“You’re hard.” It’s my best, stuttered response to the effect of his masculinity assaulting me without physical touch. He is. It’s all hard. I drop my eyes from his amused smirk and look back down at the stomach in front of me. There’s not an inch of fat. Anywhere. Sinews and veins erupt from his skin, lining routes to that abdominal V we all like to put down in our books. The fuck contour as some describe it. All roads lead to it, apparently.
He watches me for a second or two, his eyes purely focused on mine and calmly searching me for something. It makes me feel insecure immediately, reminding me of wobbly bottoms and lips that don’t fit my own bloody face. I look down, flicking my eyes back at my paper for a safer place to play. The imaginary world, that is. I’m in control there, happy to deliver anything without consequences to the emotion of my own life. Or lack thereof. It makes me realise how much I live my life through my characters, never stopping to endure the emotions myself in the real world.
My fingers smooth over the paper, nervously trying to find sense again, but Bree is right. How can I know any of this if I don’t experience the sensations myself? What happened in that pool was extraordinary. The kiss – debilitating. I don’t even know why, or what, or how, but he did that, made me feel something I’ve not experienced before. And it was nothing to do with pain, or even pleasure really. I was drowning for god’s sake. Lost, but happy to be so.
“Dry yourself,” he says, dumping his extra towel on the table by my writing and turning away from me. “I’ll find you some clothes and call a cab.”
“No.” The word surprises me as it springs from my lips. So much so that I cackle to myself, looking at my writing for support of some kind. No. I don’t want to leave. I want more of what he has to offer. I stare at my words, scanning the way the story has flowed so easily. It’s entirely new, nothing like the story I’ve already drafted. “You… You did this, Blaine. I don’t know how you did it, but I need you to do it again. It’s brilliant, don’t you see? That thing in the pool just now,” I say, stabbing my finger over the bullet points and looking up at him. “The kiss.” The sound of the word makes me look down, blushing slightly at the thought. “It’s what I came to you for in the first place. Help. Research.” He turns back to me, his sunken brow seeming angered by something as he begins to turn away again, shaking his head. “No, Blaine, please…”
He halts in the hallway, his head hanging low as I watch his back muscles exhale and inhale slowly. It’s quite a moment, one of deep thought and confusion. If I wasn’t so enamoured with it that my mouth was hanging open for a response, or the possibility of just going and licking his spine for the sheer intoxication of it, I’d be scribbling it down too.
“I can’t, Alana. You need to leave,” he eventually says, beginning his walk again and denouncing a conversation of any kind. Screw that. I need him to do this. Actually, I might need more of him, but that’ll have to wait. He just has to help me. A new pen needs a book like this, and if I’m going to have to leave Val behind because of Barringer, I’m desperate to get this right.
I’m up and marching towards him instantly, grabbing at my notes and scrunching them into my hand. He’s halfway up the stairs by the time I’ve caught up, dragging my wet dress with me as I go.
“Please, Blaine, I need help. Your help. You said you would, that you didn’t have anything to hide.” He just keeps ignoring me, his brow furrowed as he opens a door and walks into a bedroom. “It’s not like it’s hard for you. This is what you do, isn’t it? They said master, didn’t they? So just show me. Show me more of whatever that was in the pool.” Still he just walks around the bedroom, opening draws and grabbing clothes, then shutting them and moving somewhere else. “Blaine, come on. It’s not like I need you to work hard. It’s your job, isn’t it?” I continue, wandering quietly into the room and trying not to drip more water all over his carpet. “What harm can it do?” None that I can see, and if it gets me more of those feelings as well, then bonus. I’ll deal with any consequence to my heart along the ride. “I’ll pay if that’s the problem.” The mention of money seems to stop him in his tracks. His body swerves towards mine, bringing him within a foot of me and making me back up a step from his annoyed expression. “I don’t mean like a prostitute,” I splutter out. That’s not what I meant. Although, I suppose that is what he would be doing if I paid him. He stares at me, still full of fury. “Look, I don’t mean everything. Just whatever that was in the pool. What was that? What did you do? I need to know more about what that was? I couldn’t think properly. Logically, you know? Everything was distant and weird. And the kiss. It was …” Amazing. Beautiful. Soul wrenching. Oh god, it was so soft. Tender. I shake my head at stupidity. I can’t think about the kiss. This just has to be business. His eyes narrow, briefly skimming my body and then rising back to my face. Nothing comes out of his mouth, though, as he stands there, barely able to contain whatever is happening in his head. “I mean, you threw me in a pool for what? Punishment? And then I found myself wanting to stay under the water and drown until you came for me.” Which still sounds utterly ludicrous, and quite frightening now I’m in the middle of discussing it rather than experiencing it. I stare down at my notes crumpled in my hand, wondering if this really is worth my life. “You did that, right? It was because of you.”
I look back up at him, imploring him for answers as I search his face. He doesn’t talk; he merely glances me over again, frowning and making me feel like a stupid little girl in the middle of something so much larger than myself. Eventually, he pulls in a sigh then blows it out, one hand resting on his highly toned hip as he brings his other up to his brow.
“That wasn’t me. That was you.”
“What?” That makes no sense.
He shakes his head, leaving me in the middle of the room again as he goes off in search of more drawers. Screw the drawers.
