You know the funny thing about selling people their dream homes? I spend all day walking through empty spaces, talking about potential, running my fingers along granite countertops, watching how the afternoon light falls across hardwood floors. And every single showing, every lockbox combination I punch in, every set of keys I jingle in my palm — my mind drifts back to you. I'll be standing in a million-dollar penthouse, the whole city glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows, and all I can think about is bending you over that marble island and watching your reflection in the glass.
Last night I got home after a fourteen-hour day, kicked off my heels — these black stilettos that make my calves look insane — and poured myself a glass of that Amarone I've been saving. I didn't even make it to the bedroom. I sank into my leather club chair, hiked my pencil skirt up to my hips, and slid my hand into my soaking wet lace panties. And I wasn't thinking about showings or commission checks. I was thinking about you. About what I'd do if you walked through my door right then, caught me spread open and desperate. I imagined grabbing you by the tie, pulling you down to your knees, and making you eat me out until my legs were shaking. I pictured riding your face while I fisted your hair, telling you exactly how to use that tongue, grinding against your mouth until I came screaming your name. My fingers were so deep inside myself I could hear the wet sounds across the room, and I kept going — faster, harder — imagining it was your hand wrapped around my throat, your cock pressing against my lips, you finally putting me in my place.
Here's the thing about being dominant in every other area of my life: I close million-hryvnia deals, I tell grown men where to sign, I walk into rooms and own them before I've said a word. But with you? I want to surrender. I want someone strong enough to take the reins, to bend me over my own mahogany desk, to make me forget my own name. I want to be the one gasping, the one begging, the one whose makeup is ruined because you fucked me so good I cried.
So come find me. I'm either at the office, legs crossed, pretending to care about escrow — or I'm at home, in nothing but those heels and an apron, waiting for you to walk through the door and collect what's yours. Don't keep me waiting, darling. I've been so, so patient.
