whine.
Owen seems confused at first. Then he
looks to my side where I'm tugging at the errant garment. “I guess
you weren't kidding about the zipper,” he muses. “And here I
thought it was just a sexy text to get me to come up to your room.”
He rests his head against my shoulder as he steadies himself to
examine my dress more closely. “May I?” he asks, offering
help.
“ Please,” I groan, frustrated. God, this is
such a mood killer.
He looks back up at me with a salacious
grin. “I like it when you say 'please,' Olivia.”
What does he mean by that?
Before I can ask, he grabs ahold of the
zipper and makes an attempt to slide it down. It doesn't budge. He tries again. Nothing.
He furrows his brow with determination. It's endearing. He looks
like a little kid figuring out a complicated Lego sculpture, biting
his lip and twisting his face. He turns me to my side and falls to
his knees.
“ Your dress is stuck in the zipper. This is
going to be a problem. How much do you love this dress?”
At the moment, I hate the fucking
thing. I give him a half
smile and shrug. Have at it, big guy.
“ Okay, let me try something else,” he
suggests as if fixing zipper malfunctions is his career.
As he inspects closer, I feel his hand
slide up the back of my leg and stop just under the hem of my
dress. I smile down at
him. His touch is always perfect, always amazing. I bite my lip as
I think of how that same hand would feel sliding up
farther.
He starts to pull at the fabric,
alternately tugging the zipper and the material in an effort to
work them apart. He
groans a bit, even lets out a curse or two here or there. I swear I
can see sweat beading on his forehead.
“ Ha!”
I glance down at him, eyes wide.
“Ha?”
“ I did it. I beat the zipper.” He stares up
at me as if he has conquered Mt. Everest, and I smile down at him.
So cute.
Cool air hits my bare skin on the side
where the zipper has been opened. He looks up at me, eyes hooded,
asking for permission, it seems, to finish the job. I run my hands
through his silky hair, nodding. I push him back a bit so he's
sitting back on his heels, encouraging him to watch me.
Confidently, I slide the dress over my shoulders and let it drop so
that it pools at my feet. I am instantly glad and a little pleased
with myself that I wore matching black lace panties and bra—and
better yet, matching thigh-high stockings. My fuck-me heels are
still on, and while I'm rarely one to toot my own horn, I know I
look hot. Toot. Toot.
He sighs loudly and eyes me up and down
while I kick my dress to the side. His face is at eye level with my panties, and
everything in me wants to grab the back of his head and push his
face between my legs. I really am classy in my drunk head. After
giving me a head-to-toe appraisal, he locks eyes with me.
Tentatively, he reaches a hand out and I give a slight nod of my
head, allowing him permission to do whatever it is he wants to do
with that hand— anything he
wants to do with that hand. He places it on my ankle and runs it up
my calf, behind my knee, and up my thigh. While his fingers trace
the lace tops of my stockings, I shiver.
“ Fucking beautiful,” he whispers as his
finger slips just under the band of my stockings. Owen slides his
hands around to the backs of my thighs and up to cup my ass. As he
pulls me toward him, he grabs the edge of my black panties with his
teeth, briefly pulling them away from my body and snapping them
back into place. In my drunken state, this cracks me up, and I
can't help but giggle. He looks up at me with an inquisitive
smile.
"Something amusing you, Olivia?" he asks,
arching an eyebrow and smirking.
I feign seriousness. "No, no. Please,
continue."
His eyes close and he gets right back to
business.
Owen leans forward and pushes his nose
into my panties, inhaling deeply. My head falls back before I
glance back down at him. He looks drugged, and from here, I can see
his arousal growing larger and larger
Owen seems confused at first. Then he
looks to my side where I'm tugging at the errant garment. “I guess
you weren't kidding about the zipper,” he muses. “And here I
thought it was just a sexy text to get me to come up to your room.”
He rests his head against my shoulder as he steadies himself to
examine my dress more closely. “May I?” he asks, offering
help.
“ Please,” I groan, frustrated. God, this is
such a mood killer.
He looks back up at me with a salacious
grin. “I like it when you say 'please,' Olivia.”
What does he mean by that?
Before I can ask, he grabs ahold of the
zipper and makes an attempt to slide it down. It doesn't budge. He tries again. Nothing.
He furrows his brow with determination. It's endearing. He looks
like a little kid figuring out a complicated Lego sculpture, biting
his lip and twisting his face. He turns me to my side and falls to
his knees.
“ Your dress is stuck in the zipper. This is
going to be a problem. How much do you love this dress?”
At the moment, I hate the fucking
thing. I give him a half
smile and shrug. Have at it, big guy.
“ Okay, let me try something else,” he
suggests as if fixing zipper malfunctions is his career.
As he inspects closer, I feel his hand
slide up the back of my leg and stop just under the hem of my
dress. I smile down at
him. His touch is always perfect, always amazing. I bite my lip as
I think of how that same hand would feel sliding up
farther.
He starts to pull at the fabric,
alternately tugging the zipper and the material in an effort to
work them apart. He
groans a bit, even lets out a curse or two here or there. I swear I
can see sweat beading on his forehead.
“ Ha!”
I glance down at him, eyes wide.
“Ha?”
“ I did it. I beat the zipper.” He stares up
at me as if he has conquered Mt. Everest, and I smile down at him.
So cute.
Cool air hits my bare skin on the side
where the zipper has been opened. He looks up at me, eyes hooded,
asking for permission, it seems, to finish the job. I run my hands
through his silky hair, nodding. I push him back a bit so he's
sitting back on his heels, encouraging him to watch me.
Confidently, I slide the dress over my shoulders and let it drop so
that it pools at my feet. I am instantly glad and a little pleased
with myself that I wore matching black lace panties and bra—and
better yet, matching thigh-high stockings. My fuck-me heels are
still on, and while I'm rarely one to toot my own horn, I know I
look hot. Toot. Toot.
He sighs loudly and eyes me up and down
while I kick my dress to the side. His face is at eye level with my panties, and
everything in me wants to grab the back of his head and push his
face between my legs. I really am classy in my drunk head. After
giving me a head-to-toe appraisal, he locks eyes with me.
Tentatively, he reaches a hand out and I give a slight nod of my
head, allowing him permission to do whatever it is he wants to do
with that hand— anything he
wants to do with that hand. He places it on my ankle and runs it up
my calf, behind my knee, and up my thigh. While his fingers trace
the lace tops of my stockings, I shiver.
“ Fucking beautiful,” he whispers as his
finger slips just under the band of my stockings. Owen slides his
hands around to the backs of my thighs and up to cup my ass. As he
pulls me toward him, he grabs the edge of my black panties with his
teeth, briefly pulling them away from my body and snapping them
back into place. In my drunken state, this cracks me up, and I
can't help but giggle. He looks up at me with an inquisitive
smile.
"Something amusing you, Olivia?" he asks,
arching an eyebrow and smirking.
I feign seriousness. "No, no. Please,
continue."
His eyes close and he gets right back to
business.
Owen leans forward and pushes his nose
into my panties, inhaling deeply. My head falls back before I
glance back down at him. He looks drugged, and from here, I can see
his arousal growing larger and larger
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