Nandita To Nandini
- 4 years ago
- 296
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Fire And Ice free porn video
How did she come to be as she was currently? It had been an eminently ordinary first date, arranged by mutual friends, marked with the usual pleasantries and peppered with the occasional curious question about each other’s work and life in general. They’d shared a single bottle of 1997 Chateau Ste. Michelle gewurtztraminer, not enough to make her drunk, nor even slightly tipsy. Really, she couldn’t think right now of how it had come to this.
This. This was her, face down on the Four Seasons Olympic hotel bed, spread-legged, her hips slightly lifted by the down and fiberfill overstuffed pillow he had placed beneath her lower belly. She could feel cool air caressing her open cunt, which suddenly seemed to be the focus of her every attention. Everything she had to offer was on display for his appraising gaze, her slick, freshly waxed pussy open and swollen in anticipation, the tight rosebud of her virgin asshole just visible between her slightly spread cheeks. She felt so extraordinarily vulnerable, and even though she wasn’t physically restrained, his soft, commanding voice restrained her as effectively as ropes or alcohol might.
He had taken her by the upper arm as they had left Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, casually doing so after helping her into her long black wool overcoat, as if they were longtime girlfriend and boyfriend instead of mere acquaintances, strangers really, who had just now met this evening. His touch was gentle, but firm. Instructive, would be the word. They’d stepped out of the heat of the restaurant into the biting rain and pervasive cold of the Seattle winter, and as they were walking to the car park, she had felt his grip grow slightly tighter - not in a frightening way, she wasn’t one to be frightened - but rather in a way so that she was drawn closer to the warmth of his body, radiating heat even through his overcoat.
This. It was a single whisper, a simple request.
“Come up to the hotel suite with me, love,” he had said.
Not really a question, but not really a command, either. She had looked up at him, blushing, her ridiculously fair skin flushed with a sudden, wanting lust, her fingers trembling, her brain and body filled with an abrupt desire to know more about this man than she would have thought just five seconds prior. She was quite thankful for the darkness of the night, that so easily veiled her blush that now had spread to her decolletage. She had nodded her assent, thinking that perhaps an aperitif or two would be not so bad, and he certainly wasn't difficult to like. He was taller than her six feet, well-educated, well-read, and handsome in the sort of way men who work, and work hard, outside and with their hands are handsome. His slightly weathered face broke into a smile when she nodded her assent.
And so she had, and it had come to this. Well, it wasn’t quite a direct hop from the door opening to her lying face down on the bed, but they certainly had not broken out a game of Monopoly when the door shut behind them either.
The hotel room was, at first glance, revealing only of the perfection one would expect to find in a five-star hotel. There was a vase of carefully arranged star lilies on the mahogany inlaid occasional table, and beside it there was an unopened bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich. A bucket of ice stood beside this bottle, condensation just barely beading on the bucket, as if it had been freshly filled and placed.
At seeing this, she idly made a mental note that he must have called ahead to the concierge... meaning that he knew the answer to his proposition before said proposition ever crossed his lips. She also noticed, another side note made in her brain, a variety of candles, as yet unlit, scattered about the room. Odd, she thought, that a man would travel with candles, but it wasn’t until later that she was to find out exactly why he traveled with those candles.
She heard the crack of the Glenfiddich being opened, and watched as he poured himself a healthy measure of the Scotch, the ice cubes clinking, as if in protest, inside the heavy lead crystal tumbler emblazoned with the hotel logo.
He had yet to say anything to her since his initial invitation, but now he said, “Sit down, please.” This time his tone was definitely more commanding than suggestive.
“Neat or on the rocks?” came his query from his seated position, a king dethroned but yet still holding the reins of power, in an expensive-looking leather club chair.
“Neat, please,” she responded, knowing it to be impolite to decline a drink and also knowing that regardless of her answer, she would be served.
This. This was how it had started. He handed her the glass of Scotch, placing his own glass carefully on the polished wood of the occasional table, but then instead of sitting down across from her (or even beside her, ensconced as she was in the soft leather of the sofa), he withdrew from his pocket a sterling silver lighter on which his initials curled on each side, and went around the room, lighting each candle in turn. Only when the last candle flickered to life did he turn to face her, removing his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the aforementioned chair. He then picked up his Scotch glass, standing so close to her that she could see his breathing, deep and steady. His left leg began gently pressing on that space between her knees, forcing her to part her legs slightly.
