My Dream Girl

His lips brushed against her neck, warm and teasing, before his teeth sank in just enough to make her gasp. A flick of his tongue chased away the sting, and a soft, involuntary moan escaped her. She reached for him, desperate to feel more. “No,” he snapped, voice sharp as steel. “Hands on the headboard. Don’t move them.” She shivered at the command. “You like that, don’t you, you naughty girl? You like it when I tell you exactly what to do.” “Yes,” she breathed. “I can’t hear you.” “Yes, Duke.” “Yes what?” “Yes, sir,” she replied, her voice trembling with pent-up desire. “Good girl.” His tone softened, but the authority in it didn’t fade. “At work, you’re in charge. But here—” his fingers teased over her skin “—you’re mine. Mine to touch…” He traced her n*****s, making her gasp. “Mine to kiss…” His lips brushed hers gently, contradicting the roughness of his words. “And mine to f**k however I damn well please. Isn’t that right, baby girl?” “Yes, sir.” “Good. Show me what’s mine—show me that pretty p***y you’ve been teasing me with all day.” Her cheeks flushed as she parted her legs slowly, self-conscious. “Wider,” he growled. “Good girl.” Charlene couldn’t believe how easily she’d surrendered control. Every nerve in her body was alive, buzzing, desperate. “Please…” she moaned. “Please what?” he asked, smirking. “Please make me come.” She tried to rub her thighs together to ease the ache. “Stop that,” he ordered, delivering a sharp slap to her thigh. “I’ll tell you when you can come. And since you’re not being a good girl, you don’t get to. Good girls get rewarded.” “I can’t stand it,” she pleaded. “Then we’re even,” he said, his hands roaming everywhere except where she needed them most. “You walked into that club in that tight dress and those f**k-me heels, making everyone want what’s mine.” His fingers plunged into her, and they both moaned. “God, baby girl, you’re soaked. Hot. Tight. Your greedy p***y’s milking my fingers already.” Her hips rose, seeking more. “That’s it—f**k my fingers,” he urged, picking up the pace. Wet, hungry sounds filled the room. “Damn, I have to f**k you. My c**k won’t forgive me if you come on my fingers.” He pulled them out, and her body followed involuntarily. “No…” she whimpered. “Damn, you taste so good.” He licked his fingers clean. “After I f**k you, I’m spending the whole day eating this sweet pussy.” Charlene’s eyes fluttered closed. “Keep them open, baby girl.” He shoved his jeans down, fisted his c**k, and tore open a condom with his teeth. “This pretty p***y is going to remember exactly who it belongs to.” “Yes, sir,” she answered eagerly. “Good girl.” Then… he started singing. Her ringtone. Charlene blinked. What the hell? “Wake up,” he said. With a smirk Charlene jolted awake, her phone buzzing against the nightstand. Her chest was heaving, her skin flushed, the echo of his voice—Duke’s voice—still in her ears. “Good girl…” She blinked, confused, then groaned as her ringtone cut through the haze of her dream. “Goddammit,” she muttered, fumbling for the phone. “Goddammit,” she groaned, snatching it up. “What does a girl have to do to get laid?” “Girl,” her best friend Sheena’s voice chirped through the line, “what’s got your panties in a twist?” “You woke me up,” Charlene muttered, rubbing her forehead. “Wait—you were still in bed?!” Sheena practically screamed. “Do you mind?” Charlene winced. “I’ve got a headache.” She shut her eyes again, still tasting the dream.As her drifted off to how it all started.Charlene had told Sheena no at least five times that afternoon. “No, I’m exhausted.” “No, I have work tomorrow.” “No, I’m too old for—” That was the one Sheena pounced on. “You’re not too old, Char. You’re thirty-three not dead. It’s your birthday, and I am not letting you spend it in bed with microwaved Thai food and another Grey’s Anatomy rerun. One drink. I’m buying.” And now, hours later, Charlene was in a club she had no business being in, clutching a glass of Merlot like it was her last shred of dignity. She didn’t belong here. Not in her pencil skirt and silk blouse, the leftovers of a twelve-hour day of back-to-back meetings. Sheena had forced a transformation—red lipstick, loose waves in her hair, and stilettos Charlene had sworn never to wear again. The place was alive—bass pulsing through the floor, bodies