Black Tie Only

"Put my cock inside you."

She held his muscled shoulders for balance as she shakily rose and positioned his cock. Then she lowered herself until she was so full of him that she nearly wept in gratitude. Her legs were fatigued, but that was hardly going to stop her from taking him deeper and deeper until she settled on an animal rhythm that only a climax could complete. She watched his eyes go bleary with pleasure as she deliberately tightened around his length.

"Your pussy," he said with his jaw clenched, "is mine." He wrapped his hand around her throat—more gingerly this time. "Say it."

She looked wantonly at him through half-lowered eyelids. "My pussy is yours."

He let go of her neck and slouched forward so that he could set the rhythm. Stella clung to his shoulders as if she were drowning and moaned as his cock drove into her again and again. His long fingers kneaded her hips so roughly she suspected she'd find light bruises in the morning.

She couldn't live without this pleasure, she told herself as she ground her body against his. If this affair withered away, it wouldn't be her doing. She would relish every moment, seize every opportunity to be with him. His engagement didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the wild happiness she felt every time he possessed her in every way that Charles never would.

She arched her back and smiled as Oliver watched her breasts bounce just inches from his face. She wondered how long it would take him to seize a nipple in his mouth. The answer, as it turned out, was fewer than fifteen seconds. Stella gasped as he fastened his mouth to her breast and lathed her nipple with his tongue in time to his thrusts. She clawed at his shoulders through the pristine cotton of his dress shirt.

He looked drunk with pleasure as he released her nipple with a final lick. "Stella," he said gruffly, "hold on."

"What?"

Before she could decide what "hold on" meant, he had stood up from the chair and begun to carry her. His hands cupped her ass securely; she held tightly to his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was going to fuck her against the door.

She squealed as she felt the cool wood of the door at her back. Oliver had managed to carry her without slipping out. He began fucking her hard almost immediately. Stella clung to him like ivy to a wall. "Oliver," she whimpered.

"Louder."

"Oliver!" she cried.

He kissed her forcefully. Stella felt the pleasure between her thighs sharpen to a spring-loaded bundle of nerves that Oliver's body would set off in a matter of seconds. God, his body was miraculous. She devoured his lips and cried out into his mouth as her orgasm radiated through her. The feel of his tongue against hers only prolonged the pleasure.

He continued to kiss her until her body stopped shuddering. Then he buried his face in her neck and grunted with nearly every thrust until his own orgasm washed over him. Stella felt his grip on her loosen as he groaned out his pleasure, but she didn't fear being dropped.

Between ragged breaths, Oliver braced her legs and gently brought her feet back down to the floor. Stella immediately felt some of his warm cum dribble down the inside of her thighs. They both watched a bead of it land on the concrete floor.

"Jesus," he panted, "that makes me want to fuck you again."

She laughed wearily. "We have to get back."

For the next few minutes, they both remained silent; Oliver fastened his pants and shook the dust from the jacket she had knelt upon, while Stella stepped into her dress and examined it for any obvious stains. She would have to pray that the powder room was empty so that she could repair her hair and reapply lipstick.

"I'm not engaged," he said abruptly as she was zipping her dress.

Stella froze.

"Not since September." He shrugged on his jacket. She exhaled through pursed lips and felt a flood of relief warm her chest. Oliver hadn't been fucking another woman behind her back—at least not recently. And the engagement had happened to end the same month he had first fucked her on the couch in his office. She dearly hoped it wasn't a coincidence.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it relevant." His crystalline composure had returned. "And I didn't feel it would affect your marriage either way."

Stella colored and looked away. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "about tonight. I'm sorry that I—"

"We need to get back," he said, smoothing his hair back with his elegant fingers. "You need the powder room."

She laughed self-deprecatingly and nodded.

"I'll go ahead and let you know whether it's safe."

It was as if he'd read her mind. "Thank you." She approached him tentatively. "Oliver," she whispered, lifting her face to his. He kissed her until her lips began to move more heatedly against his.

"Really, we have to go," he said firmly. "I'll see you Monday afternoon." And then he was gone.

As she waited for him to signal to her whether the powder room was clear, Stella felt a cold stab of dread in her stomach. She dreaded returning to Charles in the banquet hall, dreaded sensing Oliver's surveillance for the rest of the evening, dreaded facing his indignation on Monday. And yet she couldn't see past him. He consumed every bit of her energy—mental, sexual, and emotional—and if his almost brutal possessiveness meant anything, perhaps it was that she had begun to consume him, too. The thought that their affair might eventually consume itself away was too terrible to contemplate. She brushed the thought aside and took inventory of the hairpins in her evening bag. Before she could do anything, she had to fix her sex-ravaged hair. She took a deep breath and peered out into the hallway.