She looked up at him then, wondering what it was, exactly, she had unwittingly agreed to.
“Take off your dress. I want to see what you've been hiding from me all night,” he said abruptly, his voice impossibly more authoritative.
She could smell the faint scent of lilies and lavender. The scent of the flowers and the glowing, inviting, yet somehow dangerous scent of the candles were an intoxicating mix of beauty filling the room. She paused a moment as his request knocked about in her head.
Normally, this kind of proposition from a first date would earn a quick exit, if not a swift kick to the nether regions, but this time... this time she did as she was told. She reached back to unzip the black shift dress she was wearing, letting the fabric slip down over her shoulders, exposing her black lace bra and the pale swell of her breasts above the fabric. He backed up a little so that she could stand and wiggle the dress off over her ample hips and ass, until she was standing before him in just her bra, black lace panties and sheer black lace top stockings.
This. This was the moment at which she had surrendered all authority over her own body and gave that authority to him. He looked at her appraisingly - not admiringly - as previous lovers had done, but more as a horse trader would look over a mare at auction. As if she had transformed herself from, well, herself, into an object, a thing designed for his pleasure. This feeling, oddly enough, did not bother her, and in a way, gave her a sense of relief.
“Everything, please.”
The words drifted through the air and settled on her skin. She obediently reached back and unclasped her bra, letting the black lace fall to the floor, her dark rose pink nipples hardening with arousal and the cool of the room. Not looking up, she peeled off her black lace tanga cut panties, the ones that flattered her wide hips and generous ass. She wriggled those off, slowly, perhaps subconsciously teasing him, just as she had done with the dress. This was followed by each stocking being rolled down and kicked aside, until she was finally naked, fully and completely naked, and she dared to look up again.
This. His face finally broke into a smile. “You’re very beautiful.”
Not so much a compliment as a statement. He took a sip of his Scotch, the ice clinking in the glass. He was still fully dressed, save for the suit jacket, and he still hadn’t touched her. Goosebumps arose on her skin as she stood absolutely naked and vulnerable before him. Somehow, not being touched was more arousing than being touched, and she felt her desperate, betraying cunt dampening with want and anticipation.
“Bed. Face down. Now.”
His words seemed to become more entrancing and more commanding with every syllable. She turned away from him, acutely aware of his unflinching gaze falling over her body, and did as she was told - proceeding to the bedroom, lying face down atop the duvet, her face buried in the pillows. God, but the waiting was killing her. She heard the distinct sound of a belt being undone, of clothing crumpling to the floor, and the sound of ice clinking again in his Scotch glass as he took a sip.
It was then that she felt his hands on her skin, lifting her belly just above her pubic mons, carefully arranging the pillow, then those same hands spreading her legs apart, exposing her everything, her naked, needful cunt, the tight pink of her virgin asshole, the paleness of her skin and the distinct pink flush that had now spread well down over all of it. Her breathing was coming harder now, and then... oh my God.
His tongue. His mouth, an ice cube swirling within it, was teasing her perineum, and then... fuck, his tongue pushed into her tight asshole, forcing the ice cube in past her resistant sphincter. Her back arched and her teeth sunk into the Egyptian cotton pillowcase to keep from screaming with surprise at this entirely new sensation of pleasure and pain mixed up into some kind of divine cocktail. His left hand was on her lower back, pressing her down into the bed, his right holding her legs apart, the heat of his fingers just millimeters from her dripping desperate pussy.
“Please... please…” she begged, a whimper of a most involuntary nature, so much so that she knew not whether she was begging for him to stop or to continue.
In response, he sank two, then three thick fingers knuckle-deep into her wanton cunt, until she could feel them caressing her cervix. His thumb circled and teased her clit just as his tongue circled and probed and teased her asshole. She could feel the ice on his tongue, probing, pushing, teasing, torturing. The electric shocks running up and down her spine at this exquisite, wholly new sensation caused her to momentarily think that perhaps her body was not hers at all, but his to do with what he wanted. She was built only to provide pleasure to this man she had just met a mere four hours ago.
She could feel the ice cube melting inside her, and she could smell the scent of the soy wax candles - a lily-like scent, lightly touched by sweet pea - and her senses were overwhelmed with joy and pleasure. His fingers were buried in her cunt, his tongue was buried in her asshole. What had she done to deserve this wonderfulness? Surely she was nothing special, perhaps he did this with all the women he met? At this point, her brain didn't care, her body was fully in charge. She felt him withdraw his tongue from her ass, and her pussy almost sighed as he withdrew his fingers.
