peeled loose from my cleavage and I watched my exposed nipples appear in view, hard little bullets poking over the low cut lace cups underneath.

I shimmied my way out of the red dress, letting it fall to the floor before stepping out. It was one step closer to the man who’d be slamming his way inside me before the night was done and I felt every inch like it was a mile.

The mirror told me I still looked every bit as good in the lingerie as I had getting ready, but my beating heart found it hard to accept.

“A perfect fit,” Heath commented, and I could tell from his tone that he’d known it would be.

“A perfect choice,” I admitted. “It’s beautiful.”

“As is the woman wearing it.”

I sensed Brett shift in his chair and wished, for the first time since agreeing to this madness, that he wasn’t here to watch. My self-consciousness at being so dirty in front of the man who loved me with all his soul was enough to make me rattle.

“Climb onto the bed,” Heath told me. “Kneel up high, thighs spread nicely.”

I did as he wanted, positioning myself in the middle of the mattress, my eyes still firmly on the me in the mirror.

He made no move to join me. No move at all.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he said. “Not for my benefit. No shows or theatrics or fake porn moans, just you, touching yourself however you like to be touched.”

I dared to hiss out a laugh. “I’m hardly one for fake porn moans.”

Even Brett let out a low laugh at the thought. It was strangely comforting.

I looked rigid in my reflection as my fingers swept down between my legs. It was a pathetic attempt at pleasure, my motions barely stimulating the right spot in my awkwardness to do his bidding.

He said nothing, just watched. And so did I. First myself in the mirror, and then his back in the reflection, only daring to look right at him when the glass of wine from earlier settled in my veins.

It was enough. Just enough.

His eyes were sharp and bright. His stance was easy and relaxed, even though he was switched on enough that I could feel the sizzle.

He sizzled.

His suit was glorious on his perfect body. The angles in his face arranged flawlessly.

In other circumstances… in another world… maybe, just maybe I could fall for a man like Thomas Heath.

Or at least have a schoolgirl crush on him.

Definitely a schoolgirl crush on him.

I abandoned the efforts on my clit and snaked my hands up over the gorgeous black lace of my bodice, my palms brushing my tender nipples and rippling the first wave of genuine pleasure back through me.

I tugged at them, pinching in just the way I did in bed at night when the fantasies came calling. I flicked them with tiny flutters of my fingers, breathing long and low as the sensations danced in my belly. And lower.

I shifted my thighs further apart and rocked my hips forward enough that the lace of the knickers gripped me tight. I rolled my lower half in wide circles, sinking into the rhythm as my fingers kept on dancing over my prickling nipples.

And I felt it.

For real, I felt it.

When my fingers slipped back down there was no staged performance this time around. My clit was grateful for the sweep of my hand, my knickers wet with genuine need for more.

I closed my eyes, blocking out the reflection and the room and everyone in it, focusing on the thrum between my legs and the way my clit sparked against my touch. It was slow, torturous, much more sensual than the way I usually strummed one off in a ragged heartbeat with Brett asleep at my side.

I tipped my head back as my breaths turned shallow, one hand still palming my exposed tits as my fingers circled the sweet spot through sopping lace. I didn’t speed up, not even when my body demanded it, setting myself up for an orgasm that rippled right through me, regardless of the witnesses.

I was too far gone to hold back when I finally opened my eyes and met those of the man in front of me. My squirms were all real as I worked my clit into a natural frenzy, the mattress rippling under my knees as I braced for the waves.

My mouth was open when I reached my climax, and so was his, his breaths mirroring mine as I shuddered and came for him.

And then it was done.

I couldn’t hold back the heady grin as I sank to the bed and let my breath calm along with my thumping heart.