The Interview

The car pulls away from the curb, the beat of my heart making a symphony with the sound of the tires. We’re here. Finally almost here.

“How far do you want to take this?” Whit’s fingers loop my wrist. Light from the streetlamp falls across him in ripples as he closes the space between, his steps as fluid as a cat. “How far, Amelia?”

“Mimi,” I whisper. I don’t sound very bold.

“I can call you Mimi,” he says, reaching out to run his thumb and fingers down a lock of my hair. “Or I can call you Amelia. But I can only fuck one of the two.”

“And Mimi doesn’t do it for you?”

“Mimi belongs in the past.” His knuckle brushes my teeth. “The woman in front of me, she isn’t a kid anymore.”

Why does that sound right?

“You’ve done this before.” The question is in his expression, not his words.

I laugh softly. “I’m twenty-four, Whit. I haven’t saved myself for you.”

“I’m aware.”

“I would have. If you’d been around.” I bite my lip from adding, I imagined it was you. His breath leaves his chest in a rush, and he looks stunned. Maybe that was too much. But as the doors to Whit’s building automatically swish open, he sort of jolts back to himself, his fingers moving from my wrist to my back.

“Shall we?”

I smile up at his serious expression and shrug. “Why the heck not?”

This time, there’s no security request to check my ID or the contents of my purse as, with a clipped nod from Whit, we pass by the evening’s security detail. My heels echo as we cross the sleekly stylish lobby, Whit’s hand a hot presence at my back. Before we even reach the elevator, the doors begin to glide almost silently open.

“That’s a clever trick.” I glance up at him, the sudden longing in his eyes catching me off guard. My God, this is really happening. “The doors,” I qualify unnecessarily as I resist the instinct to cross my legs as a sudden hollow throb strikes up in my panties.

“Apparently,” Whit’s low voice rumbles as he adds a little pressure to my back to get me moving, “the rich should never do something as mundane as wait.” He guides me into an elevator car of bronze mirrored walls and lattice screening. The doors no sooner close than he’s pulling my back flush to his front. His hands rise to my hips, sliding to where the fabric separates. The contact sets off a wave of sensation I can’t control. “They also don’t share space.”

“So this is your elevator?” My ridiculous question sounds high and my heart flutters wildly as he bends, brushing his lips against my neck. The sound he makes is more a satisfied hum than an answer. Not that I really need one as I sink into his chest, lengthening my neck for the path of his tongue. The sight of us in the mirror opposite, what a picture we paint. My mouth softly opened, my eyes wanton, wanting, and full of encouragement as Whit’s hands circle my waist. His dark head bent, his lashes are like a sweep of dark angel wings.

“Poor Mimi,” he gently taunts. “Never had sex in a car.”

“Oh!” I suck in a sharp breath as his teeth find my earlobe. “You have?” I begin to move my head to look at him, only to find his finger at my chin, maneuvering me back.

“A misspent youth,” he murmurs as his hand drifts to my breast. He cups the full weight, and I inhale sharply as his thumb brushes my stiffening nipple. “That and a house full of siblings made for ingenuity. Lie back against me, sweetheart.”

“Why?” My mouth questions as my body does it anyway. There isn’t one thing about him that doesn’t thrill me, the chemicals swirling through my body so seductive.

“Because I want you to.” I almost moan as he tweaks my stiff nipple though my dress. “Because you want to please me.” He doesn’t wait for my confirmation, but I guess he doesn’t need to. “You know where I’ve never had sex? In an elevator car.”

My insides start to pulse, yet the chuckle that fills the tiny space is far too loud.

“That’s funny, is it?” he asks.

“I was thinking about cameras.” I don’t move my head because that would involve moving my neck, but my gaze does flick around the small space.

“Do you have a thing for watching?” Heat courses through my veins as both hands slide over my rib cage, down over my thighs. “Being seen? You do seem very studious.”

At his taunting tone, my eyes catch his in the mirror. The tiger and his prey.

“I’m not…”

“What?” he purrs, toying with the hem of my dress. “Watching my hand?” He roughly pulls at the hem of my dress, his hand sliding between my legs. His fingers curl inward, gripping my thigh, and my knees almost buckle on the spot. “Willing me to use my fingers on you again?”

