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I clutch the phone in my right hand, holding it up, then place my left foot on the couch cushion next to his knee, leaning forward slowly. I assume he thinks he’s about to get a little striptease based on my body language and the way he shifts back on the couch, relaxed, head tilted in my direction.
I lean all the way in until my lips are beside his ear. “Wait here,” I purr before standing. I grab my purse from the front hall—I’m using a large tote style tonight to stash my goodies—before disappearing into the bedroom.
I turn on every light in the room as I strip, dashing into the bathroom to freshen up my hair and makeup. I leave those lights on too, for good measure. Grabbing the telescoping tripod from my bag, I toss it on the bed with the phone, then gather up the rest of my stuff, bringing it to the walk-in closet. I set my bag down and pull out the wisp of fabric of my one-piece lace bodysuit. The cut is high on my hips, the edging scalloped. The scallop detailing continues on the deep v neckline held up by the tiniest spaghetti straps. It’s orange, a perfect complement for my peach-colored Porn-A-Thon nails.
Sliding into the bodysuit, I adjust the fabric over my tits and feel for my keys necklace, the only other thing I’m wearing. Perfect. Leaving the closet, I place my phone in the speaker dock on Sawyer’s nightstand, hitting play on the playlist I created for tonight. Then, moving to the foot of the bed, I open the special telescoping tripod I ordered. It’s got a clamp to hold the phone, similar to a selfie stick. It’s a filthy selfie stick, basically. I clamp the phone in place, check the angle and press record. It’s go time.
I open the bedroom door. Sawyer turns in my direction when the door latch clicks, so I extend one arm over my head, leaning against the doorframe, and beckon him to me with a flick of a finger from my other hand.
It’s dark in the living room, but I can see Sawyer’s face by the moonlight flowing in from the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the length of the room, the William Penn statue visible in the view behind him. But I’m more interested in the view inside of this room. I watch his face as he takes me in. His eyes slowly roam from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and back again. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and smiles, his head tilting in a slight nod before he rises, walking slowly towards me.
He looks a little predatory as he closes the distance between us, loosening his tie as he walks. And even though we’ve been together many times, it makes my heart race with anticipation.
He reaches the doorway and I step back, drawing him into the room before he can touch me. He follows, tie undone and hanging around his neck, hands already undoing the buttons of his shirt, which somehow still looks fresh and crisp at the end of a long day.
I walk to the edge of the bed and pause, one knee brushing the comforter, then turn my head to see what he’s doing over my shoulder. I’m momentarily distracted by his fingers, moving with precision downward, the fabric slowly parting, but snap my eyes up in time to see his reaction.
His eyes are firmly on my lace-covered ass so it takes him a moment to take in the tripod arrangement at the corner of the bed. He stops mid-movement, his suit jacket halfway down his arms, then chuckles.
“We’re making a sex tape?” His jacket flies in the direction of a chair near the door, followed by his tie.
I turn fully and face him, the bed behind my knees, the camera recording, and nod my head. I’d ask if he was okay with the idea, but the expression on his face tells me the question would be a waste of time.
He closes the distance between us, sliding his hand behind my neck, lips crashing on mine. God, I love that move. His fingers are firm on my nape, warm against my skin, thumb under my jaw maneuvering the tilt of my head to the exact position he wants it in.
I lean all the way in until my lips are beside his ear. “Wait here,” I purr before standing. I grab my purse from the front hall—I’m using a large tote style tonight to stash my goodies—before disappearing into the bedroom.
I turn on every light in the room as I strip, dashing into the bathroom to freshen up my hair and makeup. I leave those lights on too, for good measure. Grabbing the telescoping tripod from my bag, I toss it on the bed with the phone, then gather up the rest of my stuff, bringing it to the walk-in closet. I set my bag down and pull out the wisp of fabric of my one-piece lace bodysuit. The cut is high on my hips, the edging scalloped. The scallop detailing continues on the deep v neckline held up by the tiniest spaghetti straps. It’s orange, a perfect complement for my peach-colored Porn-A-Thon nails.
Sliding into the bodysuit, I adjust the fabric over my tits and feel for my keys necklace, the only other thing I’m wearing. Perfect. Leaving the closet, I place my phone in the speaker dock on Sawyer’s nightstand, hitting play on the playlist I created for tonight. Then, moving to the foot of the bed, I open the special telescoping tripod I ordered. It’s got a clamp to hold the phone, similar to a selfie stick. It’s a filthy selfie stick, basically. I clamp the phone in place, check the angle and press record. It’s go time.
I open the bedroom door. Sawyer turns in my direction when the door latch clicks, so I extend one arm over my head, leaning against the doorframe, and beckon him to me with a flick of a finger from my other hand.
It’s dark in the living room, but I can see Sawyer’s face by the moonlight flowing in from the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the length of the room, the William Penn statue visible in the view behind him. But I’m more interested in the view inside of this room. I watch his face as he takes me in. His eyes slowly roam from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and back again. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and smiles, his head tilting in a slight nod before he rises, walking slowly towards me.
He looks a little predatory as he closes the distance between us, loosening his tie as he walks. And even though we’ve been together many times, it makes my heart race with anticipation.
He reaches the doorway and I step back, drawing him into the room before he can touch me. He follows, tie undone and hanging around his neck, hands already undoing the buttons of his shirt, which somehow still looks fresh and crisp at the end of a long day.
I walk to the edge of the bed and pause, one knee brushing the comforter, then turn my head to see what he’s doing over my shoulder. I’m momentarily distracted by his fingers, moving with precision downward, the fabric slowly parting, but snap my eyes up in time to see his reaction.
His eyes are firmly on my lace-covered ass so it takes him a moment to take in the tripod arrangement at the corner of the bed. He stops mid-movement, his suit jacket halfway down his arms, then chuckles.
“We’re making a sex tape?” His jacket flies in the direction of a chair near the door, followed by his tie.
I turn fully and face him, the bed behind my knees, the camera recording, and nod my head. I’d ask if he was okay with the idea, but the expression on his face tells me the question would be a waste of time.
He closes the distance between us, sliding his hand behind my neck, lips crashing on mine. God, I love that move. His fingers are firm on my nape, warm against my skin, thumb under my jaw maneuvering the tilt of my head to the exact position he wants it in.
