Emily sipped her drink, watching him over its rim.
“Look around,” she said.
He kept his eyes on her.
“Emily.”
“Nick.”
“I’m looking at you.”
“I know.” She smiled at him.
“But I want you to look around.”
His chest tightened. She was about to do it again.
“Please–”
“Just look.”
He shook his head. “Don’t.”
She put her glass down and leaned forward. Her voice dropped. “I’m playing.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
“You like it when I play.”
His hand shook and he put the glass down.
She looked at him patiently. “Nick. Look around.”
He swallowed, and raised his head. The bar wasn’t crowded. It was a Tuesday night, nearly ten. There were a few couples scattered at tables near the window, a group of executives, winding down. One man at the bar, nursing a drink, his jacket folded next to him. Another by himself, at a table.
“See anyone interesting?” she asked.
“I’m not-”
“The one at the table,” she said.
She wasn’t looking at Nick anymore. Her gaze had shifted past his shoulder.
“Dark hair. Nice hands.”
Nick turned slightly.
The man started writing something on a pad. His sleeves were rolled up and his movements were economical, practiced.
“He looks as if he’s careful,” Emily said. “Deliberate. The kind who’d take his time getting to know what worked.”
Nick’s throat was dry. He wanted to reach for his drink again but he didn’t trust his hand.
“Or the one at the bar.” She tilted her head toward him. “The tall one, with his jacket off. Did you see him when we walked in?”
He had. Broad shoulders, white shirt, open collar. Grey at his temples, sharp jawline. He had looked up when they’d passed, held Emily’s gaze for longer than politeness required.
“He’d be different,” she said. “Wouldn’t he?”
Nick reached for his drink anyway. The whiskey burned going down but it gave him something to do.
“More direct,” she continued. Her fingertips traced the base of her glass. “The kind who’d tell me what he wanted, and expect me to do it.”
Nick set the glass down carefully. “Stop.”
“I’m just talking.”
“You’re not just talking.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Do you want me to stop?”
He didn’t respond.
Emily picked up her glass, and drank, then set it down again. She ran her fingertip along its rim.
“Now,” she said. “The one at the bar.”
He didn’t turn. He didn’t want to give her that.
“He’s been looking over here,” she said. “Did you notice?”
He hadn’t. He’d been too focused on her, on the quickening of her breath, the way she kept touching her glass.
“Three times,” she said. “Maybe four.”
“Don’t.”
“He has good posture. That matters, doesn’t it? How someone carries themselves.” She paused. “Like they’re at ease with themselves. Confident.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. The pressure against his zipper made him grateful for the shadows, for the table between them.
“I wonder what he does,” she said. “Something that keeps him in shape, I think. It’s not just the gym: he’s solid, not sculpted.”
Her eyes were heavy, her expression abstracted. He’d never seen that look directed at someone else before. Not out in the open like this.
“I think he’d know what I wanted, too,” she said. “The second I walked over.”
Nick’s hand closed around his glass but didn’t lift it. His heart was racing.
“He wouldn’t hesitate.” Her voice dropped lower, intimate now, as if she were telling him a secret. “He’d see me approach and be deciding.”
“Deciding what.”
She leaned in, her eyes bright. “How he’d touch me.”
Nick’s shoulders tightened.
“Whether he’d let me sit down first or just pull me to him.”
She paused, held his gaze. “Whether he’d kiss me where everyone could see or take me somewhere else first.”
“Jesus, Emily.”
“You asked.”
He didn’t answer. He knew she could see what this was doing to him, and the shame of it deepened his arousal.
She glanced at the one writing–a quick appraising look. Then at the tall one by the bar. “I think…” She stopped. Her lips curved. “I think I’ll start with him.”
Nick’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The one at the bar.”
She reached for her clutch and checked inside it. “He’s closest.”
“Emily.” His voice felt rough.
She stood. The dress clung to her hips and flowed down her legs. She was taller in heels.
“What are you doing?”
She looked down at him. Her expression was composed, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright.
“Playing,” she said.
“Don’t.” His objection sounded weak.
“You should go up.”
“What?”
“To the room.”
She adjusted the strap on her shoulder to make her look more casual, more available.
“You should go up.”
He stared at her. This was further than she’d gone before. She’d teased him with it in bed, in the car, and at parties, in whispered fragments that made him lose the thread of conversation. But she’d never actually done this, walked away from him toward someone else.
