Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  By about a dozen smacks, she’s wet. So wet her enjoyment begins to coat her thighs. I point it out to her as I run my fingers across her slick pink ribbon of flesh, whispering that she should touch herself while I watch. I grab a couple of condoms from my wallet and strip off the rest of my clothes, because when this fuck is over, we’re going nowhere.

  The sight of her fingers working frantically between her legs is fucking epic and I almost forget why I’m standing here in nothing but latex and my birthday suit. Rousing myself, I place one knee on the bed, spreading hers wider, and as I press the head of my cock against her, she gasps.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I slide back and forth against her slickness, making both our legs weak. Her cheek is pressed against the bed, her eyes open and the colour of polished lapis. Pushing forward, I watch as my cock disappears into her body; a sight like nothing else.

  ‘I wish you could see what I see, titch. Daytime fucking has its definite perks.’ Hands against her hips, I slam into her that last inch, pushing myself to the hilt. Her reaction makes me want to pound her harder, faster. Shame this isn’t what I have planned.

  ‘This. Now this is something I’ll be thinking about again and again.’

  As I pull out almost to the tip, Fin’s eyes roll closed and she lets out the best fucking moan; sweet and desperate, her muscles clenching again as though to stop my retreat. With a snap of my hips, I slam back in, shunting Fin a little way across the bed.

  ‘You’re gonna make me come.’ Quicker than I’d like if she keeps on with the noises and internal gymnastics. ‘Make me come before I’m good and ready.’ I curl my body around hers as I whisper into her ear, sliding my palm down the length of her as I pull back . . . and smack her arse one more time. She yelps and then moans as I immediately slam back inside. ‘And if you do, I won’t be happy.’

  Though, seriously, what man isn’t ecstatic blowing their load?

  I seal my threat with a sucking kiss to the top of her spine.

  Slide out slowly. Rotate. Repeat. One of the best things about doggy is definitely the visual, watching your cock disappear into someone, inch by slow inch. And before that thought is fully formed, I’m pounding into her, again and again, not able to get close enough, and no longer capable of restraint. My hands are so tight on her hips, no doubt there’ll be bruising, but beneath me, Fin’s body responds in time with my own. I can feel the moment it happens, the moment she reaches her peak, her hands almost bloodless amongst the twisted sheets, her body rigid, her arse grinding into me as her muscles taunt and tease.

  I slide my hands under her body for leverage, her nipples hard against my palms, and in that moment, my thoughts are no longer sentient as need hits me like the sudden whip of a lash. I want to devour every soft inch of her; possess her body and mark it as mine. My movements are wild and frantic as I push inside her—deeper, harder—her sharp gasps and writhing body only increasing my sense of desperation. Despite my earlier protestations, it’s like I can’t get there quick enough, everything blurs at the edges, my focus drowned out by one thing. This orgasm, now barrelling through me thick and fast.

  Fuck me.

  I place my head against her shoulder as the white noise retreats, the sense of satisfaction almost overwhelming as I feel her pulsing around me. Her breasts are still in my hands, rising and falling with her rapid breath, my heart beating against the skin of her back as I try to catch my own. If I stand, my legs will be a wee bit wobbly; I can admit to myself, at least.

  ‘It was not quite a marathon, but no’ quite a sprint.’ My words are murmured into the soft skin of her neck. ‘And not bad for starters, at least.’ Her answer, when she makes it, makes me grin.

  ‘I take it that’s a reprieve for my ass?’

  Twenty-Four

  Fin

  It’s early morning and still dark as I wake, struck by a strange sense of longing yet a hazy sense of fulfilment. I’m warm, snuggled up in a comfortable bed and feeling pleasantly tangled, both in the physical and mental sense. It’s another day, but as I stir awake, it feels different somehow. I can’t recall the last time I’ve woken feeling so . . . content. As I stretch out, the sleepy haze covering me clears and a sense of what the fuck prevails, because it’s not only the bedding that moves with me, but also an arm settles solidly around my waist. A moment later the arm hauls me—and there’s no other word for it—against a warm, solid chest.

