Her Yellow Summer Dress

He raises his eyebrows as his hand moves up and down his impressive length.

Really? So, that's what he does when he strokes himself. How incredibly fascinating. I am so turned on. I slam the book onto the shelf so angrily that all the other overpriced trade paperback copies of the book fall to the floor.

"That wasn't very nice," says the man behind me.

There's that word again

. Before I can turn around and shove the man away, he grabs my arms.

"Don't move," he growls.

"Take your filthy paws off me."

"Ask me nicely." He strokes my arm. A tantalizing slow, even stroke with his palm.

I pause. I glance at his hand on my arm. Firm, lean, masculine with a California tan.

He rubs the underside of my arm with his thumb, squeezes my arm, and strokes upward. His knuckles graze the side of my breast.

I jab my elbows into his ribs, taking him by surprise and knocking him off his feet, but he doesn't release my arms. I fall to the ground with him, the sharp corners of the books on the floor digging into my thighs and buttocks.

He drags me onto his lap, wraps his arms around me.

"You'll hurt yourself this way," he says.

"Let me go, damn it."

"Ask me nicely," he says again, this time closer, a whisper in my ear.

"No."

"No?"

Trying to break free, I wiggle on his lap.

He chuckles. "Do that again."

"No, let me go, perv."

"I like it when you protest." He breathes warmly on my neck. His breath smells minty like his aftershave. He nudges my hair aside with his chin, smooth from shaving this morning. He kisses my shoulder where it slopes up to my neck.

I don't want to be angry. Not with him. I lean back. I tilt my head. I close my eyes. His teeth lightly scrape my throat.

"Say it again."

"No." My refusal escapes my mouth in a whimper.

"See how easy it is."

His moist tongue flicks my neck. His lips softly clamp my neck where he licked it. He suckles, strokes my arm again. His other hand moves down my waist, takes hold of my inner thigh where it connects with my groin. I part my thighs slightly. He rubs my groin, strokes my crotch with his thumb, lightly. I squirm on his lap.

"I think I like this yellow summer dress the best. I can feel your panties through it. The one with the butterfly embroidery, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I like that one too."

He pulls me close so I can feel his erection at my back. I imagine him dressed in the navy polo shirt and crisp khaki slacks I ironed this morning, his brown leather loafers, the gold face of his Rolex pressing into my thigh. He is rubbing me more urgently now. I squeeze his hand with my thighs. I lean my head on his shoulder. I look into his eyes, light blue and pensive. I know he is thinking about where he can take me.

"Which part were you reading?" he asks.

"The part where he strokes his massive erection."

"You like that part."

"Not really."

"Do you want me to do that?"

"Only if you want to."

"You're so thin these days." He tucks a few strands of my hair over my ear. "But your hair looks healthy still. So glossy black and full of waves. You smell like raspberries today." He presses his lips to my shoulder again. "Let's go to the back, the warehouse I think should be okay."

He helps me to my feet and adjusts his fly. He holds my hand as we walk down the aisle. He stops at a table where a bookseller is assisting a customer and instructs the bookseller to fix the books I'd knocked off the shelf. Then, he leads me down the hall to the warehouse. I like the musty smell of books here, the pinewood from the crates. There is a draft from the air conditioner, which emits a low hum, and the quiet buzz of the fluorescent lighting.

He takes me to a room in the back filled with boxes and clipboards and inventory worksheets stacked on the desk. There is a dry erase calendar on the wall. It's the long worktable against the sidewall that he wants us to use. He closes the door behind us. He lays me down on the table. Its metallic surface makes me shiver. I feel like I'm in a doctor's office again. I don't like that feeling. I am angry all over again. My anger must have shown on my face, because he leans over to kiss me, warmly, gently. He's standing at the edge of the table. He hooks his hands under my knees, and pulls me closer to him, so that my ass is flush with his thighs.