“I’ll be a while,” she said.
“Emily–”
“Go to the room, Nick.”
She turned and walked away, her hips swaying, knowing he was watching, knowing everyone was watching.
He stood, and took a half step forward. His desires were so tangled together he couldn’t separate them. He wanted to stop this. He wanted to watch. He wanted to pull her back and he wanted to see what would happen.
“Emily-please,” he tried.
She stopped, and turned, and Nick could see her expression was tender. Emily wasn’t cruel, which made it worse. She was giving him what he needed, and the fact that it was a gift made the humiliation complete.
“Go,” she said again, then more quietly: “Please.”
He didn’t move. He felt discordant, graceless. Surely people would be noticing, would be putting together what was happening. His cock was hard and his face burned.
“Nick.”
Implacable. It broke something in him, and he took a step back. That acquiescence, that surrender, brought a flush of arousal so intense he felt weak.
She turned and walked toward the bar.
Nick stood frozen, watching her, waiting for her to turn back, to explain the joke. When she reached the bar, she leaned against it, angled toward the man, her weight on one hip. He looked up, then turned to face her, his stance opening, receptive. She smiled.
This wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be real.
He had to get away.
He started walking to the elevator. As he left the bar the hostess seemed concerned. She reached out to him, but all he could think of was finding his way upstairs. When he reached the end of the hallway he summoned the elevator and turned back for a moment. He saw his wife framed by the doorway, touching the man’s arm, their heads inclined. He looked away.
The elevator chimed. He stepped inside and stabbed at the buttons. 3rd. The doors closed behind him.
His reflection ghosted behind the metal fascia–flushed, disheveled, eyes wet. He tried to remember how it had all started, but gave up. Perhaps it had always been this way. He was aroused, and ashamed. The doors opened.
He stepped out. Guest rooms lined the corridor, and he couldn’t remember where they were staying. He searched for the key card. 317. Other doors looked at him as he passed, peepholes glinting in fluorescent light. He found 317 and fumbled with the lock until it clicked green.
Inside, the room was dark. The bed was turned down, and their bags were on the luggage rack where he’d left them. City lights leaked around the curtains.
Nick walked to the window and dragged the curtains open. The street was bright with headlights, brake lights, neon glow from the stores still open. He stared down at the traffic, at the normal people doing normal things, then raised his eyes. His reflection stared back at him, haggard, desperate.
Perhaps he should go and wait for her. But then she’d look up and see him standing there, and sigh, turning back to the man she had preferred–
His stomach clenched. He walked to the bathroom, stared at the mirror. His face stared back–flushed, wrecked. He splashed water on his face. It didn’t help.
He sat on the bed.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Surely she’d be back soon.
The silence played on his nerves. He heard the hum of the air conditioning, a television playing somewhere. Voices in the hallway outside, cut off by a closing door.
This was too long. Wasn’t it? Too long for conversation. Too long for a drink. Too long for playing.
Maybe he should go down. Just to check. Just to see if she was still at the bar.
And then what?
The thought stopped him cold.
Because if she wasn’t there, what would he do?
He imagined asking the bartender, Have you seen my wife? Tall, green dress, she left with a man…
His face burned.
Nick went back to the window. The city stretched out below him, indifferent. He pressed his forehead against the glass for a while. It was cool. Steadying.
The not knowing was the worst part. It scraped at him. If she was just talking, if she was still in the bar, then maybe this was still just play. Still something they did together, even if she was doing it to him. But if she was letting him touch her–
He imagined walking down the corridor and hearing them.
He imagined knocking on the door, pleading. The man standing there, shirt untucked. Can I help you? My wife is in there. Your wife? And Emily would appear behind him, her hair mussed, her lipstick gone, and she’d look at Nick with–what? Surprise? Annoyance? I told him to wait upstairs.
The man would understand then. His expression would change. Contempt, maybe amusement. Or pity.
He couldn’t take it. He had to know. He lifted his phone and stared at it, his thumb hovering over her name.
No. He checked the time.
11:47.
He’d left the bar at–what? Ten-thirty? Quarter to eleven?
An hour. She’d been gone an hour.
He lay on the bed and stared into darkness. He tried to think about work, about clients, about anything else. But his mind kept circling back to the bar, and Emily. To where she was and what she was doing and whether she was thinking about him at all. His groin ached.