  And I suddenly remember I’m not alone in this bed.

  Oh, fuck. I’m not even in my own bed; the comfort factor should’ve been my first clue.

  Rory. Hell’s bells. Do I have no restraint when it comes to this man?

  The man in question rolls us both, pulling me until almost the entirety of my body is either against his chest or between his legs. And I’m not the only one that’s rigid, though in my case, I literally can’t move. Shocked, yes, but I couldn’t move if I tried, squashed tightly against an expanse of muscle and rock hard morning wood. Then wrapped like a mummy in strong arms, though barely any sheet.

  Echoes of yesterday begin to flit through my mind. And in between my legs. In the kitchen of the big house; here in this bed. I’m surprised I’m not in bits. But the whole situation is disturbing in so many other ways.

  Firstly, I’ve slept right through the night. Something I’m still only managing with the aid of sedatives. And I’ve slept a whole night without registering his presence—and I’m the lightest of sleepers, usually. And third, I’m not a cuddler, so why is it I’m wrapped around him like a pastry blanket around a pig?

  God, the situation is so surreal.

  Yes, so the minute I saw him on the beach, it probably meant I was going to fuck him. Again. I hadn’t meant to. Okay, I probably had, but I hadn’t planned on staying, going as far as to plan my exit around the early morning tide times, even if this meant I’d sort of be leaving him in my place. Wouldn’t I?

  Stupid waking fail.

  Tentatively, I move my arms slowly, pushing up onto one palm and one forearm either side of his waist. The bed dips a little and I freeze. Not that I’m trying to creep out—I don’t think—especially as it looks like I’ll be seeing him again.

  Okay, so maybe I won’t be seeing as much of him as I am right now.

  What I mean is, I guess I’ll be seeing more of him fully clothed.

  Working.

  Not that seeing him right now isn’t good.

  In fact, there’s an awful lot of goodness to see.

  From my precarious position, my eyes track up his body, not quite reaching as far as planned. Blame his stomach, not mine; the fact that he’s all hard ridges and muscles, and that his chest is impossibly firm. I know I shouldn’t let my gaze venture further down . . .

  None of these observations are new, all being discovered by both sight and clutching fingertips, but seeing the splendour all over again is a bit like Christmas in July. A wonderfully abundant second chance.

  He has a total gym god bod. As well as the appropriate muscle mass, he has that light golden tan those gym worshippers all seem to sport, only his body has more colour by way of a tattoo gun. Black and red images swirl up both arms and one shoulder; a great deal of it Día de Muertos designs; skulls and luxurious haired women, swirling ribbon and flowers, from what I can tell. It’s sort of mad, yet beautiful at the same time.

  My original intention sidelined, my gaze makes a snail’s progression to his face as I take mental snapshots of this canvas, while delighting in sensory memories of last night. Of he and I.

  Cursive script curls around his neck and shoulder, winding around to his back. Even craning my neck, his position is such that I can’t quite tell what it says. Though I’m more than curious. His hair is dishevelled just enough for a photo shoot, his sharp jaw covered in a sandy stubble heavier than last night, and his cool grey eyes are open—open!

  ‘Oh, f—fudge.’

  He doesn’t look fully awake, now rubbing the back of one hand across his brow while his other grabs a hand
ful of the ass that it’s resting on. That would be my ass. His mouth opens suddenly, flashing a set of white teeth as he makes a noise someplace between a growl and a yawn as his lower body pushes upwards against me.

  ‘Mornin’, titch.’ His voice, thick with sleep and disuse, rumbles against me; warm morning wood twitching against my skin. Maybe less like a pig in blanket and more like a baseball bat.

  And, holy shit, fully hard, I mean, awake now.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ I’m reminded of my position; I may be plastered against him, but I’m also in a sort of half push-up position. ‘Or are you thinking of getting on again?’

  ‘Getting it on again?’ I repeat, engaging in a brain-to-mouth function fail.

  ‘Getting on it.’ His gaze flicks down, my own following, my next words addressed to his dick.

  ‘I really don’t think I can.’ Regretful, much?