“Roll over.”
Another command, one she was only too eager to follow. She did as she was told, her legs splayed, her long dark brown hair undone and spread out over the pillow. Her pale skin was still flushed with arousal, her green eyes watched him, waiting for him to use her as he pleased - no, wanting him to use her as he pleased.
She watched with a mix of fascination and shiver-inducing anticipation as he picked up a candle and... oh, oh, she’d read about this but... fuck, he began dripping hot wax onto each of her dark rose pink, erect nipples. Fuck. The wax cooled quickly, but the sensation of the heat spread through her chest into her belly and down to her engorged cunt. She was so transfixed by the sensation of the heat rushing from her nipples through her abdomen and down to her thighs that she barely noticed him, now naked save for his black cashmere blend socks, climbing onto the left side of the bed, kneeling beside her. She did, however, notice the next thing that he did, producing a sensation that she was sure would never be repeated.
His rough but manicured hands closed on her right nipple, and in one sudden move, pulled the cooled wax off her delicate flesh. Her back arched of its own accord, just as his wet, warm, eager mouth closed over the erect tissue, sucking, nibbling, licking, biting, finishing with a kiss. Her breathing was coming hard and fast now, and her body again betrayed her, a spot of wetness from her dripping, seemingly insatiable, pussy forming beneath her hips. He looked up at her, his fingers hovering just above her left nipple.
“You like this.”
His voice was slightly softer but still edged, a knife sheathed in the softest deerskin. Again, not a question. Not that it needed to be posed as a question; her body had long since given away the answer.
She moaned softly, running her hands through his grey-tinged dark brown hair, arching her back again with pleasure as he peeled off the wax gracing her left nipple. His lips once again closed on her tender flesh. Her back arched and her knees drew up and fell open, almost involuntarily. The astonishing contrast between the heat of the wax and the wet, cooler warmth of his mouth wholly controlled her sympathetic nervous system. She was as much herself now as a lump of clay might be, his to play with, his to mold and shape to his desires.
He was between her open legs now, kissing her neck, the hollow between her clavicles, her now impossibly sensitive breasts and the erect, eager nipples crowning each, his mouth everywhere at once, or so it seemed. His hands ran down her chest and abdomen, his fingers once again sinking without permission into her nonetheless welcoming sopping swollen pussy, his mouth never leaving her skin. Her eyes closed momentarily, her body lost in this exquisite new pleasure, and when she opened them, he was looking down at her, querulously.
“Do you want this? Really want this?”
The authoritative tone was gone now, replaced by an astonishingly opposite, soft version of his voice. She could feel his cock nudging the naked outer lips of her waxed pussy, could feel him nudging her open. She smiled up at him and wrapped her long legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to her, forcing the head of his cock against her inner lips.
“Yes. I want this very much. Please, give it to me…” Her voice trailed off into a dampened whimper as he suddenly plunged himself into her, forcing open the tight, wet walls of her most secret of places. He slammed into her sensitive cervix, his hands planted on her shoulders as he took his pleasure from her, took what he needed without concern as to her needs.
Not that it mattered. Her body had long since surrendered to his, and his every thrust, his every movement, echoed through her every organ. She bit her lip to hold back her cries as she felt the inevitable building of her orgasm. She tried to fight it off, a sailor scrambling to hang on to the flotsam of a sinking ship, but it was too little, it was too late. She lost it just as he did, her orgasm flooding her, drowning her in delight, just as his ejaculate flooded her cervix, running out of her quivering pussy and mingling with her juices already soaking the bed linens.
He rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. She thought that she heard him utter a muttered “thank you”, but perhaps that was just her imagination. The foggy haze induced by the Scotch and his voice was beginning to clear, and she realised that she would have to dress and leave. She felt so unusually safe and happy, snuggled now under the hotel duvet, smelling of sex and perfume. She had neither the desire nor the initiative required to dress and leave this place.
As if reading her mind (and at that point, she would have believed that power possible in him), he turned, looked down at her, and spoke again.
“Stay here. I’ll call for a rollaway.”
He picked up the phone at the bedside, and the soft knock at the door came a few minutes later - a rollaway bed accompanied by a bottle of 2004 Dom Perignon champagne chilling in yet another bucket of ice.
