You know I can’t let you get away with this.
I can’t just let you off scot-free
Why do you test me like this?
She had no answer for him.
You really test me.
I don’t mean to.
I thought we were beyond this.
He cupped her cheek and swept a lock of lank, auburn hair behind her ear and noted the slight quiver in his hand. She looked down, refusing to meet his gaze.
I thought we were beyond this, he repeated forlornly.
He remembered snippets of their weekend. Her suppleness; the warmth of her lithe body wrapped around him. Her scent upon arousal. Her taste-sweet and thick. The strength of her taut middle as she pulled him in. The tight grip of her inner passages as she milked him, shudderingly and painfully dry again and again. He had almost wept with joy as he was finally able to stroke her freely and completely from top to glorious bottom. Could it have been only a week ago? Already the memories were blurred at the edges. He sighed.
Go upstairs, he said evenly. Prepare yourself.
Her eyes fluttered but still didn’t rise to his.
He watched her ascend the staircase slowly, a hand sliding along the oak rail. Her uniform fit her snugly, riding up in the back. There was a small run in her stocking above her knee. He wondered if she knew it was there. A small imperfection that inexplicably saddened him, but at the same time steeled him.
As she disappeared he went to the sideboard and poured himself a small bourbon, which he’d meant to sip. Feeling that damn quiver again he downed it in a gulp and poured another, heavier drink.
He followed her up the stairs.