CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HAMPTON
I CAN’T DENY IT. I won’t try anymore.
Stacy’s been on my mind since the moment I left her. The woman is a curse. She’s become every stitch of clothing I wear. When I wear something tailored by hands other than hers, it feels like I’m cheating on her. And she’s tainted my lucky shirt forever. Whenever I wear it now, I’ll remember Stacy. Our lips together. Our bodies close.
“Take it off,” she tells me.
“Why? It’s mine.”
“You’ll rip it.”
“This will never rip.”
“You’re wrong. It wasn’t made for you.”
I button it instead. I’ve never worn anything like it. The tailoring is intimate. She knows every inch of my body, and how to treat it.
“Coincidence,” Stacy says, eyeing the fit. “What the hell is wrong with you? Will you stop looking at me like that?”
“Now you,” I say.
“What?”
“Now you,” I repeat.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have been thinking of me. And not as a client. Not as a boss. Just me.”
Her lips firm, but she’s fooling nobody. With this shirt on my back, I can see right through her.
She picks up the dress. “I think you should go.”
“Why these two?” I ask.
“What two?”
“A shirt. And a dress.”
“I guess they’re both for you,” she spits. “Since you know everything.”
“Try it on.”
She looks at me. Then the dress.
“You’re joking.”
“They go together,” I say. “Prove me wrong.”
“You really are an—”
I take her arm. Gently.
I draw her toward me.
For a half-second she resists, but then she comes to me as if on a reel. I don’t stop when we’re face to face. I pull her until our chests are touching and my mouth is beside her ear. I know I have her before I even speak. Her chest is heaving. Her body is shaking. She’s completely undone. Her breath in shambles, as if broken.
“Try on the dress,” I tell her, “and prove we don’t fit together.”
There’s a long moment. Then she steps away, pulling us apart. She reaches down, pulls off her shirt. Halfway through, she turns, for unnecessary modesty. I see her bare back, then watch her fingers creep back to unfasten her bra. It drops to the floor, but she won’t turn toward me. She reaches for the dress, then pulls it over her head.
Quietly, she says, “Zip me.”
I come forward. My hands shake as they find the zipper, closing her in.
“How’s the fit?” I ask, moving to press against her, to thread my face past her hair, near her neck.
In a whisper: “It’s perfect.”
I move down, my lips on her bare shoulders. My hands trace her sides. When I reach the bottom, I reach up beneath the dress, around to the front. I unbutton and unzip her pants, then hook my fingers under her panties and pull everything down. She kicks off her flip-flops and leaves the puddle of clothing at her feet. The dress settles against her skin, hanging naturally.
“Now it’s perfect,” I say.
I stand and turn her around.
“Why a shirt? Why a dress?”
“They go together,” she barely whispers.
My hands are on her waist. We’re chest to chest. Her eyes close. We’re two planets sharing an orbit and waiting to collide.
I kiss her neck.
“You’ve been thinking about me.”
“Yes,” she whispers.
Another kiss.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Stacy Grace.”
My cock is rock hard as she presses into me. So hard it’s uncomfortable. Her hands move down. Unbutton. Unzip. The velvet feel of her small hands, skin on skin. I throb against her touch, as she caresses my length.
She pushes my pants down, leaving me bare. Our lips meet. And Stacy says, “Prove it.”
I walk forward, nudging her back. Into the back room, away from the window. Her butt strikes the cutting table, littered with scraps, threads, cloth pencils, and scissors.
Her hand on my cock, gripping tighter, rubbing harder.
I kiss her and whisper, “Turn around.”
Her hand leaves me only for a moment. The second she’s turned, it’s back, pulling me in as I lift her dress to expose her smooth, bare ass. She rubs my cock’s tip against her skin, leaving wet trails.
“I want you, Stacy,” I growl into her ear.
An animal sigh escapes without words.
“Put my cock in your pussy,” I say against her neck. “I need to be inside you.”
Her hand moves me lower. My balls tighten, and a shiver runs up my inner thighs, threatening to explode. Then, on the hot head of my cock, I feel warmth and wetness. Everything is slippery as she rubs me against her pussy. She pushes back, just a little. The heat increases and I feel her open for me, but then she pulls away. Her hand is wet from her juices, lubricating my shaft. She plays me up and down, teasing.
I grip her hips. I pull my custom shirt up and push hard, parting her hot flesh as I slide inside.
Stacy moans, face-down on the table. I withdraw and push in again, buried in her pussy to the hilt.
I stay that way until she begins to grind against me, eager for the thrust. But for the moment it’s hard to leave this place. Stacy is all around me like a hot, wet fist, tickling every inch of my throbbing member.
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
So I do. Long, slow strides. It’s hard to last, so I vary the tempo. Quick, hard strokes in and out mingle with a slow tempo. I breathe slowly, trying to steady my imminent eruption. Even restraint is a turn-on. I just want to fuck her and fuck her again, over and over, until she overflows.
I reach down, then lift her from the table with my cock still inside her from behind. I caress her breasts through the fabric. Through the elegant, beautiful fabric. I can feel her hard nipples. The soft curves of her skin. Her hair swings as I thrust. As I fuck her in our matching garments.
“Oh my God, Hampton. I’m going to come!”
But no, she’s not. Not without me.
I fuck her faster. Faster. It’s a race, and we’re both about to be winners.
“OH GOD!” Stacy cries as I near my peak, as my balls tighten and my thighs firm and my thrusting cock twitches inside her.
I feel her reaching the finish line before me as her pussy grabs my cock hard, trying to milk it. And then it does as my orgasm crests, as her little pussy holds me tightly and I fuck through her spasms, coming and coming, together as one.
When it’s over, I pull out and we slouch to the floor. We lie there for a while in silence.
Finally, Stacy takes the shirt’s tail between her thumb and forefinger. “You like them, don’t you? Both of my mock-ups.”
The funny thing is, I do. Apart from the sex, I do. The idea that’s been building, like my orgasm, has crested into something beautiful.
“They’re perfect,” I say.