moving in rhythm, the scent of alcohol and sweat mixing in the air. Sheena had already made fast friends with the DJ, and before Charlene could finish half her wine, her best friend was dragging her toward the dance floor. “Sheena, no—” “Yes,” Sheena insisted, tugging her into the crowd. The music was loud, deep, vibrating in her bones. At first Charlene swayed stiffly, self-conscious in the mass of younger bodies. But Sheena knew how to coax her into letting go—spinning her, laughing, making her laugh too. Soon Charlene’s hips were moving with the beat, her hair brushing her shoulders, her pulse quickening—not from the dancing, but from the weight of a gaze. She felt it before she saw him. Across the room, leaning against the far wall, stood a man who didn’t belong here any more than she did. Worn leather jacket. Dark denim. A stillness that contrasted with the chaotic energy around him. His hair was a little too long, his beard just shy of unruly. The kind of man who didn’t need to move to take up space. And he was younger. Not boyishbno, nothing about him was soft but younger than her. Maybe thirty. Maybe less. His eyes were on her. Unblinking. Assessing. Charlene’s breath caught. She turned away, tried to focus on the music, on Sheena spinning in front of her. But every few seconds, she stole another glance. He hadn’t moved. He was just watching, beer bottle in hand, gaze slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the way her hips rolled with the beat.Duke’s eyes never left her—not while she danced, not while she laughed, not even when she pretended not to notice him. He was younger. She could tell from the smoothness in his smile, the cocky tilt of his head. He watched like a predator stalking it's prey When the song ended, she escaped to the bar, heart still thudding. Sheena stayed to dance, already lost in the crowd. Charlene took another sip of wine, telling herself to get a grip. She was imagining it. But then he was there. “You’ve been teasing me from across the room all night,” he said, voice low, rough, the faint rasp in it like a match being struck. “I haven’t said a word to you,” she replied, though her pulse betrayed her. “You didn’t have to.” His gaze swept over her slowly, lingering where the blouse dipped, then sliding back to her face. “That skirt says enough.” “It’s from the office,” she said, as if that explained anything. “It’s trouble,” he said, and for a moment, a slow grin tugged at his mouth. He leaned in just enough that she caught the scent of leather, faint motor oil, and warm spice. “You want to be touched,” he murmured, “but only by the right hands.” One drink turned into two, then three. Somewhere between them, she forgot about the office. She forgot about her age. She forgot about everything but the way he looked at her, like she was already naked. And then—The rest of the night blurred into heat and leather,The roar of his motorcycle swallowed her laughter as he drove her through the night, the city lights streaking past in a rush of wind and adrenaline. She clung to him, her cheek pressed to his back, the steady strength of him grounding her even as her world tilted. His apartment was nothing like she expected. Not a frat boy’s lair, but a space that felt lived-in, anchored—leather couch, stacks of books, the faint scent of coffee clinging to the air. They spent the night talking, discovering pieces of each other, and in between—touching. Learning. Exploring. The s*x was unlike anything Charlene had ever known—hungry, reverent, as if every kiss, every thrust, was both a question and an answer. When sleep finally claimed her, she felt more whole than she had in years. But in the morning, reality clawed its way back. She woke to soft sunlight spilling across tangled sheets, Duke’s arm heavy around her waist, his breathing steady against the back of her neck. For a long moment, she lay there, torn between the warmth of his body and the cold fear in her chest. What if he asked her to stay? What if she wanted to? She slipped from the bed quietly, heart pounding, and dressed in silence. One last look at his sleeping form—dark hair messy, lips parted, a faint frown even in rest—and she slipped out the door. Charlene told herself it was the right choice. But as the elevator doors closed, the echo of his voice haunted her. Good girl.