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Interlude on a Houseboat
The carpet is synthetic and scratchy under her back. He yanks the straps of her Simone Pérèle bodysuit down over her shoulders, peeling it away from her flesh like the skin from an overripe fruit. His face is dark with concentration, his breathing for several moments the only sound in the room as he lets his eyes have their fill. He grips her hips and drives himself into her, harder and harder until he is almost there, and then he slows, and she whimpers with frustration. "Don't stop-," she says. He stops. He smiles at her tightly clenched jaw and bared teeth. "Why did you stop ," she whines. "I want to watch you finger yourself," he says. She screws her eyes up tight and for a lazy moment he wonders if he is going to see tears leaking from beneath those luxuriant lashes. “No," she says. He grabs her hand and places it between her legs. She makes a pretense of pouting and sniffing, but before too long the manicured tips of her slender cellist...
