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“Take off your clothes.”

Ellen shivers at Patty’s directive, at the intensity of her tone. It’s the same tone she uses when she tells clients to cut the bullshit. There is no room for negotiation. It’s always been a turn on to hear it, something Patty knows and uses to her advantage.

Patty is, of course, still fully dressed, lying on her side on the bed. She is propped up on her elbow and her legs are crossed at the ankle. She looks simultaneously relaxed and alert, waiting for Ellen to comply. Her eyes are piercing in the way they watch her. There’s an edge too -- a warning that Ellen will regret not doing as Patty tells her. There’s a part of Ellen -- the part that has been nurtured by Patty herself -- that wants to push back, to say no, to stand up to Patty. She wants to refuse her, just once, to find out what would happen.

Ellen knows better than to try this when Patty is in this particular mood (which she often is). She’ll be rewarded handsomely with an abundance of pleasure if she gives Patty what she wants, and so she reaches behind her and unzips her shirt. The wool pools at her feet.

Patty’s eyes never leave her body.

Ellen’s fingers take their time with the buttons of her blouse, making slow work of easing each pearl through its hole to part the fabric. The blouse joins her skirt on the floor, and Ellen’s skin erupts with goosebumps at the weight of Patty’s gaze raking over her slender form. She can tell by the way Patty’s eyes darken that she appreciate the carefully chosen burgundy lingerie, moving from the lacy cups of her bra to the scant scrap of fabric of her underwear to the hip-hugging kiss of her garter belt. Ellen had dressed carefully that morning, knowing that she’d be in Patty’s townhouse that evening, entering into a sexual game of cat and mouse. One day she will be the cat; she watches Patty as closely as Patty watches her, studying her, learning her, committing her to memory. She will turn the tables on the older woman, but not yet, not now when just Patty’s gaze could destroy her.

“Come,” Patty commands, and Ellen does. There isn’t enough room beside her and so Ellen straddles her, her nylon-clad calves framing Patty’s hips. Patty is wearing a pale, powder blue skirt that makes her look like the icy thaw of winter. That’s Patty, isn’t it? Sharp, frozen edges that only sometimes melt for something that truly makes her hot -- and Ellen makes her hot.

It’s only a moment before Patty rolls them over, settling herself between Ellen’s parted thighs. It always surprises Ellen to feel the scorching, intense heat that Patty emanates.

When Patty leans down to claim Ellen’s mouth in a bruising kiss, Patty keeps her eyes open. Ellen has always found this both unsettling and arousing -- to be watched so closely when she herself feels completely vulnerable sends a frisson of pleasure and discomfort down her spine. She tries to match her gaze, to watch her right back, but the pleasure is too intense -- Patty has a wicked tongue -- and so she closes her eyes and gives in completely.

Patty works her way slowly down Ellen’s body, pausing to nip at her breasts and belly with too sharp teeth and those cold, lust-filled eyes. As she settles between Ellen’s legs, merely pulling aside the damp scrap of fabric to expose her swollen, aroused sex, Ellen opens her eyes.

The sight of Patty staring at her, flushed and panting with want for Ellen, makes her feel like she could completely come apart. She has never felt so wanted, and she has never felt so completely consumed as she does when Patty strokes her tongue hard against Ellen’s clit.

All the while, Patty stares.

That fucking gaze will annihilate her.