He’s a good man.

I love watching him, from across the room, sipping my champagne. He’s in the midst of a small crowd, grandly gesturing as he always does with his own champagne. I can tell, even from here, that his audience is rapt. Because, well, he’s a good man. And it doesn’t hurt that’s he’s a handsome man, clean cut in that boy next door all grown up kind of way. His tie is loose—even though I knotted it myself before we came here—and his hair is mussed, but that only shows his enthusiasm for his topic. His volunteer work landed him a spot on the board of two different charities. He’s the first to whip out his checkbook, first to tell you, no really, he’d love to see the photos of your skiing trip, first to volunteer his truck to help you move. He’ll make you feel like the center of attention when you speak, his wide eyes fixed on you, nodding to your every word. He’s young and outgoing and kind. He’s almost too good to be true, this man of mine, except it’s all genuine. He really does care.

I catch his eyes on mine and raise my glass to him in a toast. We’re at one of his charity galas, and I’m in a tight black dress that he loves—I saw his eyes darken when he saw me come downstairs, sliding gold hoops into my ears, but by then we were almost late so he restrained himself to a quick squeeze of my ass. I wished we had more time as well, the lust pooling in my stomach when I saw him in his suit, but I followed him out the door like a good girl.

But I can’t help myself. He pauses to take his jacket off, and oh lord, he rolls up his shirtsleeves. I bite my lip and try to focus on the canapes.

He runs his hand through his hair, still excitedly talking, and I chart every muscle and vein in his forearms. God, he really is a good man.

I slip my phone out of my clutch.

You look so damn good, I send to him.

Across the room, I watch him take his phone out—he’ll always answer my texts—and tap a reply.

You’re killing me in that dress, sweetheart.

I smile to myself, but that’s not quite the reaction I wanted.

how about out of that dress?

I see the bubbles of his response but I don’t wait for him before I send my next message.

No words. Just a picture of me, lacy bra with one strap hanging off my shoulder, my fingers resting just above my panties.

I wonder if his audience notices the slight widening of his eyes, the barest intake of breath.

I don’t relent.

There’s another picture, captured with my camera timer, me on my hands and knees, back arched, showing off my ass.

The response comes immediately: Watch yourself, honey.

I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles mingling deliciously with the lust in my center.

Another pic: bra off, panties off, my legs spread, fingers plunged inside me.

Back room. Now.

He glances over at me, smiling, and I’m sure everyone around him is thinking what a nice, wholesome young man he is.

I know the room he’s referring to; we passed it on our way in, and I joked that it would be the perfect place to fuck. It’s a single stall bathroom with a lock, hidden in a back hallway, away from the crowds.

I am almost feverish with lust, but I set my champagne flute down and walk as slowly as I can out of the ballroom. But I can’t resist swaying my hips as I pass his group.

The bathroom is empty, as I thought, and I glance at myself in the mirror, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. He enters a minute later.

“On your knees. Now.”

I raise my eyebrows, but the look in his face stops me from protesting. Obediently, I sink to my knees. His motions as he unbuckles his belt are rushed and sloppy, and I can’t help but feel a flush of victory.

But that sense of victory is gone as he roughly shoves himself into my mouth. I grip the back of his legs as he fists my hair, forcing my head to bob up and down on his cock. He moans, loosening his grip just a bit, and I take this opportunity to swirl my tongue along the length of his shaft. God, he’s glorious. I tease him, flicking the underside of my tongue over his sensitive tip, and he growls in response. But the heat between my legs is growing and growing. I want him inside me so bad, it hurts.

“Please,” I whimper.

He considers me, pulling on my hair to compel me to look up at him. Gently, he strokes a piece of my hair out of my face.

“I thought this was what you wanted when you sent me those pictures, sweetheart.”

“I did,” I gasp. “I do. But I also want you inside me.”

“Show me how much you want me, baby,” he says, and I can be good for him. I worship his cock with my lips, my tongue, and when his fingers tighten in my hair, I know he’s close. He grips my hair, thrusting into my face, and groans as he comes.

I pull back and look up at him. “Please?” I ask. I wanted his cock inside me but I’d settle for his fingers, or god, that glorious tongue of his.

I think I see the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Stand up,” he says, and I scramble to my feet.

“Hands on the sink,” he says. I obey, planting my hands on either side of the sink, and arch my back, quivering with lust and anticipation. I hear the clink as he fastens his belt buckle.

He lifts my skirt, and I think I could combust.

“Count to twenty,” he tells me.

What?

“What?” I say, indignant, but that’s cut off with a smack to my exposed ass.

“Baby girl,” he says, “what did you expect? Teasing me like that? And then I see that you’re not wearing any panties?” He yanks my hair, hard, and I see myself in the mirror, eyes wide, cum on my mouth. “Count to twenty.” His voice is low and rough.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “One.” He spanks me, the impact shuddering through me. “Two”, I gasp, and there’s another, and another. Any pause in my counting is met with another smack that I’m not foolish enough to count for the twenty. At the same time, with each spank, I grow wetter and wetter.

“Eighteen,” I pant. Smack. “Nineteen.” Smack. His face in the mirror behind me is determined, and there’s satisfaction in his eyes as he observes my rapidly reddening cheeks.

I can barely think, all thoughts lost except for my own boiling desire and the throbbing in my ass. He seizes on this pause and spanks me hard until I’m pleading for mercy.

“One more, baby” he says, and I gasp out the word.

“Twenty.” Smack.

“Was that what you wanted, honey?” he says softly. I am writhing with lust. He slips a finger inside me.

“Oh, honey, you’re soaking wet.”

“Please, sir,” I pant. I don’t think I can go another second without release.

“Hmm?” he says.

“Please, sir, please fuck me, touch me, something.” I lift my eyes up to the mirror, and he raises his eyebrows.

“Get yourself cleaned up, sweetheart,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his tie, and leaves the bathroom, looking infuriatingly put together.

I am a mess. I rinse out my mouth and examine my ass in the mirror. Bright red. I know, I know I will pay for this later, but I can’t help myself. I touch myself, gripping the sink with the other hand, as I circle my clit with my fingers. I come quickly, hard.

I catch my breath, the aftershocks rippling through me. I brush my hair and pin it back. I wash my hands, twice, and rub lavender-scented lotion on them to cover what I just did. I wash my mouth out then swipe on lipstick, my hand still trembling.

The party is a dull roar around me when I return. I grab another glass of champagne, my bottom smarting underneath my dress. I make polite conversation, like I didn’t just have my lips around his cock or my ass thoroughly spanked.

I catch his eye, and he makes a polite exit from his conversation and makes his way towards me. Ever so well-mannered. As if he wasn’t just thrusting himself down my throat or reddening my ass.

“May I have this dance?” he asks me. I consider teasing him, but I don’t trust myself. I step closer to him and place my hand in his. His other hand rests gently at my waist, and we sway to the movement. I catch his scent—musky and spiced like his cologne. He must’ve freshened up elsewhere after he left me in the bathroom.

“Lavender,” he muses, and my heart seizes.

“Lavender?” I murmur.

“Your hand lotion, I think,” he says. He looks me up and down. “What did you do after I left you, honey?”

“My hands were dry,” I say, but my body knows that he knows, and despite it all, the anticipation is delicious.

“And hand soap,” he continues. “Too strong. That was your mistake.”

“Oh,” I say, prey beneath his gaze.

“Hmm,” he says. “I fear that you didn’t learn your lesson, hon. I think we’ll have to continue once we get home.”

Oh, he is a good man indeed.