Page 65 of The Match Faker
“It’s just not…me.” She looks down at herself, at her perfect clothes, her perfect posture, as if one look at her could explain it all.
“So don’t be you. Don’t be Jasmine, be Yasmin.”
She barks out a laugh, but sobers quickly, her eyes turning serious again. “What…” She bites her lip, a flush crawling up her neck, painting her cheeks. “What would Yasmin do?”
I rough a hand down my face, close my eyes, search for a modicum of composure.
My suit jacket is already off, but I open the first two buttons on my shirt, cross my legs at the ankle. Can she see my heart thundering against my chest or the growing bulge in my pants? I’ve never dictated a sexual encounter before and now that the opportunity has arrived, there are too many options to choose from.
“Yasmin would start slow,” I say. With my eyes closed, it’s easy to imagine, a slow sinuous walk, her expression a mix of desire and contempt. “She’d start over the clothes, firm pressure. She’d like the feel of it. How quickly I get hard for her. It makes her feel good. It makes her wet.”
Jasmine makes a strangled sound. A moment later, her hand lands gently on my thigh, slides up toward my dick.
“She’d rub me through my pants,” I say, no longer smiling. My voice sounds different to my own ears, deeper. “Squeeze me.”
She does. Her hand is hot through my clothes.
“Then what?” she asks, closer now, like she’s hovering over me.
“Gimme a sec.” I want to feel this right, just for a moment. Her slow gentle pressure, the soft whisper of her breathing.
On an inhale, she shudders, and with my eyes closed, I can’t tell whether it’s a good sound or a bad one.
“Hey.” I stop her with my hand, open my eyes, meet her gaze. “You don’t have to do everything I say. You know that, right?”
She nods.
I swallow thickly, blow out a breath. “Cuz I’m probably about to say some things you have no interest in doing.”
She squeezes me beneath my hand. Impatient.
“Like what?” she asks, starting the slow motion on my dick again.
“Like…I stop you before I come.” I release her and unbuckle my belt. Then pop the top button of my slacks.
She doesn’t have to go farther than this, but I’ll gladly continue if it’s okay with her. She looks up, scanning the windows that face the deck.
“We can stop,” I say, sitting up and closing the front of my slacks.
“No.” With a determined set to her jaw, she swings one leg over the chair, straddling me. “Keep going,” she says, her command strangely timid for a woman who’s currently tugging on my pants. She pulls them down to my thighs. My cock is hard, leaking a wet spot into the fabric of my boxer briefs. “What happens if someone catches us?” she whispers, drawing her hands up and down my legs, dragging her nails through the hair above the elastic waistband of my underwear.
“We’ll hear them coming.” I can’t stop watching her hands. “And then, I’ll?—”
She squeezes me, pulling a hiss from me, then pulls my Jockeys down, tucking them behind my balls in one surprisingly fast, shockingly proficient movement. My cock bobs between us, curving slightly to the left, begging for her attention.
She leans over me. “Then?”
“I’ll throw you in the pool—ahhh.”
She spits, and a silvery string drips down my dick. I gasp as she spreads it up and down the shaft, over the head. Almost pass out as she spits again.
“Wh-who are you?” I ask, shock coloring my tone.
“Yasmin.” She grins, winks. “So.” She settles into a slow, steady rhythm. Her fist and spit make wet sounds. If I were on my own, I’d never come at this pace. But with her? That sound? That wink? I could embarrass myself pretty quick.
“You’ll throw me in the pool,” she practically purrs, “and then what?”
“And then, I’ll jump in, too.”