  ‘Aye?’ My gaze tracks back up his body to where one eyebrow quirks. ‘Why is that, then?’

  Is there a polite way of citing overuse? I open my mouth, think better of it, closing it again, opting instead to come down from my push up position, leaning awkwardly on my forearm instead. So, not intentional—no, really—but somehow I’ve ended up almost eye to, erm, eye with not-so-little-Rory.

  ‘Option three it is then?’

  ‘B—but you can’t possibly be hard?’ I stutter incredulously. We had a lot of sex last night. A loooot of sex. And though I have slept, prior to that revelation, it seemed as though only moments would pass before one of us would reach out to the other during our drowsing and the heat between us would flare again. How on earth can he be ready again?

  ‘Tell him that.’ My eyes follow the low path of Rory’s gaze and he exhales a sultry chuckle. My insides flip, as does the notion of being unable to go another round.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly.’ Could you? ‘I don’t think I even can.’ Even as I say this, my gaze flicks once more between his face and . . . well, you know . . .

  ‘No?’ he purrs, one finger lifting my chin, making me pink in the face. ‘I know he’s an eyeful, but pay attention.’ Again with the smirk! ‘How about . . . I make it nice. Real sweet.’

  Along with my resistance, I feel the marrow in my bones melt. It’s not that I think he really means it, because he hardly went easy all night, which suited me surprisingly well. What turns me to goo is that he wants me still. Even if it is just for my body and just for now. And just for the record, I’m also good with this. And that satin sleek length protruding between us? That’s because of me. And all for me. It’s just a case of channelling the little red engine, isn’t it? I think I can, therefore I’m good to go again?

  At this rate, my channel will end up a little red, anyway.

  I think my dignity must’ve gone on vacation overnight.

  ‘So sweet,’ he murmurs, sliding both hands under my arms to pull me upwards against him. Almost face to face now, my eyes flutter closed as I anticipate the feeling of his lips against mine, opening suddenly as he flips us both.

  ‘Oh!’

  Pushing me against the pillows, Rory begins sliding downwards; placing soft kisses against my skin.

  ‘Oh—don’t. I mean—’ Ohh, yesss. ‘But, no. I—’ Oh my God, if he’s heading where I think he is—surely not after last night. Marcus would only go . . . down if I’d recently showered and never after sex.

  ‘Shh,’ he whispers, taking my nipple between his lips and sucking softly before, sure enough, moving further south. As he settles himself between my legs, he holds his palms against my thighs, spreading my conflicted legs wider, his wicked gaze rolling up my body to meet my own. ‘I’ll kiss it all better.’ His tone is laced with husk and honey. ‘I promise.’

  ‘But I’m all—’

  My words halt immediately as the point of his tongue delicately grazes my clit. I’m down. Oh, I’m definitely down for that now.

  ‘What was that, darlin’?’

  I moan loudly as his tongue flicks out again; curling my fists under the pillow, I fight my body’s urge to push up into his face.

  ‘Yeah, I thought that’s what you’d said.’

  Even as my mind tells me that this surely can’t be pleasant for him, my hips rise of their own accord to meet the breath he blows across my centre.

  ‘Anybody ever tell you you’ve a very pretty pussy, Fin?’

  My heart pounds.

  At how he’s addressing that part of my anatomy.

  At the flash of memory those words bring.

  At the thoughts of the secrets I’m not sharing.

  But as his tongue flicks out, simultaneously sliding two long fingers inside, all my thoughts turn heavenwards.

  ‘Oh, my fucking god.’ Well, sort of.

  His broad, flat tongue presses harder, his lips fastening over my clit. The feeling is so intense against my sensitive flesh, my hips almost spring from the bed.

  ‘A very pretty pussy. Pink and gorgeous. And wet.’ His words are half growled against my slick flesh as his fingers work slowly in and out. ‘And do you know what this pussy tastes of?’ he asks, swiping the length of me with his tongue.

  ‘Unpleasantness,’ I mumble, folding the corner of the pillow over my face. I think it might have been a rhetorical question as he bites the soft flesh of my inner thigh. ‘Ow!’