Maybe if he came the arousal would break, maybe he could think clearly. He reached down. Unzipped. His hand closed around himself–and the images were immediate. Emily’s mouth. A stranger’s hands. Her body arching. He froze, horrified, and tucked himself back in.
Jesus Christ.
He zipped himself up, his hands shaking.
The lock clicked.
Nick shot up, his heart pounding.
Emily. The door swung open, and she entered, haloed in light.
“Hi.”
She turned on a lamp. The door closed.
He was standing. He didn’t remember standing. His heart was racing.
“Hi,” he managed.
She tilted her head, studying him, a smile on her face.
“Were you waiting here all that time?” Teasing.
“I–yes.”
“Just sitting here? Wondering?” She seemed pleased with that. There was color in her cheeks and her lips were full, and he couldn’t tell why.
“How long were you down there?” he asked.
“A while.” She kicked off her heels, one after the other.
“I had such a good time.”
The words hung in the air between them. Nick stared at her. Such a good time. What did that mean? Conversation? Flirting? Or–
“Nick.”
She was watching him.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.” Honesty.
She walked towards him, and cupped his face. Her palm was cool.
“This was tough on you, wasn’t it? You’re all wound up.”
“Emily–”
“Shh.” Her thumb brushed across his lower lip. “Lower your pants.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Lower your pants.” She stepped back slightly, giving him space. “Please.”
His hands went to his belt and he struggled to get it open. He undid his trousers and unzipped them, pushing them until they puddled around his ankles. When he straightened his erection was shamefully hard, straining against his briefs.
“Oh, Nick.” Her voice was soft, sympathetic, but she was smiling. “Look at you.”
He felt affection in her gaze, but also amusement.
“Your briefs too,” she said. He pushed them down to his knees, standing there. His cock sprang free, dark and rigid, leaking at the tip. He straightened, facing her.
Her smile widened. She stepped closer.
“Were you like this the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“Sitting up here all alone,” she breathed, “hard and waiting.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“Were you wondering what I was doing?”
He nodded, abject.
“Poor thing.” But she didn’t sound sympathetic. She sounded delighted.
She turned, presenting her back to him. “Unzip me.”
His hands were shaking. He found the zipper at the top of her spine, just below her neck. Pulled it down slowly.
The dress parted, revealing the curve of her back and the pale perfection of her skin. She turned, and the dress fell, pooling at her feet in a whisper of fabric.
Her bra was pale lace, and her matching panties were framed by the delicate bands of her stockings. His eyes were drawn to the darkness between them.
“Emily, I”- he stopped, his mouth suddenly dry.
“Shh,” she said, again.
She reached down and wrapped her hand around his cock. Her grip was firm, confident.
He gasped.
“So hard,” she said, stroking him once, slowly. “You’ve been like this”-another stroke-“the whole time I was gone?”
“Yes.”
“Wondering”-her eyes locked on his-“what I was doing?”
He nodded frantically.
“Who I was with.” Her hand moved in a steady rhythm now. “What he was doing to me.”
“Emily, please–”
“Do you want to know? Really?” Her voice dropped lower, intimate.
He stared at her, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Her hand felt impossibly good.
“Because if you really want to know…” She emphasized each word with a stroke. “There is a way.”
He stared at her hungry eyes, at her predatory smile, transfixed.
“I’m very wet right now,” she said. Her free hand moved to her panties, fingers slipping beneath the lace. “Very, very wet.”
Nick’s vision blurred.
“But what am I wet with?”
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Oh god–”
“If you really want to know.” Her hand stilled on his cock, gripping him firmly. “If you’re ready. You could taste me.”
His heart stopped.
“You could put your mouth on me,” she continued, her voice a whisper now.
“And you’d know immediately. You’d taste it. If there was anything to taste, of course.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His legs were trembling.
“But are you ready for what you might find?” Her hand started moving again, slowly. “Because once you know–” She smiled, her eyes holding his. “You can’t go back.”
His mind burned with terror and arousal and desperate, overwhelming need.
“Think about it, Nick.” Her eyes held his. “Do you want to find out?”
He stared at her in desperation, frozen between the safety of the moment and the terror of finding out.
Emily’s hand was steady. Her eyes searched his face. “Do you, Nick?”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. His cock throbbed in her hand.
The Game
by EmmaDupleon | literotica.com