Daddy Dance
The electronic keycard clicked—a sound like a bullet chambering—and the suite door swung open to reveal her standing mid-pivot, one knee cocked against the chrome pole, fingers trailing down her ribs where the strings of her bikini cut deep into sun-warmed skin.
"Running late," she murmured, not an apology but a fact, arching into the stretch as if she’d been waiting forever. The air smelled of hotel soap and something sharper—her perfume, maybe, or the ozone crackle of anticipation.
He dropped his briefcase by the minibar, watching her thighs flex as she spun slow around the pole, the sequins on her bottoms scattering light like broken glass. "You wore the red," he said, because last time she’d joked about saving it for emergencies.
Her laugh was throaty as she unhooked the top, letting it dangle from one finger before dropping it onto the leather chaise. "Consider this a corporate bailout." The way she moved—hips rolling, shoulders dipping—wasn’t just for show; she’d been a gymnast before the economy ate her scholarship.
He caught her wrist mid-spin, pulling her down until her knees bracketed his thighs. The sequins scratched faintly against his suit pants as he leaned in, nose brushing the damp lace between her legs. She tasted like salt and the faint metallic tang of the pole, the scent of her rising warm between them.
Her fingers twisted in his hair—not guiding, just anchoring—as his tongue found the seam of her. A shudder ran through her, the pole vibrating slightly where her hip still pressed against it. "Christ, you're—" Her voice fractured when he hooked a thumb under the waistband, peeling the fabric down with his teeth.
He'd meant to be slow about it, but the first full taste of her—musky and slick, the salt of her skin giving way to something darker—had him groaning against her. Her thighs trembled around his ears, the sequins leaving tiny crescent marks on his cheeks as she rolled into the motion.
She exhaled sharply when he flicked his tongue upward, her grip tightening in his hair. "Fuck, that's—" The rest dissolved into a gasp as he dragged her closer, his thumbs spreading her wider, the heat of her almost overwhelming.
Her thighs tensed, then suddenly she was shifting, palms pressing down on his shoulders for balance as she lifted herself slightly—an unspoken demand. He understood, hands sliding up her waist to grip her hips, lifting her effortlessly.
The couch cushions sighed as he laid her back, her body arching instinctively toward him as he unzipped with one hand, the other pinning her wrist above her head. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, testing—her breath hitched, legs wrapping around him like she was trying to fuse their skeletons together.
She bit down on a moan when he angled deeper, the sharp jut of her hipbone digging into his palm as he adjusted his grip. The leather beneath them was already warm from where she'd tossed her bikini top earlier, the scent of her perfume mingling with the musk of their sweat.
Then she came again—sudden and silent except for the hitch in her breath—her body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He felt it before he saw it: the hot spill between them, her thighs trembling against his ribs as she arched off the couch with a broken noise.
The slick heat of her pushed him over the edge. His grip on her hip turned bruising as he drove into her once, twice, then stilled with a groan, his forehead pressed to her collarbone. She gasped when he pulsed inside her, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders like she was trying to carve herself into him.
A shudder rolled through her as another orgasm took her—smaller this time, more of an aftershock—but it was enough to make her whimper, her thighs squeezing around his waist as she arched up. The leather couch creaked beneath them, the sound almost obscene in the quiet room.
"Running late," she murmured, not an apology but a fact, arching into the stretch as if she’d been waiting forever. The air smelled of hotel soap and something sharper—her perfume, maybe, or the ozone crackle of anticipation.
He dropped his briefcase by the minibar, watching her thighs flex as she spun slow around the pole, the sequins on her bottoms scattering light like broken glass. "You wore the red," he said, because last time she’d joked about saving it for emergencies.
Her laugh was throaty as she unhooked the top, letting it dangle from one finger before dropping it onto the leather chaise. "Consider this a corporate bailout." The way she moved—hips rolling, shoulders dipping—wasn’t just for show; she’d been a gymnast before the economy ate her scholarship.
He caught her wrist mid-spin, pulling her down until her knees bracketed his thighs. The sequins scratched faintly against his suit pants as he leaned in, nose brushing the damp lace between her legs. She tasted like salt and the faint metallic tang of the pole, the scent of her rising warm between them.
Her fingers twisted in his hair—not guiding, just anchoring—as his tongue found the seam of her. A shudder ran through her, the pole vibrating slightly where her hip still pressed against it. "Christ, you're—" Her voice fractured when he hooked a thumb under the waistband, peeling the fabric down with his teeth.
He'd meant to be slow about it, but the first full taste of her—musky and slick, the salt of her skin giving way to something darker—had him groaning against her. Her thighs trembled around his ears, the sequins leaving tiny crescent marks on his cheeks as she rolled into the motion.
She exhaled sharply when he flicked his tongue upward, her grip tightening in his hair. "Fuck, that's—" The rest dissolved into a gasp as he dragged her closer, his thumbs spreading her wider, the heat of her almost overwhelming.
Her thighs tensed, then suddenly she was shifting, palms pressing down on his shoulders for balance as she lifted herself slightly—an unspoken demand. He understood, hands sliding up her waist to grip her hips, lifting her effortlessly.
The couch cushions sighed as he laid her back, her body arching instinctively toward him as he unzipped with one hand, the other pinning her wrist above her head. The first thrust was slow, deliberate, testing—her breath hitched, legs wrapping around him like she was trying to fuse their skeletons together.
She bit down on a moan when he angled deeper, the sharp jut of her hipbone digging into his palm as he adjusted his grip. The leather beneath them was already warm from where she'd tossed her bikini top earlier, the scent of her perfume mingling with the musk of their sweat.
Then she came again—sudden and silent except for the hitch in her breath—her body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. He felt it before he saw it: the hot spill between them, her thighs trembling against his ribs as she arched off the couch with a broken noise.
The slick heat of her pushed him over the edge. His grip on her hip turned bruising as he drove into her once, twice, then stilled with a groan, his forehead pressed to her collarbone. She gasped when he pulsed inside her, her fingers scrabbling at his shoulders like she was trying to carve herself into him.
A shudder rolled through her as another orgasm took her—smaller this time, more of an aftershock—but it was enough to make her whimper, her thighs squeezing around his waist as she arched up. The leather couch creaked beneath them, the sound almost obscene in the quiet room.
19 days ago