  ‘No, this pussy tastes of you. And of me. Of last night. Of fucking.’

  I moan again at the rawness of his tone, the noise taking on an edge as his fingers slip away, replaced by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses me as he would my mouth; soft lips and sweeping tongue, interspersed with sucks and lengthy licks until there isn’t a thought left inside my head, let alone a protest. His actions are more intense than sweet but more pleasure than pain, and just about perfect. As he begins thrusting his fingers inside me again, my hips almost levitate off the mattress, his tongue working my clit with long licks.

  Fingers sliding and curling.

  Lips and tongue pressing and pulling—and the sounds.

  His growling and sucking.

  Wet fingers.

  My moans filling the air.

  The feeling that builds is so intense I strive to close my legs, prevented by his reprimanding grunt. I can’t keep still, my orgasm rolling around inside me like balls of silvery mercury. Pushing up onto my elbows I look down at him, it seems impossible that I can feel more, yet the sight of his dishevelled chestnut coloured head bent between my legs—the sight of a bird’s wing moving as though in flight, yet inked to his shoulder and neck—pulls me closer, my orgasm rolling closer, inch by inch.

  That Rory must sense this is both a blessing and a curse as his fingers begin to pump harder and he fastens his mouth over my clit.

  I either black out or blank out, I’m not sure which, the only thing I’m aware of is that I’m coming hard, and that I’m noisy with it.

  ‘Ohgodohfuckoh . . . Rory!’

  Fireworks—stars—cloud my vision as I collapse boneless against the bed. Over my heaving chest, Rory appears to be climbing my body, a moment later his face is level with mine.

  ‘Sweet.’ He kisses my forehead and twists to the nightstand to retrieve a condom, but whether sweet refers to his supposed gentleness or is in some way a reference to me, I don’t know. And I won’t be able to ask until I regain the power of speech again.

  Condom in place, he rolls to face me, absently wiping the back of his hand against his glistening mouth. I’m suddenly struck by how obscenely beautiful he is; massive and manly and wickedly gorgeous, his mouth and chin glistening. It’s a fleeting thought, dispelled as he slides lower and I tense, anticipating the sting as he settles between my legs.

  A sting that doesn’t come.

  Collectively, our eyes roll closed as Rory glides forward, pushing himself deep inside. My mind switches gears, my body responding as his hips rock, his palms flattened against the mattress either side of my head. Our movements are slow and unhurried. To begin with, at least, until Rory notches this whol
e show up a gear. With solid thrusts and low grunts, he gives me it all, the room filling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, sharp breaths and moans. I curl my legs around his back as though to draw him closer, desperate for this not to end as those large hands slip under my body, holding me where he needs as he pounds me solidly.

  ‘You like that,’ he growls against the skin of my throat.

  Oh, I do. Seriously, I do, but can only answer in a hoarse, ‘Yes!’

  ‘Nice is it?’ I can hear the amusement in his words.

  ‘Fuck nice,’ I pant.

  ‘Oh, I think I am.’

  Smart words elude me from here on in as I’m coming harder than a freight train. His hands grab my ass tighter, pulling me into him, his rasping breath at my ear as he grinds hard into me.

  And into me.

  ‘Oh, God—that’s, fuck!’ Rory’s movements become halting and jerking, before his whole body is suddenly rigid and tense . . . but for the one piece of his body pulsing inside my own. The sounds he makes as I instinctively tighten around him . . . I could listen to on a loop.

  It seems as though dawn begins creeping across the room moments later, both our bodies limp from climax overload. I’m too tired to even begin to think about moving, though concede this is a pretty awesome way to start the day.

  Twenty-Five

  Fin

  I wake for the second time today, the sound of the shower narrowing my options to two choices as far as I can tell. Option one is a repeat of last time: leave before he returns, probably all dripping wet and gorgeous, pretending I don’t have intimate knowledge of this man.

  Option two is to behave like a grown up: wait until he returns, all dripping wet and gorgeous. Be civil, though resist him, and tell him this can’t possibly happen again.