Private dance - part I.

He’d watched me all night at the club, eyes dark under the lights, never once looking away. When I finally asked if he wanted to come home, the answer sat in his smile. Now the door’s shut behind us and the quiet feels thick. He sinks into the couch, jacket open, tie loose, waiting. I let my dress slide from one shoulder, then the other, fabric whispering down my hips until it pools at my feet. Underneath, black lace holds my breasts like an afterthought, the thong a thin stripe of shadow between my cheeks. I move to the low beat that only I can hear, rolling my shoulders, arching my back, letting him see the curve of my stomach, the sway of my breasts as I turn. His breath changes when I kneel between his knees. I reach for his belt, unbuckle it with steady fingers, and free him. The head is already flushed, hot against my tongue when I lick once, slow, then take him deeper. He groans, hand hovering like he isn’t sure whether to guide or simply hold on. I keep the rhythm easy, lips tight, cheeks hollowing, blonde hair brushing his thighs each time I sink lower. Every so often I pull back just to watch the strand of spit stretch between us before I swallow him again. The room smells like my perfume and his skin, the air warmer now, heavier. My nipples tighten against the lace, and I don’t stop until his fingers finally settle in my hair and his hips lift to meet me.