I begin to tremble as his hand slides higher and my body bows, chasing his touch. But then I remember where we are and how the doors might open at any time. My body protests reflexively when his hands tighten, and he whispers a quiet, “Hush.”

Of course. This is Whit’s floor. He isn’t expecting anyone to come.

Well… in that way, maybe. Because the way he begins to slide my dress higher makes me think he might be expecting someone to come.

“What will I find if I pull your skirt higher, Amelia?”

I startle at the sight of myself. My cheeks flushed red, my feet planted wider than I recall, and the skirt part of my dress looking more and more like a belt.

“Answer me. Did you go out with my brother wearing panties that my money paid for?”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.” Oh my God, I’m blaming Whit’s sexual voodoo for my response because I have no idea where the words are coming from. “Better than going out bare assed.”

“That would be something I’d certainly punish you for.”

My brain buckles, the synapses misfiring, my thoughts making not one bit of sense. That… that’s not sexy. So why are my internal organs slut dropping at the thought of it?

“You look shocked.” I roll in my lips to stifle a whimper at the hot drag of his fingers up my thigh. “Are you imagining just that? Have I broken your brain a little, sweetheart?”

“Punishment isn’t my thing.”

“Such a sweet little liar. Unless you don’t really know?”

I gasp as his hand ghosts my pussy, my body throbbing in anticipation of the contact that doesn’t come.

“Who are you in the dark, darling?”

“I… what do you mean?”

“Who are you just for you? When there’s no one around, and you don’t have to be the sunshine.”

“H-how would you punish someone?” My voice is tremulous because he’s not supposed to notice. Who I am inside is not his business, and those thoughts are to be held at arm’s length.

“Punish you, Amelia. How would I punish you?” This time, oh yes, his fingers are a fluttering brush between my legs. “There are so many ways, so many parts you and I could play. Tell me about these.” He cups his hands between my legs. “Did I buy you these?”

“Last year.” I try so hard not to push against him, to deepen the contact. “Bloomingdales, w-with a bra to match.”

“Are you wearing it now?”

I nod rapidly. There really is little point in hiding how eager I am.

“Darling, I’m going to need you to use your words.”

“Yes.” I swallow. “A matching set.”

“Then we won’t take them off. Not yet.” His long finger curls, sliding along my slit, making my insides pulse and ache. God, I’m so ready for this. “We’re not going to have sex in this car, Amelia.” My body stills. Was I getting a little ahead of myself? “I’m going to fuck you with my fingers until you’re ready to come. Would you like that?” His hand tightens when I don’t immediately answer. I throb, blood rushing to greet the contact. “Your words, Amelia. I want to hear them.”

“Yes.” My tongue darts out to wet my parched lips. “Yes, please.”

“Good girl.” That should not feel like sunshine on my skin. But, gosh, it does. “How badly do you want me to finger you?”

“What?” I sound slightly worried, but my internal organs are doing a jig.

“Tell me how much you want this. If it helps, you can pretend I need persuading.”

“Whit.” I press my hand over his and pull it from between my legs. His eyes darken as I lift it to brush a kiss to the back of his fingers. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I’ve wanted you.” Clasping it flat to my stomach, I slide his fingers into my panties, curling my hand over his. “You were the first boy I touched myself to. The one I held all boys up against.” And they never stood a chance. “The night I lost my virginity, you were the one I imagined.” It’s hardly complimentary to Adam whatever his name was, but there really was no other way for it to play out.

“Jesus Christ.” His hand tightens on my pussy as though in ownership, my hips tipping as my body wills him instinctively on.

“Every time you touch me, it’s like a dream come true. Tonight, I don’t want just your fingers. Tonight, I don’t want to pretend.”

“Fuck.” His breath is hot against my cheek as he flexes into me. “How did you become so perfect?”

“Touch me, Whit. Make this real.” I’m so wet, I know he can feel it. Knowing what his words have done to me, I begin to paint a picture all of my own. “So many nights I’ve slipped into something silky. Under the covers, I’d press my hand between my legs and think of you. I’d close my eyes, and it would be your breath I could feel. You moving inside me.”

“Who’s seducing who?” he purrs dangerously.

“I’m just telling the truth.”

