“I promise not to spill anything on you,” he said, and I could hear the laughter in his voice.I accepted his invitation, and had a delightful time. He was a perfect gentleman, never gave a hint that he expected anything other than a pleasant lunch between two acquaintances.We talked about many things; the most interesting was when he spoke about his grandparents’ time in the internment camps during World War Two. I was ashamed to admit to only having a passing knowledge of that time, and was amazed at his lack of bitterness.“I’ll admit to some anger when my parents and grandparents first told me about it,” he said, “but the experience only made them more determined to be good Americans, to make sure that if a similar situation presented itself, that there could be no doubt where their loyalties lay.”I was touched; I wondered if I could be so noble if my family had been treated that way.We had lunch several more times, as much as two or three times a week, and I found myself being. More surprisingly, having the silk manipulated against her skin was quietly tantalizing.As their kissing became more frantic, she reached down to grasp his hardness once more, while his hand moved down from her breast to trace over the curve from waist to hip, and he broke the kiss to murmur, “Such a sensual gown.”With her fingers roaming up and down his rigid member, Emma wondered whether he needed telling that she had skin that was equally sensual. She caught her breath as his hand traced over her flat belly and his fingers, for a second time, pushed the silk of her gown into the softness of her wet crease.Don’t mark my gown, she was about to cry when both of his hands moved in unison to the top of her silk-covered thighs and began rubbing them up and down.For Emma it was again, a pleasant sensation, having silk rubbed against her skin, but she wanted his skin on hers. Then she realised that, with each upward movement, Chris was, in fact, raising her skirt higher, gradually.
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