Stripped by Jasinda Wilder
Page 69
I laugh with her, reassured, but still nervous. I put on a robe I bought for this occasion, a light, silky thing that barely covers my thighs. I tie it loosely around me so he’ll be able to get a good look at my cle**age without revealing what I’m wearing beneath it. Luisa leaves after hugging me, careful not to muss my hair. It’s carefully pinned up off my neck, but she put the pins in so that Dawson will be able to pull them out easily. He likes my hair down.
An older man who vaguely resembles Michael Caine meets me at the top of the stairs. “Everything is ready downstairs. ”
I thank him, and the catering company leaves. I’d thought about trying to do the whole dinner thing myself, but I’ve not exactly had a lot of experience cooking fancy dinners. I go into the dining room, and I’m stunned. They didn’t just bring food, they turned the dining room into a romantic dinner for two, complete with candles and bouquets of roses. The effect is elegant yet not too feminine. It is his birthday, after all. He’s out golfing with Armando and a few other of his friends, which was my suggestion. I needed him out of the house so I could set this all up and get myself ready.
Right on time, I hear him come in from the garage. I arrange myself in the chair on the side of the table, leaving the place set at the head of the table for him. I’m waiting, my heart on my proverbial sleeve. I’ve never done anything like this, and I’m desperately hoping it makes him happy.
“Grey?” I hear him setting down his keys and the chirp as he plugs his phone in.
“In the dining room,” I call.
He stops in the doorway, and his eyes widen at the flowers and candles, low-lit chandelier, the spread of all of his favorite dishes, and me. Mostly, he looks at me. “Holy shit, baby. What is all this?”
I rise and stalk toward him, feeling sultry. “Happy birthday, my love. ” I don’t use a lot of endearments, not like he does, so when I use one, he takes note.
“What’s under the robe?” He asks it with a smirk, reaching for the tie.
I stop his hands. “Your present. But you can’t see it until after we eat. ”
His eyes darken with lust. “God, baby. You’re killing me. You look…you so good I’d rather eat you. ”
“Soon enough,” I promise. “But first, sit down. ”
He scoots the chair out and sits down. An expensive bottle of his favorite white wine is opened and breathing in a bucket of ice. I pour him a glass, set it in front of him. He watches me, curious. Usually, he does these things. For my birthday a few months ago, he rented out an entire restaurant, had the food made, but served me himself. Even in an everyday capacity, he does things for me. Makes me snacks, pours my wine, takes care of me. So now it’s my turn to take care of him.
He sips the wine, and I slide my body between his knees and the table. He holds the glass of wine in his hand and stares up at me. “What are you doing, babe?”
I’m not nervous, not really. I don’t do this super often, but it’s something I want to give him. I sink to my knees, rest my hands on his thighs, and smile up at him. “This. ”
He’s wearing the stupid clothes men wear golfing, but he looks hot even in a pair of almost-white pants and a pastel-orange collared shirt. I undo his pants, and his eyes open wide in understanding. “Grey, honey—”
I give him another thing he likes: me, acting dominant. “Shut up and drink your wine. ”
He smirks and sips his wine, then lifts his hips as I tug his pants down far enough to bare him for what I’m going to do next. He’s already hard, and I grasp him in both hands, caress my fists up and down his considerable length, roll my palm over his head, and then rub the tip of him with my thumb. He closes his eyes briefly, then sips his wine again, meeting my eyes. I hold his gaze as I lower my mouth to his erection and wrap my lips around his thickness. He gasps out loud when I take him in until he’s at my throat, and then back away. He caresses the curve of my neck with his free hand as I suck him into a bucking frenzy, and then I back away and let him subside a bit. I lick the tip of him, run my mouth down the side and back up before wrapping my lips around him again. I caress his balls with one hand, and with the other pump his base until he’s groaning. When I feel him start to lose control, I slide my hand up and down him faster and faster, moving my mouth on him slowly, in contrast to the speed of my hand.
“God, I’m—” But he doesn’t have time to get any more of a warning out before he’s lost in groaning bliss.
I know it’s coming, so a warning isn’t necessary. I don’t stop when he explodes in my mouth. I keep going, keep moving and suckling, and his groans are so desperately pleasure-filled that I groan, too, and either the sound or the feel of my voice buzzing makes him come again, even harder, and I keep going until he’s panting and pulling at me to get up.
He tugs his pants back on as I stand up, and then pulls me against him, and I bend to kiss him.
“Part one of your present,” I say.
His eyes search mine. “Baby, that was…god, that felt so f**king good. Thank you. ”
He pours me a glass of wine, and I sit down and sip it. He dishes up food for both of us before I can, and I let him, because I think it’s just in his nature to do things for me. We talk as we eat a long, luxurious dinner. He got the part he was reading for, a contemporary drama about a man coping with the slow death of his father at the same time that he finds out his wife was unfaithful. It’s a turn away from the action and the sex and the romance, and I think it’ll be a good role for him. When we finish with dessert, I lead him by the hand up to our bedroom. He brings our wine glasses and a second chilled bottle, pours us each a new glass.
I take a sip of mine, and then set it aside as I mentally prepare for the next part of my surprise for Dawson. “Sit down on the bed,” I tell him. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I stand in front of him, facing him. I hesitate with my hands on the tie of my robe. “Part two,” I say.
“How many parts to this present are there?”
“Three. ”
I loosen the knot, let the ends of the tie fall free, and then slowly part the robe. His eyes widen as the robe opens, and then he shifts in place as I let it fall off my shoulders. He takes a casual sip of his wine, but his gaze is anything but nonchalant. He hasn’t said anything, but he hasn’t looked away from me, either. His breathing is deep, and his eyes betray him. I stay still as he stands up, sets his glass down on the bedside table, and then comes to stand a foot away from me.
