Instagram ellopiageenos: no i'm not saying i'm sorry


no i'm not saying i'm sorry

“Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?” he murmurs.“Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for me.”The valet zooms up in his car, wearing a face-splitting grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.

Yes, you’re a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with him. He’s not going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re going to have to compromise. I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against his chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don’t want to spoil my day.

I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises his hand to my face, and his fingers move down my chin, the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.

“I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously undoes the button. Bending, he plants a soft kiss on my parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent combination of his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway of the boat. He stands back.“Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.

Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my eyes off his, I slowly undo each button, savoring his scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire—it’s evident on his face . . . and elsewhere.I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button on my jeans.“Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid movement he’s on his knees in front of me, undoing the laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each off, followed by my socks. He picks up my left foot and raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big toe, then grazes his teeth against it.

“Ah!” I moan as I feel the  effect in my groin. He stands in one smooth move, holds his hand out to me, and pulls me up off the bed.“Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my thumbs in the waistband as I sashay then slide the denim down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes remain dark.And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me this morning, and I mean really made love to me, gently, sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration—yes . . . I do—but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy for this man. He deserves sexy—he makes me feel sexy.
Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert tutelage. And then again, so much is new to him, too. It  balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white lacy thong and matching bra—a designer brand with a price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there for him in the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel cheap. I feel his.Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps down my arms, and drop it on top of my blouse. 

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