But Raylene had pressed forward, legs parted so I could reach my hand between her buttocks and stroke and pet her cunt. And she’d pushed her body hard up against mine so she could feel my cock, solid evidence that she was exciting me. And it wasn’t so long since I’d given her inner thigh a smack and she’d understood that that was an order to part her legs, and she’d obeyed.
I’d loved that little moment of obedience, and everything I could read in her told me that she’d been excited by it too. The act of sliding her right foot across a bit of kitchen floor, just a little to the right, had somehow taken on immense sexual promise and significance. Because it was submission.
I’d been about to back off and apologise. But I felt sure that that couldn’t be what she wanted. So I went with instinct, knowing that I could easily be turning this moment of awkwardness into something genuinely bad: a creepy man trying to bully a woman. I said, in the command voice, “Raylene. I’m going to take this jersey off. So lift your arms up. Now, girl.”
So that was unmistakably what it was, and if I was wrong there was no going back, except for apologising and leaving.
I’d hoped my voice would come out sort of Cary Grant-ish at that moment. Firm, but also light and charming, that was the tone I was hoping for.
I didn’t manage Cary Grant. Too much was at stake, and my voice emerged, treacherously, in a sort of hollow-throated growl. It can’t have sounded at all attractive.