Good Vibrations Magazine

“Zoe,” Ian calls out in a cross voice, “where are you?” He strides into the kitchen, holding a button cupped in one hand and a shirt draped over his arm. “Ah. There you are. I’m running so bloody late, I’ve got to rush if we’re going to make it to the dinner party on time.”

I smile to myself at his tone of voice; he’s lost control of his carefully scheduled evening, and he’s clearly aggravated about it. To make matters even more irritating, the duty of enforced socializing is at odds with his stated desire to spend a quiet evening at home in my charming, and preferably naked, company. I can tell he’s revved up to do some energetic complaining, and I just can’t resist the urge to tweak him when he’s in this mood.

I’ve had to share him all day with the multitude of people asking for his time, and I’ve missed him. I want him to send his hands, his lips, his tongue roving over my body. I know from experience that if I give him a hard time when he’s in this state of mind, he’ll end up returning the favor in a very literal way.

Ian’s blond curls are still damp from the shower. He’s barefoot, wearing only the trousers of his tux. I’m already dressed and not the mood to rush. Looking over his buff torso appreciatively, imagining those well-toned arms holding me down as he drives his cock into me, I have mischief in mind. And I know he doesn’t really want to go to that damn party, anyway.

“You’re in a hurry to get to a tiresome affair you don’t want to attend, so you can spend the evening with your eyes glazed over, dealing with people who want something from you?” I tease.

“No, I’m not in a hurry because I want to be there. I’m in a hurry because I despise being late, and you know that,” he snaps. “And this button,” he holds it up, “fell off the front of my shirt, and I need it fixed. Sew it back on for me, will you?” He thrusts the shirt towards me.

I take a sip of cabernet from my glass and regard him over the rim. “You want me to sew a button for you? Didn’t you ever learn how to do that?”

“No, I never did,” he replies briskly. “You’re good with needles and I’m in a hurry.” Still holding the shirt in his outstretched hand, he raises one elegant eyebrow.

“I’m a doctor, not a tailor. Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I’m handy with that sort of thing.”

“Goddamn it, Zoe,” he swears, “I spend my entire life negotiating. Do I have to do it at home, too? Can you just please fix it?”

I let a wicked smile spread across my face. “What’s it worth to you?”

Ian draws in a sharp exasperated breath to fire off a retort. Then he stops himself as he takes his first good look at me.

I had dressed for the dinner party while he dealt with interminable phone calls. He has not seen the floor-length velvet sheath I poured myself into, the one slit up the side to mid‑thigh, and the matching fuck-me high heels. His eyes follow my leg from ankle to thigh and keep going, lingering for a moment on my breasts and bare shoulders. His expression makes my body begin to tingle way down deep. My nipples grow erect against the garnet velvet.

A smile plays at the corners of Ian’s mouth, revealing dimples under the neat beard. He puts the shirt and button down on the counter, takes the wine glass out of my hand, and carefully sets it aside.

My dark hair is too curly to tame unless I gather it into an upswept style. For the party, I’m wearing it down and loose because I know it turns him on to take me out in public looking as if I’ve just tumbled out of bed. He runs the fingers of both hands lightly through my curls and smiles down at me; he knows the effect those delicate strokes have, how aroused I am by his touch, by his smile. He knows, too, that my focus is on his fingers and where he’ll choose to send them next.

He tilts my face up with his hands still in my hair and begins to kiss me. “The question,” he murmurs, “is not what it’s worth to me. The question is what you plan to charge me.” He runs his hands down my back from shoulder to thigh and sighs. “You aren’t wearing a single stitch underneath this dress, are you?” I grin at him and shake my head.

He pulls my body tightly to his and invades my mouth with his tongue. “If I put you on your back right here,” he says, lifting me up onto the large butcher block in the middle of the kitchen, pushing me down and peeling the dress up my thighs to my waist, “and fuck you real hard until you come all over me, will you sew the button back on?”

I smile at him from my place on the block, raise my legs and open them, and wait while he rids himself of his trousers. He leans over me with his hips snugged between my thighs, grazes my face with his lips and nuzzles my neck while his hands free my breasts from the velvet. His mouth travels down past my collarbone to my nipples. He sucks them slowly, gently at first, then catches one between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and tugs hard. I purr with pleasure, score his back with my long garnet fingernails.

He laughs and moves down my body, brushing his lips against the velvet, breathing out warmth through the soft fabric to my skin underneath. When he works his way down to my clit, he uses his tongue to lap at it while he fucks me with two long fingers. He knows just how to drive me wild; he finds that sweet spot inside me and massages it as he strokes slowly in and out. I squeeze his fingers as they move within me, clench his hair in my fists, urge him on, exhale his name.

He loves the way I taste when he makes me come with his mouth. That sweet/salt tang inevitably sends him straight to distraction. But I want his cock so badly that I can’t wait for it anymore. “No, no, make me come with your cock,” I demand, prodding him in the ribs with the spiked heel of my shoe. “I want you inside me as far as you can go, do it right now!”

His beard is wet with my juice. He sinks his cock into me, kisses my mouth again, sharing my smell and taste. He captures my wrists with his strong hands, pins me down and plunges into me over and over until I come long and hard, leaving both of us gasping for breath. Ian comes a moment later, and rests atop me until our heartbeats, pounding against each other, begin to slow.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, touching his forehead to mine, “we are so late.” He stays just where I want him with his cock sheathed deep in me. Finally he has to pull out; if he delays any longer, we’ll end up in bed with our bodies molded together and to hell with the dinner party. He eases himself up enough to rest on his forearms, and grins at me. “Now will you fix my shirt?”

I bestow my very sweetest smile upon him. “No need. Send it to the tailor and let him fix it. I picked up two others just like that one. They’re hanging in your closet, ready to wear.”