Poolside Deal
The flute slid from her fingers, landing soundlessly in the shallow end where bubbles still fizzed against the submerged glass. His mouth was already between her thighs—professionalism abandoned with the signed contracts—and she arched back against the chaise lounge, fingers twisting in the damp fabric beneath her.
From the open French doors behind them, the scent of Cuban cigars drifted out in slow ribbons. Her father’s laughter, low and knowing, carried across the terrace before dissolving into another business call. The realtor wondered if the old man had planned this when he’d insisted on showing the property at dusk, the golden hour stretching their shadows long across the patio.
She took another slow sip of champagne, the bubbles bursting against her tongue like tiny, effervescent betrayals. His mouth was relentless, the kind of practiced skill that suggested he’d closed more than just real estate deals in backrooms and empty model homes. Her grip tightened on the flute as she let out a breathless laugh—half surprise, half recognition—when his tongue flicked just right.
Father’s footsteps paused near the threshold, the click of his Oxfords against marble deliberate. She didn’t turn, didn’t need to. That slight pause was approval, the same silent nod he’d given her at sixteen when she’d convinced her tennis coach to reschedule lessons for “private sessions.” Some lessons were better learned off-court.
Her hips tilted upward—an unspoken command—and he obeyed without hesitation, the rasp of his zipper drowned out by the champagne flute tipping over, rolling toward the pool’s edge. The condensation on the glass mirrored the slick heat between her legs, both about to shatter.
His fingers dug into her waist, pressing bruises into the softness there, the sort of marks her father’s associates would eye with approval at tomorrow’s brunch. She could already hear their murmured compliments—how well he’d *handled* the deal—while her nails raked down his back, scraping through sweat and chlorine.
Her breath hitched when he finally looked up, his mouth glistening, his gaze holding hers with the same predatory focus he’d used to negotiate the penthouse’s price. “Christ,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing champagne and her own slickness across it. The taste was dizzying—sweet and salt and something like power.
She reached for his belt with the same decisive flick of her wrist she’d used to sign the closing documents, the leather sliding free like it had been waiting for this. His laugh was rough, approving, as she guided him between her thighs, her body arching to meet him with the same calculated ease as her father’s handshake over the dotted line.
The first thrust was slow—deliberate, like he was savoring the way her breath stuttered, the way her nails bit into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents in his tan. Her gasp was swallowed by the distant clink of ice in a glass, her father’s murmured conversation still audible through the open doors, a reminder that this was just another transaction in a house built on them.
She had expected competence, not this—not the stretch that bordered on pain, the way her body clenched instinctively around him as if trying to recalibrate. Her laughter came out jagged, half-choked, as she realized she’d underestimated him, the same way buyers did when they balked at his initial offers. "Fuck," she breathed, her thighs trembling, "you could’ve warned me."
He didn’t apologize, didn’t slow—just watched her with that same infuriating calm, the kind that closed deals while others floundered. His palm smoothed up her ribs, thumb brushing the edge of her breast, and she shuddered, the sensation ricocheting between pleasure and overwhelm. The second orgasm built like a wave cresting too soon, relentless as a rising market.
Her toes curled against the chaise’s cushions, the fabric damp from spilled champagne or sweat—she couldn’t tell. The stretch burned now, a sweet, insistent ache that made her hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the friction. His chuckle was dark, approving, as if he’d known all along she’d come undone like this, her façade crumbling faster than a bidding war.
The moment he spilled into her, she bit down on her own wrist to muffle the sound, but it escaped anyway—a ragged, unpolished noise that would’ve embarrassed her if she cared. His hips stuttered against hers, his breath hot against her throat, and she watched, mesmerized, as his control fractured for the first time all evening. It was almost better than the orgasm, that fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the tailored suit.
From the open French doors behind them, the scent of Cuban cigars drifted out in slow ribbons. Her father’s laughter, low and knowing, carried across the terrace before dissolving into another business call. The realtor wondered if the old man had planned this when he’d insisted on showing the property at dusk, the golden hour stretching their shadows long across the patio.
She took another slow sip of champagne, the bubbles bursting against her tongue like tiny, effervescent betrayals. His mouth was relentless, the kind of practiced skill that suggested he’d closed more than just real estate deals in backrooms and empty model homes. Her grip tightened on the flute as she let out a breathless laugh—half surprise, half recognition—when his tongue flicked just right.
Father’s footsteps paused near the threshold, the click of his Oxfords against marble deliberate. She didn’t turn, didn’t need to. That slight pause was approval, the same silent nod he’d given her at sixteen when she’d convinced her tennis coach to reschedule lessons for “private sessions.” Some lessons were better learned off-court.
Her hips tilted upward—an unspoken command—and he obeyed without hesitation, the rasp of his zipper drowned out by the champagne flute tipping over, rolling toward the pool’s edge. The condensation on the glass mirrored the slick heat between her legs, both about to shatter.
His fingers dug into her waist, pressing bruises into the softness there, the sort of marks her father’s associates would eye with approval at tomorrow’s brunch. She could already hear their murmured compliments—how well he’d *handled* the deal—while her nails raked down his back, scraping through sweat and chlorine.
Her breath hitched when he finally looked up, his mouth glistening, his gaze holding hers with the same predatory focus he’d used to negotiate the penthouse’s price. “Christ,” he muttered, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing champagne and her own slickness across it. The taste was dizzying—sweet and salt and something like power.
She reached for his belt with the same decisive flick of her wrist she’d used to sign the closing documents, the leather sliding free like it had been waiting for this. His laugh was rough, approving, as she guided him between her thighs, her body arching to meet him with the same calculated ease as her father’s handshake over the dotted line.
The first thrust was slow—deliberate, like he was savoring the way her breath stuttered, the way her nails bit into his shoulders hard enough to leave crescents in his tan. Her gasp was swallowed by the distant clink of ice in a glass, her father’s murmured conversation still audible through the open doors, a reminder that this was just another transaction in a house built on them.
She had expected competence, not this—not the stretch that bordered on pain, the way her body clenched instinctively around him as if trying to recalibrate. Her laughter came out jagged, half-choked, as she realized she’d underestimated him, the same way buyers did when they balked at his initial offers. "Fuck," she breathed, her thighs trembling, "you could’ve warned me."
He didn’t apologize, didn’t slow—just watched her with that same infuriating calm, the kind that closed deals while others floundered. His palm smoothed up her ribs, thumb brushing the edge of her breast, and she shuddered, the sensation ricocheting between pleasure and overwhelm. The second orgasm built like a wave cresting too soon, relentless as a rising market.
Her toes curled against the chaise’s cushions, the fabric damp from spilled champagne or sweat—she couldn’t tell. The stretch burned now, a sweet, insistent ache that made her hips jerk involuntarily, chasing the friction. His chuckle was dark, approving, as if he’d known all along she’d come undone like this, her façade crumbling faster than a bidding war.
The moment he spilled into her, she bit down on her own wrist to muffle the sound, but it escaped anyway—a ragged, unpolished noise that would’ve embarrassed her if she cared. His hips stuttered against hers, his breath hot against her throat, and she watched, mesmerized, as his control fractured for the first time all evening. It was almost better than the orgasm, that fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the tailored suit.
2ヶ月前