I laugh with her, reassured, but still nervous. I put on a robe I bought for this occasion, a light, silky thing that barely covers my thighs. I tie it loosely around me so he’ll be able to get a good look at my cle**age without revealing what I’m wearing beneath it. Luisa leaves after hugging me, careful not to muss my hair. It’s carefully pinned up off my neck, but she put the pins in so that Dawson will be able to pull them out easily. He likes my hair down.
An older man who vaguely resembles Michael Caine meets me at the top of the stairs. “Everything is ready downstairs. ”
I thank him, and the catering company leaves. I’d thought about trying to do the whole dinner thing myself, but I’ve not exactly had a lot of experience cooking fancy dinners. I go into the dining room, and I’m stunned. They didn’t just bring food, they turned the dining room into a romantic dinner for two, complete with candles and bouquets of roses. The effect is elegant yet not too feminine. It is his birthday, after all. He’s out golfing with Armando and a few other of his friends, which was my suggestion. I needed him out of the house so I could set this all up and get myself ready.
Right on time, I hear him come in from the garage. I arrange myself in the chair on the side of the table, leaving the place set at the head of the table for him. I’m waiting, my heart on my proverbial sleeve. I’ve never done anything like this, and I’m desperately hoping it makes him happy.
“Grey?” I hear him setting down his keys and the chirp as he plugs his phone in.
“In the dining room,” I call.
He stops in the doorway, and his eyes widen at the flowers and candles, low-lit chandelier, the spread of all of his favorite dishes, and me. Mostly, he looks at me. “Holy shit, baby. What is all this?”
I rise and stalk toward him, feeling sultry. “Happy birthday, my love. ” I don’t use a lot of endearments, not like he does, so when I use one, he takes note.
“What’s under the robe?” He asks it with a smirk, reaching for the tie.
I stop his hands. “Your present. But you can’t see it until after we eat. ”
His eyes darken with lust. “God, baby. You’re killing me. You look…you so good I’d rather eat you. ”
“Soon enough,” I promise. “But first, sit down. ”
He scoots the chair out and sits down. An expensive bottle of his favorite white wine is opened and breathing in a bucket of ice. I pour him a glass, set it in front of him. He watches me, curious. Usually, he does these things. For my birthday a few months ago, he rented out an entire restaurant, had the food made, but served me himself. Even in an everyday capacity, he does things for me. Makes me snacks, pours my wine, takes care of me. So now it’s my turn to take care of him.
He sips the wine, and I slide my body between his knees and the table. He holds the glass of wine in his hand and stares up at me. “What are you doing, babe?”
I’m not nervous, not really. I don’t do this super often, but it’s something I want to give him. I sink to my knees, rest my hands on his thighs, and smile up at him. “This. ”
He’s wearing the stupid clothes men wear golfing, but he looks hot even in a pair of almost-white pants and a pastel-orange collared shirt. I undo his pants, and his eyes open wide in understanding. “Grey, honey—”
I give him another thing he likes: me, acting dominant. “Shut up and drink your wine. ”
He smirks and sips his wine, then lifts his hips as I tug his pants down far enough to bare him for what I’m going to do next. He’s already hard, and I grasp him in both hands, caress my fists up and down his considerable length, roll my palm over his head, and then rub the tip of him with my thumb. He closes his eyes briefly, then sips his wine again, meeting my eyes. I hold his gaze as I lower my mouth to his erection and wrap my lips around his thickness. He gasps out loud when I take him in until he’s at my throat, and then back away. He caresses the curve of my neck with his free hand as I suck him into a bucking frenzy, and then I back away and let him subside a bit. I lick the tip of him, run my mouth down the side and back up before wrapping my lips around him again. I caress his balls with one hand, and with the other pump his base until he’s groaning. When I feel him start to lose control, I slide my hand up and down him faster and faster, moving my mouth on him slowly, in contrast to the speed of my hand.
“God, I’m—” But he doesn’t have time to get any more of a warning out before he’s lost in groaning bliss.
I know it’s coming, so a warning isn’t necessary. I don’t stop when he explodes in my mouth. I keep going, keep moving and suckling, and his groans are so desperately pleasure-filled that I groan, too, and either the sound or the feel of my voice buzzing makes him come again, even harder, and I keep going until he’s panting and pulling at me to get up.
He tugs his pants back on as I stand up, and then pulls me against him, and I bend to kiss him.
“Part one of your present,” I say.
His eyes search mine. “Baby, that was…god, that felt so f**king good. Thank you. ”
He pours me a glass of wine, and I sit down and sip it. He dishes up food for both of us before I can, and I let him, because I think it’s just in his nature to do things for me. We talk as we eat a long, luxurious dinner. He got the part he was reading for, a contemporary drama about a man coping with the slow death of his father at the same time that he finds out his wife was unfaithful. It’s a turn away from the action and the sex and the romance, and I think it’ll be a good role for him. When we finish with dessert, I lead him by the hand up to our bedroom. He brings our wine glasses and a second chilled bottle, pours us each a new glass.
I take a sip of mine, and then set it aside as I mentally prepare for the next part of my surprise for Dawson. “Sit down on the bed,” I tell him. He sits on the edge of the bed, and I stand in front of him, facing him. I hesitate with my hands on the tie of my robe. “Part two,” I say.
“How many parts to this present are there?”
“Three. ”
I loosen the knot, let the ends of the tie fall free, and then slowly part the robe. His eyes widen as the robe opens, and then he shifts in place as I let it fall off my shoulders. He takes a casual sip of his wine, but his gaze is anything but nonchalant. He hasn’t said anything, but he hasn’t looked away from me, either. His breathing is deep, and his eyes betray him. I stay still as he stands up, sets his glass down on the bedside table, and then comes to stand a foot away from me.