Page 88 of Obedience

Greta dropped her head, her lips pursing around a smile as she almost physically felt Dylan’s gaze rake over her. The twisted-by-design black dress, cinched her waist and complemented her curves. Her calves were prominent in killer black heels, and her full, glossy waves fell over her shoulders. She felt as incredible as she looked.

A low vibration of excitement hummed in Greta’s core at the sound of Dylan approaching. Without a word, Dylan gathered Greta’s hair, gently moving it over one shoulder before pressing her mouth onto the warm skin of Greta’s exposed neck, and placing a kiss where her lips landed. Dylan’s breaths landed in hot puffs on Greta’s skin before she drew in a long breath, inhaling the scent of Greta’s Chanel perfume.

‘You look and smell fucking sensational,’ Dylan whispered against her skin, as goosebumps erupted over Greta's back.

A gasp escaped Greta’s throat as Dylan slowly pressed her pelvis into her from behind. The destabilising force of the contact pushed Greta forward, her hands flying to the door for balance.

‘Are you…?’ Greta inhaled sharply. ‘Are you strapped?’

Dylan didn’t speak. Instead, she performed another slow rock of her hips, pushing the dildo concealed in her trousers into Greta’s arse.

‘That’s the last time you speak,’ Dylan instructed. Her tone—and the sudden realisation of what was about to happen—already had Greta wildly turned on. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Greta replied softly.

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes Dyl–’

‘Miss St John,’ Dylan corrected.

‘Miss St John,’ Greta echoed, her tone sexy and amused as she bit back a smile.

With Dylan’s body flush against hers, Greta tilted her hips back. Wanting to give as good as she was getting, she slowly slid her arse along the vertical strap.

‘Fuuuck,’ Dylan breathed. It was very obvious to Greta that whatever Dylan had planned was likely to come apart due to Dylan’s weak will when it came to her. ‘Keep your—’ Dylan started, but Greta pushed again, her grind slow and insistent. She pressed her hands into the door, finding the leverage to push back with force. Two strong hands suddenly clamped onto Greta’s hips. ‘Keep your arse still,’ Dylan demanded, though Greta suspected that what she really wanted was to pull her dress up and fuck her against the door.

‘I’m sorry. Miss St John,’ Greta’s smugness carried on her tone, knowing all too well the allure she held for Dylan.

The heat of Dylan’s breaths landed heavily on Greta’s neck as her flat palms and outstretched fingers ran firmly down her thighs, seeking the hem of her dress. Greta could feel Dylan’s gaze over her shoulder, watching as her chest heaved, the fabric of her dress rising and falling with each breath, every exhalation laden with want. Agonisingly slow, Dylan slid the dress over Greta’s hips, choking back a groan as her fingers ran over Greta’s exposed naked flesh. Pressing her forehead against the back of Greta’s head, Dylan’s desire seemed to almost consume her completely.

Dylan quietly cleared her throat. ‘Do you want me to fuck you against every wall in this room?’

‘Fuck. I do,’ Greta whined. ‘I need you inside me, Dyl—’

‘Are you wet?’ Dylan whispered into Greta’s hair, running her flat palms over Greta’s naked arse.

Greta widened her stance ever so slightly, defied the newly imposed rule and tipped her hips towards Dylan.

‘I’m fucking soaked,’ she breathed, pushing back to seek the much-needed pressure and friction of Dylan’s pelvis and hidden strap.

Much to Greta’s dismay, Dylan denied her the contact, slowly pulled down her dress and took half a step back. She leaned forward to bring her mouth to Greta’s ear and whispered, ‘You’d better clean yourself up, Doctor Vincent.’

‘What?!’ Greta choked, bereft beyond words at the loss of Dylan’s touch and violent change in direction. She dragged her hands down the door before turning to face Dylan.

‘We’ve got a table booked downstairs in fifteen minutes,’ Dylan said, unable to hide the amusement in her voice.

‘At The French? Strapped and commando? What the actual fuck, Dyl—’

‘Miss St John,’ Dylan interrupted, her sing-song voice an octave higher, a wry smile on her lips. Shaking out a leg, Dylan pinched at the fabric in her crotch, while dipping to reposition the strap in her trousers. ‘I’ll wait here while you use the bathroom.’ Dylan jutted her jaw toward the bathroom door. ‘Old times’ sake.’

‘I have no fucking underwear on, Dylan, I can’t—’

‘I knooow. How hot is that?’

Greta stared at Dylan with a look of pure incredulity. ‘Are you being serious?’ Unsure herself if she was angry or amused.

Dylan tongued the inside of her cheek and gave a cocked smile as she checked her watch. ‘We now have thirteen minutes, so,’ she warned, clapping twice to the words, ‘chop chop!’