In those elapsed few minutes, though, she had rolled over and fallen far into the depths of sleep. She never felt his kisses in her hair, nor his hands caressing the curve of her waist, and it would not be until the morning light broke through the pale cream coloured organza curtains that she would be left to consider how she had come to this. This. This, the most amazing night of her life, or at least, the most astonishing.
This. This was her, face down on the Four Seasons Olympic hotel bed, spread-legged, her hips slightly lifted by the down and fiberfill overstuffed pillow he had placed beneath her lower belly. She could feel cool air caressing her open cunt, which suddenly seemed to be the focus of her every attention. Everything she had to offer was on display for his appraising gaze, her slick, freshly waxed pussy open and swollen in anticipation, the tight rosebud of her virgin asshole just visible between her slightly spread cheeks. She felt so extraordinarily vulnerable, and even though she wasn’t physically restrained, his soft, commanding voice restrained her as effectively as ropes or alcohol might.
He had taken her by the upper arm as they had left Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, casually doing so after helping her into her long black wool overcoat, as if they were longtime girlfriend and boyfriend instead of mere acquaintances, strangers really, who had just now met this evening. His touch was gentle, but firm. Instructive, would be the word. They’d stepped out of the heat of the restaurant into the biting rain and pervasive cold of the Seattle winter, and as they were walking to the car park, she had felt his grip grow slightly tighter - not in a frightening way, she wasn’t one to be frightened - but rather in a way so that she was drawn closer to the warmth of his body, radiating heat even through his overcoat.
This. It was a single whisper, a simple request.
“Come up to the hotel suite with me, love,” he had said.
Not really a question, but not really a command, either. She had looked up at him, blushing, her ridiculously fair skin flushed with a sudden, wanting lust, her fingers trembling, her brain and body filled with an abrupt desire to know more about this man than she would have thought just five seconds prior. She was quite thankful for the darkness of the night, that so easily veiled her blush that now had spread to her decolletage. She had nodded her assent, thinking that perhaps an aperitif or two would be not so bad, and he certainly wasn't difficult to like. He was taller than her six feet, well-educated, well-read, and handsome in the sort of way men who work, and work hard, outside and with their hands are handsome. His slightly weathered face broke into a smile when she nodded her assent.
And so she had, and it had come to this. Well, it wasn’t quite a direct hop from the door opening to her lying face down on the bed, but they certainly had not broken out a game of Monopoly when the door shut behind them either.
The hotel room was, at first glance, revealing only of the perfection one would expect to find in a five-star hotel. There was a vase of carefully arranged star lilies on the mahogany inlaid occasional table, and beside it there was an unopened bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich. A bucket of ice stood beside this bottle, condensation just barely beading on the bucket, as if it had been freshly filled and placed.
At seeing this, she idly made a mental note that he must have called ahead to the concierge... meaning that he knew the answer to his proposition before said proposition ever crossed his lips. She also noticed, another side note made in her brain, a variety of candles, as yet unlit, scattered about the room. Odd, she thought, that a man would travel with candles, but it wasn’t until later that she was to find out exactly why he traveled with those candles.
She heard the crack of the Glenfiddich being opened, and watched as he poured himself a healthy measure of the Scotch, the ice cubes clinking, as if in protest, inside the heavy lead crystal tumbler emblazoned with the hotel logo.
He had yet to say anything to her since his initial invitation, but now he said, “Sit down, please.” This time his tone was definitely more commanding than suggestive.
“Neat or on the rocks?” came his query from his seated position, a king dethroned but yet still holding the reins of power, in an expensive-looking leather club chair.
“Neat, please,” she responded, knowing it to be impolite to decline a drink and also knowing that regardless of her answer, she would be served.
This. This was how it had started. He handed her the glass of Scotch, placing his own glass carefully on the polished wood of the occasional table, but then instead of sitting down across from her (or even beside her, ensconced as she was in the soft leather of the sofa), he withdrew from his pocket a sterling silver lighter on which his initials curled on each side, and went around the room, lighting each candle in turn. Only when the last candle flickered to life did he turn to face her, removing his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the aforementioned chair. He then picked up his Scotch glass, standing so close to her that she could see his breathing, deep and steady. His left leg began gently pressing on that space between her knees, forcing her to part her legs slightly.
She looked up at him then, wondering what it was, exactly, she had unwittingly agreed to.
“Take off your dress. I want to see what you've been hiding from me all night,” he said abruptly, his voice impossibly more authoritative.