“What you’re doing is torturing me.” His hot and reprimanding words curl around me, just as his fingers do. I stifle a whimper as his middle finger parts me, sweeping along the slick ribbon of flesh. “And enjoying it.”

“Oh!”

“You prance around my office, looking like sunshine and smelling like flowers, dressed in your tight skirts and sensible blouses. But underneath, underneath you’re a hot little fuck in gossamer lingerie.” Gathering my arousal, he paints it across my clit. “Admit it,” he demands, “you’ve gotten your kicks hiding all this from me.”

“Oh God, yes!”

“Not good enough, Amelia.” His fingers circle a little faster and the muscles in my thighs twitch like they don’t belong to me. “Tell me the truth. Tell me all of it.”

I thrash and cry out, as he owns my pleasure—as he owns me. “I wanted to show you—I wanted you to see.”

“An inadvertent flash of a lacy bra. The outline of your thong.”

“Yes, please! I want you to tell me to lift my skirt to show you like you did before, but you wouldn’t.”

“And what would happen next in this dirty scenario of yours?”

“You’d bend me over your desk and fuck me hard!” My body begins to jerk as filth pours out of my mouth.

“Good girl. I like that story. My God, you’re so hot and slippery. All for me.”

I almost sob, the dark reverence in his voice adding to this throbbing, needy experience overload. The sight of us in the mirror, the dark look on his face, the sound of his fingers working me wetly. “Please, Whit,” I whimper, moaning a garbled plea as he pinches my swollen clit. My body twists from the delicious torture until he bands his arm across my chest, pinning me in place. Every nerve ending ignites—I’m suddenly so close to coming, I lock my knees, tilting my pelvis to deepen the contact. I almost cry in frustration as he slips out from behind me. At least until he pushes me back against the wall.

He hooks his fingers into the elastic at my hips, pulling my underwear to mid-thigh.

It feels so dirty like this. So much more dirty than being naked in front of him as his eyes fall to my pussy, his fingers opening me up to his appraisal.

“You’re so fucking perfect.”

His praise makes me whimper, and his mouth brushes mine as though to taste, swallowing my cries as his fingers slip through my wetness, suddenly spearing me. The intrusion is so slick and sublime and brings with it such a wave of relief as my back arches from the wall, chasing his touch. From one hand to two, he opens me and begins to strum my clit with his thumb.

“You make the hottest little moans. “His lips feel hungered, his words a layer of pleasure I can barely comprehend. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

I shake my head, but I know what he’s about to say by the wicked tilt of his lips. Words, Amelia, use your words.

“N-no one.” I could give him a more accurate depiction. Hell, I could write a dissertation if he needed it. But he’s going to have to stop touching me first.

“I can’t wait to hear the sounds you make when I get my mouth on you.”

His words turn to fragments of images in my head, those pictures setting off a wave of reactions that I’m powerless to resist. Driven by instinct and this consuming need, my body moves with the rhythm of his fingers, the sound of my arousal almost lewd.

“You take my fingers so beautifully. Will you throb as hard around my cock?”

Oh. My. Gosh. Just when I think he can’t get any filthier, he ups the ante so perfectly. Whit coaxes my climax with such attention, his thumb at my clit, his fingers a symphony of hard thrusts and delicious come-hither curls, layering sensation upon sensation, driving me senseless, driving my hips to thrust to chase his touch. Endorphins, hormones, and Whit’s dark demands set off a seismic wave of pleasure. I reach out, my fingers scrambling with his jacket and shirt, this desperation crawling through me requiring he take off all his clothes.

“Not yet, darling.” His hand is wet with my arousal as he takes my wrists, pressing them above my head. Another layer. I never imagined I could feel so good.

“Please, Whit.” My body bows as though it would inhale him whole if it could.

His eyes seem to be lit from some light behind them, his expression as wild as any tiger. “You should thank me for fucking you with my fingers.”

I try to, honestly I do, but don’t get past the “th” sound as my body jerks. So. Many. Feelings. So many sensations unraveling the threads holding me together.

“Oh, beautiful girl, that’s it. Come all over my fingers.”

And like Pavlov’s dog and his ringing bell, I do.

Oh, I do.

Then I think I pass out.