I Fuck Him With Style

Lily stabbed her pen against the contract. Client kept tugging at the cuff links like they personally insulted him. Five fittings, zero patience. Then he flashed that shark smile and told her the measurements she needed were inside his boxers. She set the clipboard down. Hard. For about five seconds she mentally fired him, then she mentally fired herself up instead. If the man wanted a strip show, she’d run it, her rules. She shoved him back onto the pedestal, climbed after him. Buttons popped like popcorn. She kept her stilettos on. He hit every inch of her throat, dark and heavy, tasting faintly of cedar aftershave, and she rode him like she was finishing an overdue argument. Each thrust drew a curse from her lips, short, sharp, satisfied. She used his thickness like a back-scratchier she finally located, grinding until her knees shook, until the bossiest stylist in the city got exactly the service she’d been charging for all along.