She could smell the faint scent of lilies and lavender. The scent of the flowers and the glowing, inviting, yet somehow dangerous scent of the candles were an intoxicating mix of beauty filling the room. She paused a moment as his request knocked about in her head.
Normally, this kind of proposition from a first date would earn a quick exit, if not a swift kick to the nether regions, but this time... this time she did as she was told. She reached back to unzip the black shift dress she was wearing, letting the fabric slip down over her shoulders, exposing her black lace bra and the pale swell of her breasts above the fabric. He backed up a little so that she could stand and wiggle the dress off over her ample hips and ass, until she was standing before him in just her bra, black lace panties and sheer black lace top stockings.
This. This was the moment at which she had surrendered all authority over her own body and gave that authority to him. He looked at her appraisingly - not admiringly - as previous lovers had done, but more as a horse trader would look over a mare at auction. As if she had transformed herself from, well, herself, into an object, a thing designed for his pleasure. This feeling, oddly enough, did not bother her, and in a way, gave her a sense of relief.
“Everything, please.”
The words drifted through the air and settled on her skin. She obediently reached back and unclasped her bra, letting the black lace fall to the floor, her dark rose pink nipples hardening with arousal and the cool of the room. Not looking up, she peeled off her black lace tanga cut panties, the ones that flattered her wide hips and generous ass. She wriggled those off, slowly, perhaps subconsciously teasing him, just as she had done with the dress. This was followed by each stocking being rolled down and kicked aside, until she was finally naked, fully and completely naked, and she dared to look up again.
This. His face finally broke into a smile. “You’re very beautiful.”
Not so much a compliment as a statement. He took a sip of his Scotch, the ice clinking in the glass. He was still fully dressed, save for the suit jacket, and he still hadn’t touched her. Goosebumps arose on her skin as she stood absolutely naked and vulnerable before him. Somehow, not being touched was more arousing than being touched, and she felt her desperate, betraying cunt dampening with want and anticipation.
“Bed. Face down. Now.”
His words seemed to become more entrancing and more commanding with every syllable. She turned away from him, acutely aware of his unflinching gaze falling over her body, and did as she was told - proceeding to the bedroom, lying face down atop the duvet, her face buried in the pillows. God, but the waiting was killing her. She heard the distinct sound of a belt being undone, of clothing crumpling to the floor, and the sound of ice clinking again in his Scotch glass as he took a sip.
It was then that she felt his hands on her skin, lifting her belly just above her pubic mons, carefully arranging the pillow, then those same hands spreading her legs apart, exposing her everything, her naked, needful cunt, the tight pink of her virgin asshole, the paleness of her skin and the distinct pink flush that had now spread well down over all of it. Her breathing was coming harder now, and then... oh my God.
His tongue. His mouth, an ice cube swirling within it, was teasing her perineum, and then... fuck, his tongue pushed into her tight asshole, forcing the ice cube in past her resistant sphincter. Her back arched and her teeth sunk into the Egyptian cotton pillowcase to keep from screaming with surprise at this entirely new sensation of pleasure and pain mixed up into some kind of divine cocktail. His left hand was on her lower back, pressing her down into the bed, his right holding her legs apart, the heat of his fingers just millimeters from her dripping desperate pussy.
“Please... please…” she begged, a whimper of a most involuntary nature, so much so that she knew not whether she was begging for him to stop or to continue.
In response, he sank two, then three thick fingers knuckle-deep into her wanton cunt, until she could feel them caressing her cervix. His thumb circled and teased her clit just as his tongue circled and probed and teased her asshole. She could feel the ice on his tongue, probing, pushing, teasing, torturing. The electric shocks running up and down her spine at this exquisite, wholly new sensation caused her to momentarily think that perhaps her body was not hers at all, but his to do with what he wanted. She was built only to provide pleasure to this man she had just met a mere four hours ago.
She could feel the ice cube melting inside her, and she could smell the scent of the soy wax candles - a lily-like scent, lightly touched by sweet pea - and her senses were overwhelmed with joy and pleasure. His fingers were buried in her cunt, his tongue was buried in her asshole. What had she done to deserve this wonderfulness? Surely she was nothing special, perhaps he did this with all the women he met? At this point, her brain didn't care, her body was fully in charge. She felt him withdraw his tongue from her ass, and her pussy almost sighed as he withdrew his fingers.
“Roll over.”
