I’d been turned on all day and cried out at his touch, gasping when his fingers found me, stroking and petting, his thumb rubbing my clit and working two fingers inside me, already soaked. My back arched, trying to get closer to him, my hips riding his fingers.

Panting and chanting, I came hard and fast, my legs trapped inside my jeans, unable to do anything but ride the orgasm, totally at his mercy.

Before the first one ended, he was already chasing a second. Kneeling in front of me, he slipped my heels from my feet, pausing to admire the four inches of red leather Prada I’d been prancing around in all day.

“You wore these to tease me today, didn’t you? Don’t lie,” he chided, tugging my jeans over my hips, watching my breasts bounce, having been liberated from my white lace bra only moments earlier.

“I wore these for me. I love these shoes, and I love what happens to me when I wear them.”

“And what is that?” he asked, pulling my jeans off and sliding his hands up the inside of my thighs.

“When I wear shoes like this, I get fucked,” I whispered, trailing my fingers over my breasts, the tips still sensitive from his mouth and his teeth.

“And how do you like to get fucked?” he asked, slipping his hands underneath the bands on my hips, pulling my panties down along my legs, nuzzling the outline of where they had just been.

“Hard,” I moaned, as he kissed the soft mound just above my clit—his favorite pillow, he’d once told me. “And filthy.”

His lips found mine, spearing me with his tongue, licking and sucking, burying his face as my back arched once more. Lifting his head, he circled my clit with his tongue, still so sensitive but so receptive to everything he was doing. He knew my body like his own. “Tall ceilings.”

“What?” I panted, confusion clouding through the delicious things he was doing.

“You’ve got tall ceilings,” he told my skin, his hands sliding up the backs of my legs to grab my ass, pushing me harder into his face.

“Ten feet. They don’t make them like this . . . oh Christ . . . anymore,” I managed with a groan as he lifted his face once more. “Stop doing that! Get back down there.”

“Hold on to my shoulders,” he said, and before I knew what was happening, I was airborne. Oscar lifted me straight up into the air, pushed me up against the door once more, and wrapped my legs around his shoulders. Now, eye level with his favorite pillow, he grinned.

“Hold on to something,” he instructed.

My head was practically bumping the ceiling. As I scrambled to get my fingers latched on to the thick crown molding, he held me in place and fucked me with his tongue until I was shaking.

While I was seeing stars, he gave the insides of each of my thighs a bite, then slid me down his body, took us both to the floor, setting me on top of him, legs astride.

“Get my zipper, would you?” he asked, lying back with his arms tucked behind his head, a giant grin on his face.

“As you wish, Caveman,” I replied gleefully, unzipping and bringing him forth. He groaned as I stroked him, marveling once more at how perfect he was, how perfect he felt in my hands. I still felt a little dizzy, but he was so very hard and so very ready, and I really did deserve another . . .

I lifted up, positioned him at the center of the world, and sat down, hard. We both gasped, me from feeling him stretch me inside, so big, so thick, so exactly right. I lifted my hips just a little, squeezing him from inside as he hissed and I got to watch his eyes close in bliss.

He bit down on his lip, his hands squeezing my hips, urging me to move, to do something, anything. But still, I waited.

I wanted to move. He wanted me to move. And I waited. I waited until I was almost panting, almost out of breath from sheer want and need. And then I threw my head back and began to ride.

I rode him long and hard, exactly the way I wanted to. My hair had come unpinned, and it spread out all around me, hanging down long in the back, and I could feel it tickling my backside. Could he feel it? Could he feel it as it danced along his thighs, as I gave myself over to everything I was feeling, to that moment where everything boiled down to feeling him deep inside?

His hands were everywhere. On my hips, encouraging deep thrusts. On my breasts, rolling my nipples, cupping and kneading and mmm, pinching. On my ass, slapping and squeezing and grabbing handfuls of me, pushing me faster and faster, higher and higher.

His eyes wandered over my naked skin, thrilling to the sight of my breasts bouncing and my hands running lightly over my body.

And he smiled as I rode him. He told me how beautiful I was, how gorgeous I was, how good I tasted, and he used dirty, filthy words like those fucking tits and come all over my cock and that sweet cunt.

And when his thrusts came faster and harder, he guided my hands down to where we were joined and told me to touch myself, to make myself come just I had that morning, with my fingers imagining his cock.

And when I came, he came. Just like that.

“We missed dinner.”

“How’s that?”

I bumped my hips, causing him to lift his head from my tush. “We missed dinner—I had a reservation at Mateo’s.”

He looked at his watch. “How late are they open? We could run right now.” He laid his head back down, not motivated to move anywhere anytime soon.

I smiled at the sight of him, his head on one cheek and his hand rubbing the other. He really did love my bum. “You can’t just waltz into Mateo’s; their reservation list is a mile long. I made this weeks ago.”

“Weeks ago? We didn’t know each other weeks ago.”