He likes my dress because it has buttons on the top. He can touch my breasts without undressing me. All he has to do is unbutton the top, so he does. He lifts up my camisole, white with a butterfly embroidery like my panties. His hands are warm and firmly shape my breasts, kneading, plumping, and caressing them. He teases my nipples into tiny brown buds, and then, he curls his hands under my ribs and arches my back. I twine my fingers in his silky blond hair, spread my legs and hug his hips with my knees so I can feel his erection rubbing my crotch. I will miss this. I wish I could take it with me. My breath is short and quick now because he is nuzzling my breasts. His moist tongue flicks my nipple. His lips clamp my breast. He suckles. I whimper and grind my crotch against his dick.

"I want you to stroke it," I hear myself saying. My voice seems to ache. "I want to watch you stroke it. Do it for me."

He rises, unbuckles his belt, and lowers his pants and briefs. I raise myself up on my elbows. He wets his palm with his saliva. He starts at the base, makes a fist around his erection, and strokes up, slowly and firmly. His pubic hairs are soft and golden like the hair on his arms. His erection has fully distended his skin so that when his hand rises up his dick, his blood vessels trickle along the sides like rivers on a map. He is very hard now, and his head is glistening. He cups his head, kneads it the way he did my breasts, and strokes down. He is watching me as I watch him, but he doesn't speak. He strokes faster.

"I want you inside me now."

He takes off my panties and feels me up to make sure I'm wet enough. He grabs my ass and perches it at the very edge of the table. He pulls my ankles over his shoulders and strokes my thighs and calves, evenly, slowly, and firmly, and I know this is how we will fuck. This is what he wants. A slow, strong, controlled fuck. He holds his erection to my sex, but before he penetrates me, he grabs my hands.

"Don't look away," he says.

We fuck with our eyes open, eye to eye, holding hands, our hips in slow motion, like wading deep water.

"I like how tight you feel today," he says.

"I like how you feel too."

"How do I feel?" He kisses my ankle.

I think about it.

"Long and mighty like a river," I decide.

"I like that metaphor."

I can tell he likes it because his dick jerks inside me.

"I try," I say.

"I like that you try." He places my hand flat on my abdomen. The head of his erection pulses against the thin membrane of my belly. "I'm so deep inside you. Does it hurt?"

"A little."

He pulls back, lowers my ankles, and bends my knees under his arms. He climbs onto the table, and my knees fall to his hips. I lift them back up, lock my ankles around his waist. He enters me again.

"I think I'm going to make you come now," he says. "You're trembling and squeezing me so tight. I like how wet and warm you are today. You feel nice."

"That word again."

"You like it better when I say it."

"I like you better in every way."

"I like that you like me better." He kisses me again. "You're yummy today."

He is trembling slightly too, not from arousal but from all the other words that hurt to say.

I smooth away the sweat from his forehead. I kiss him on the cheek.

I wrap my arms around his neck. He's rocking me close, his arms beneath my ribs cushioning me against the hard metal table, his body heat sheltering me. Everything is happening quick now. Our whimpers and groans echo in the small office. He's saying my name, urging me on.

"Now," he says, the ache in his voice this time, "before it's too late."

I try hard to make it happen. I squeeze and move the way I want, and I focus on feeling all the wonderful ways he makes me feel. I hold him tight to my chest, and release. We come together, shuddering, and then, cry into each other's shoulders. He curls me into his embrace.

"I don't want you to go," he says.

"I don't want to go either."

"How is it some people can fake it so badly and get so much in return, but we only get one page?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'll always remember your yellow summer dress and the butterflies and the smell of your wavy black hair like raspberries."

"Then, all that matters is that you remember me."

He's flaccid now, but he doesn't let me go.

"Don't move," he says.

And for awhile, we stay still only to breathe the dying print of the musty books and the pinewood of the crates and our own body scents.

And his aftershave minty like wild eucalyptus on a riverbank.

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