And Carter wasn’t finished. With my dress out of the way, he tugged at the elastic waist of my tights, drawing it away from my body, and carefully shimmied my tights down around my knees, hobbling me. Underneath, I was wearing my usual silky underpants. Carter pressed his face against them, against my mound, and inhaled.

I moaned aloud, unable to help myself. God, he was smelling me, and I was sure he could; my panties were wet, and his face was right there, nose tucked up against my clit. I slid my hands into his hair, scratching at his scalp, and curled my fingers around the slope of his skull.

“You smell incredible,” he said, each word a warm gust of breath. “And your little bikini briefs—Christ, it makes you seem so innocent. But of course I know that you’re not.”

But I had been innocent, not so long ago. Not innocent in general, of course; I’d known for years that life was solitary, poor, and brutish, but until very recently I had been completely innocent about men, and about the sorts of things that Carter had taught me: the way my body responded to his, the molten desires churning deep within me, waiting to be unearthed.

I would never admit it to him, though.

Instead of replying, I tilted my hips toward him, a clear invitation. I wanted him to touch me, and I knew he would tease me all evening if I gave him the chance. I was too shy around him, still, to ask him for what I wanted, so I would let my body do the asking instead.

It didn’t have the desired effect. Instead of pulling down my panties and putting his mouth on me, he drew back and smirked at me. “We don’t have time for that tonight,” he said. “You’ll have to settle for second best.”

I couldn’t imagine what second best was—his cock? The vibrator again? I was about to gather my courage and ask him when he curled one hand around my thigh and teased the other along the elastic binding of my panties, arcing along my hip and thigh and then down between my legs.

Oh. I shifted my feet slightly, spreading my legs further, giving him full access. He looked up at me, eyes dark, mouth curved into a private smile, and held eye contact as he pushed the crotch of my underpants out of the way and slid his fingers into my wet slit.

My fingers dug into his scalp without permission, and I hastily snatched my hands away, afraid I would hurt him. “It’s okay,” he said, but I had already moved my hands to his shoulders, balancing myself with my fingertips against the crisp fabric of his shirt.

His hand moved expertly. He stroked my wet folds, setting every nerve ending alight, and then slid his hand up to roll his thumb over my clit.

My knees buckled. I bent over at the waist and planted my hands firmly on Carter’s shoulders, relying on him to keep me upright. With each subtle shift of his fingers, sparks of pleasure shot through me, agonizing delight.

“You’re so responsive,” he said. “It’s incredible. Every man alive dreams of this. You were made for me, weren’t you? To come on my fingers, my tongue, my cock—”

“Please,” I said, nonsensically, and he laughed softly, a low, warm sound, and started rubbing my clit in fast circles, my own favorite way to touch myself. He wasn’t teasing, now. He was actively trying to make me come.

I breathed through my mouth, pulsing my hips toward him in time with the movements of his fingers. He was, God, so good at this, both at touching me and the way he’d set up the scenario: the door unlocked, my tights around my knees, my dress shoved up around my waist. I was completely exposed, and if anybody walked into the room, there would be no uncertainty as to what was going on. I was getting fingered by Carter Sutton, and loving it.

He pushed two fingers into my body, gently but firmly, and I cried out as I felt myself opening around the intrusion. He twisted his fingers and pressed them into me, touching at something inside me that sent unexpected heat flowing through my veins. I didn’t know what I was feeling, but I wanted more of it, and I wanted him to keep touching me forever, to keep me in that state of ecstatic delirium, where I didn’t care about anything but him and his body and the way he felt against me.

And then, just as I was thinking that, he pulled away.

He drew his fingers out of me and extracted his hand from my panties. He tugged the fabric back into place and kissed my thigh and said, “I think that’s enough.”

“No,” I protested, my voice a weak scrap of sound.

He laughed and began tugging my tights back up my thighs. “My guests will be here soon. You don’t want them to catch you like this, do you?”

He was right: I didn’t. I forced myself to straighten up and tried to help him fix my clothing, but my hands were trembling and useless, and he gently pushed my hands out of the way. I stood there like a child while he re-dressed me and smoothed the wrinkles out of my dress.

“There,” he said. “Good as new.” He lifted his hand to his face, the one that had been inside my body, and sniffed his fingers, closing his eyes with exaggerated pleasure. I stared at him, mesmerized, and when he opened his eyes again, our gazes locked. “I’m not going to wash my hands,” he told me. “I’m going to smell you on my skin all night.”

I never knew how to react when he said things like that. I looked down at my feet, cheeks flaming, and picked an imaginary piece of lint off the skirt of my dress.

“Shy, or introverted?” he asked, teasing me, returning to the conversation we’d been having before he.... before.

“Aren’t they basically the same thing?” I asked.

“You tell me,” he said. “You’re the expert.” He stood and wiped his hand on a napkin, then handed it to me. I took it, mortified, pussy still throbbing from his touch. “Scotch, please, as usual,” he said. He looked me up and down. “I’ll make you come later.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, and reveled in the sudden flare of heat in his eyes.

By the time I returned from the bar with a bottle of Scotch, the first of Carter’s guests had already arrived. We’d cut it too close; another few minutes, and the man would have caught us in the act. Maybe that was the idea. Carter had, after all, told me that he liked to watch. Maybe he liked to be watched, too.

I hoped he wouldn’t ask me to do that with him. The idea of strangers—or not even strangers, of anyone—watching us have sex gave me tremors. I liked the idea more than I wanted to. Safer to just not go there at all.