Another command, one she was only too eager to follow. She did as she was told, her legs splayed, her long dark brown hair undone and spread out over the pillow. Her pale skin was still flushed with arousal, her green eyes watched him, waiting for him to use her as he pleased - no, wanting him to use her as he pleased.
She watched with a mix of fascination and shiver-inducing anticipation as he picked up a candle and... oh, oh, she’d read about this but... fuck, he began dripping hot wax onto each of her dark rose pink, erect nipples. Fuck. The wax cooled quickly, but the sensation of the heat spread through her chest into her belly and down to her engorged cunt. She was so transfixed by the sensation of the heat rushing from her nipples through her abdomen and down to her thighs that she barely noticed him, now naked save for his black cashmere blend socks, climbing onto the left side of the bed, kneeling beside her. She did, however, notice the next thing that he did, producing a sensation that she was sure would never be repeated.
His rough but manicured hands closed on her right nipple, and in one sudden move, pulled the cooled wax off her delicate flesh. Her back arched of its own accord, just as his wet, warm, eager mouth closed over the erect tissue, sucking, nibbling, licking, biting, finishing with a kiss. Her breathing was coming hard and fast now, and her body again betrayed her, a spot of wetness from her dripping, seemingly insatiable, pussy forming beneath her hips. He looked up at her, his fingers hovering just above her left nipple.
“You like this.”
His voice was slightly softer but still edged, a knife sheathed in the softest deerskin. Again, not a question. Not that it needed to be posed as a question; her body had long since given away the answer.
She moaned softly, running her hands through his grey-tinged dark brown hair, arching her back again with pleasure as he peeled off the wax gracing her left nipple. His lips once again closed on her tender flesh. Her back arched and her knees drew up and fell open, almost involuntarily. The astonishing contrast between the heat of the wax and the wet, cooler warmth of his mouth wholly controlled her sympathetic nervous system. She was as much herself now as a lump of clay might be, his to play with, his to mold and shape to his desires.
He was between her open legs now, kissing her neck, the hollow between her clavicles, her now impossibly sensitive breasts and the erect, eager nipples crowning each, his mouth everywhere at once, or so it seemed. His hands ran down her chest and abdomen, his fingers once again sinking without permission into her nonetheless welcoming sopping swollen pussy, his mouth never leaving her skin. Her eyes closed momentarily, her body lost in this exquisite new pleasure, and when she opened them, he was looking down at her, querulously.
“Do you want this? Really want this?”
The authoritative tone was gone now, replaced by an astonishingly opposite, soft version of his voice. She could feel his cock nudging the naked outer lips of her waxed pussy, could feel him nudging her open. She smiled up at him and wrapped her long legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to her, forcing the head of his cock against her inner lips.
“Yes. I want this very much. Please, give it to me…” Her voice trailed off into a dampened whimper as he suddenly plunged himself into her, forcing open the tight, wet walls of her most secret of places. He slammed into her sensitive cervix, his hands planted on her shoulders as he took his pleasure from her, took what he needed without concern as to her needs.
Not that it mattered. Her body had long since surrendered to his, and his every thrust, his every movement, echoed through her every organ. She bit her lip to hold back her cries as she felt the inevitable building of her orgasm. She tried to fight it off, a sailor scrambling to hang on to the flotsam of a sinking ship, but it was too little, it was too late. She lost it just as he did, her orgasm flooding her, drowning her in delight, just as his ejaculate flooded her cervix, running out of her quivering pussy and mingling with her juices already soaking the bed linens.
He rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. She thought that she heard him utter a muttered “thank you”, but perhaps that was just her imagination. The foggy haze induced by the Scotch and his voice was beginning to clear, and she realised that she would have to dress and leave. She felt so unusually safe and happy, snuggled now under the hotel duvet, smelling of sex and perfume. She had neither the desire nor the initiative required to dress and leave this place.
As if reading her mind (and at that point, she would have believed that power possible in him), he turned, looked down at her, and spoke again.
“Stay here. I’ll call for a rollaway.”
He picked up the phone at the bedside, and the soft knock at the door came a few minutes later - a rollaway bed accompanied by a bottle of 2004 Dom Perignon champagne chilling in yet another bucket of ice.
In those elapsed few minutes, though, she had rolled over and fallen far into the depths of sleep. She never felt his kisses in her hair, nor his hands caressing the curve of her waist, and it would not be until the morning light broke through the pale cream coloured organza curtains that she would be left to consider how she had come to this. This. This, the most amazing night of her life, or at least, the most astonishing.
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