She was beautiful, she was sensuous, and her name was Angel.
She checked her watch again, as she waited for the meeting that she knew she should never have agreed to. Not only was her date a mysterious man she knew only from brief contact on the internet, he was late. She tapped her foot, and looked around the little resteraunt again. Just because someone's stories turned her on, she was starting to think that was no reason to trust him to show up for a clandestine meeting.
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Her heart started leaping in her chest as she turned into his driveway, the full throaty throb of the Ducati between her legs vibrating rhythmically as she let it roll up the gravel to the front of his house. As she shut the dark black machine down, she heard the sweet silence of her surroundings for the first time and took off her helmet to look around.
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Gary and Ange walk down the hall of the hotel, their luggage following behind them. Ange's heart is racing in her chest as she opens the door to their room. She knows her instructions, yet she keeps replaying them through her mind. Go in, set luggage aside, go get ice, then return for whatever Gary has in store for me.
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She couldn't believe this was happening. Her heart was beating hard and fast. She could feel the pulse in her throat and hear the rapid thrum of it in her ears. She felt warm and flushed, even though she was completely naked. The surface she lay on was soft and molded comfortably under her. The fur tickled gently along the edges of her skin. She was acutely aware of the kiss of it against the lips of her freshly shaven labia.
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"You've got to talk to me, Babe."
His fingers trailed down her throat...down her chest...over the curve of her breast, the nails leaving the slightest trace of redness in their wake. Her body arched instinctively, hungry for his touch. She writhed there, tugging at the nylon cuffs that kept her wrists bound over her head.
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Mark's the sort of man you can't help but want to tie down and gag. He's clean shaven, nicely dressed and well mannered with slight build and quick eyes—ah, but that Mr. Brady routine is just a front. The man is actually a tightly wound ball of futile energy and repressed urges. I think he only shaves his head to keep from tearing his hair out in frustration. After a while, his manic approach to life in general makes you want to push him down, sit on his legs and scream, "BE STILL!"
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Milla took three deep breaths as the elevator took her up to the penthouse. She knew she would have to step outside herself to do this job, way outside herself. She promised that she would be strong throughout, as this was her only choice and would be over in two weeks time.
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I step from the elevator onto the second floor of the city hotel. The corridor is empty, beige and clean cut like something lifted straight out of a seventies ideal home magazine. I adjust the black silk scarf as I walk along towards your room, trying to make it look casual. My brand new stilettos dig into the dense pile carpet and form a curious counterpoint to my low slung combat pants and white vest. I like the way the heels make me walk.
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He was sitting at his desk, exhausted from another long day at work. Tie loosened, his jacket thrown over the back of the chair, he looked as if he was ready to head home at any moment. And he was. Until his boss dropped another stack of files to go through. As if he didn't have enough to deal with already.
He was working well into the evening, when there was a knock at the door. Finding this strange, he called out for the person to enter.
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Every time I tried to bring up a Valentines Day date with Chris, somehow we ended up not discussing it. It wasn't that he changed the subject, not at all, but somehow I would look back ten minutes later and realize that we didn't talk about it. It was very sneaky of him, perhaps. Or maybe he just happened to be pretty scatterbrained lately.
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