Free Waiting for Him by Natalie Dae Page A

perfect for highlighting the curve of his arse, only one cheek visible owing to his side-on position. His white shirt was crumpled at the elbows, the cuffs turned over, and his dark grey tie swung a little between him and the chair back. She wondered whether he’d take it off and bind her wrists with it, or tie her to the bed pole, the material cutting into her skin just the way she liked it, the burn of it increasing every time she moved.
    She imagined walking up behind him and running her hands over the swells of his rear, easing the fabric down so she could touch him, palms to taut muscles beneath that hair-speckled skin. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed, thinking of how that skin tasted. How her tongue seemed to explode with sensation as she dragged it up and down, just to the side of his crack, then delving lower to lick the soft bridge between his bollocks and puckered hole.
    Going down on her knees in front of him entered her head then, of her breathing in the scent of recently enclosed cock, all musk and indefinable tang.
    I want you to fuck me, John.
    He shifted his forearms so they jutted out in front of him, and dug his elbows into the chair top, the leather pleating like shadowy flower petals around them. He let his hands dangle, and she admired the curve of his wrist, the prominent bone there that, when pressed to her clit, gave her an orgasm quite unlike those produced in any other way. And his long, square-ended fingers, how she loved them, the way he stroked her cunt. The way he pushed two inside her, curling them and rubbing over her G-spot, the pressure there always startling at first until he gained a fast rhythm and the urge to come built. Most times, once she’d been sated, he withdrew them and put them in his mouth. Sucked off her juices, staring at her as he tongued the web between his fingers, his eyes glittering with the promise he’d make her come again before she’d fully recovered from the orgasm she’d just had. He knew her so well, knew what turned her on, and played expertly every time.
    She tilted her head and studied him some more. If she got up now and sat in that chair he was in the perfect place to cup her breasts, to tweak her nipples between fingers and thumbs. Pull them so they distended to that painful level that had her panting, arching her back to show him she wanted more.
    And she always wanted more.
    He could nuzzle her neck, lips featherlight, soft and warm, his hair resting over one of her shoulders, the ends a tickling caress, one she loved on her inner thighs when he feasted on her. If he was true to form he’d lick a path down her neck to her collarbone, swirling the tip of his tongue in the dip there and giving her nipples an extra hard pinch. She’d gasp, even though she’d been expecting it, and he’d chuckle that low-in-the-throat way he had when fully aroused yet trying to act as though he wasn’t.
    Her cunt ached —ached so fiercely she contemplated pressing the heel of her hand to her clit to ease the throbbing. But it wouldn’t stop there. She’d dip her fingers into her wet hole and finger-fuck herself until she almost reached orgasm, rocking her hand, daring him to stop her, to demand she take her hand away and wait for him to do the honours.
    But waiting was the deal and she wasn’t about to renege.
    He sighed, lifted his arms then cradled his head, dropping it slightly, his face and hands fully covered by hair. Perhaps he needed to have a moment where he could pretend he was alone. She’d get up, leave him in peace, but he hadn’t given her permission. This play session had been set up via email earlier in the day, the first letter arriving with a jingle notification that had her frowning as he hadn’t indicated he’d be contacting her today when he’d left this morning.

    My pet,
    I want you naked, on the sofa, waiting for me precisely an hour before I’m due home this evening. You must think of what play will include, think of nothing but