“Blaine, what’s me?” I hear the huff of irritation directed back at me and couldn’t care less. “Hey, I deserve an explanation if nothing else.” Because I might even be able to write an entire book around that very experience if I get a little more clarification about it. I can embellish the rest, make it up as I go along if him showing me is such an issue. “And anyway, you’re the one who told me you could help me out with my problem when I was wet the first time around, aren’t you? Where’s that cocky fucker gone?” The sharp turn of his frame has me backing off a little again, slightly concerned for my own wellbeing as he begins tugging at his towel. Death by orgasm springs to mind—not an entirely unappealing idea, although I’d rather not die from the sensation. Having said that, needling him seems the only way forward. “Well, you said I had to ask. I’m asking. And I am wet. So, do something to help with my state of arousal.” I raise my brow at him, waiting for a response and considering lowering my halter-neck from my clasped hands. Maybe a little tease is necessary.
“Before you let that go, think carefully, Alana. Because no matter how much you tease, slut your way around, or try to push me, I will not show you what you’re asking for. I can’t.” Oh, that’s not useful at all. I frown at him, wondering what’s so bad about me that I’m not worth enjoying for an hour or two. “I will happily fuck the breath from you, though, if you’re asking.”
That’s not what I’m offering. I don’t think I am, anyway. Actually, maybe I am.
“Screw you.”
“Another lesson in manners?” Yes, if it’ll give me that other sensation again.
“Fuck you.” He frowns immediately, his body seeming to move backwards regardless of the fact that his feet don’t. It makes me stare at him more, wondering what I have to do to get this out of him. It’s like the man downstairs, the one who filled me with sensation and lips softer than air, has disappeared, leaving me with a shell who won’t engage again.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he eventually says, flicking his gaze around the room as if he’s uncomfortable with something. I don’t understand what. It’s not like this isn�
�t his area of expertise. He should be used to dealing with women who challenge him, shouldn’t he? This bit should just require lifting me, or making me kneel, or one of the many other things I’ve read about.
“Do you need more expletives? I’ve got quite the repertoire. I’m a writer, you know…synonyms and all that.”
“Have you?” he says, throwing what appears to be jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt on the bed beside me, still frowning and seemingly bored as he turns away. “What other ones do you have?”
“Wanker.” He smirks slightly, nothing more than that as he continues in the other direction. “Cunt.” His body turns back to me, pitching through the waist as he fiddles with his towel. He clearly likes that word, enough so that it makes him lick his lips and slowly walk a step in my direction again.
“Why don’t you tell me about yours?” Another step closer, making me check how close the wall is for potential escape routes should they be needed.
“What?” I’d like to say I’m still in control of this conversation, but my face must be as shocked as my tone, and the mere mention of cunts has my own considering his lips again.
“Talk about it, Alana. Tell me what makes it burn.” My eyebrows shoot up, totally agog. Nothing makes my private area burn, apart from overuse, which frankly never happens.
“What a strange question.” Who asks that sort of thing? And why is he moving forward again? His proximity makes me shiver, reminding me of the glacial water downstairs, and the fact that I’m still soaking wet. In more ways than one now thanks to his lips. And then he just pushes me backwards to the wall. It’s only a small shove, but it’s one that takes me by surprise as I thump against the plaster and stare in shock at the brunt of the impact.
“It’s honesty. What you’re asking for is all about honesty, Alana. You tell me about your cunt, and I’ll consider your request a little more seriously than I currently am doing.”
What the hell does one say to that? I’m sure the look of utter disbelief is flashing loud and proud on my face as I try to think about my privates in intimate detail. It’s not like I can’t be descriptive about them. I write it all the time. Just not about my own.
“Overuse?” I stutter out, barely able to contain the sudden mortification that’s threatening. He moves in another step, only a thin layer of air separating our bodies as he hovers there and looks me over again.
“Your cunt knows nothing about overuse. It knows about ten minute drives of inadequacy, I should think,” he replies, his arm suddenly bracing itself against the wall beside my head as he breathes deeply. “If it knew any better, you wouldn’t be asking for my help, would you? Talk.” I scrunch my nose up, accepting that fact to a degree and searching my mind for more plausible specifics.
“Teasing.”
“Hmm. Better. What else?”
He says that as his hand skims the side of my arm, dragging a single finger along it as he decreases the space between us a little. What the hell else does he want me to say? A sharp tug suddenly breaks my grip on my top, making me aware that he’s removed the halter neck from me and fully exposed both of my breasts. I wish I could stop the excessive breath that seems to come with this realisation, but my panting continues nonetheless. “Will me sucking these make you more talkative?” Fuck, yes.
“No.”
“How about fucking you, Alana? Do you want me inside you?”
“Yes.” Shit, I said that out loud, didn’t I? I look away, gazing at the wardrobe for something to look at as he chuckles, running the tip of his finger down the front of my chest until it reaches my nipple. And then his other hand sneaks its way behind me, finding its way straight to the zip on my dress and beginning to lower it.
“You think fucking is going to give you the answers you want?” I’m not sure, but it’s a damn good start at the moment given my panting and his mouth in front of mine.
“I…” Yep, I’ve lost all the words again, more than likely because he’s lowered his mouth to my chest now, breathing his hot air all over it and skimming his lips around. Oh good lord it’s all so dreamy, making me think of Val’s stories and romance. Sort of. Actually, not at all.
“You don’t know, do you?” he says, sliding his other hand to the back of me as well and tugging sharply again. The dress rips. I hear it tear as I gasp and feel the freedom from the restriction it normally delivers. It removes any thoughts of Val, reminding me about the hands currently holding me, and what they could do. And then he rips at it again, shredding the fabric and tightening his hold on my arse as he does. “Tell me that’s the sensation you want, Alana.” I don’t know what I want. He’s right. I don’t even know what I’m doing apart from being a slut as I clutch these notes in hope, half bracing myself away and half totally absorbed. I look back at him, watching the way his eyes narrow as he pushes his body into mine and crouches a little to get better purchase on me. “You want me inside your mind, tearing it up from the inside, don’t you?” Maybe. I’m not sure, and the fact I can hardy hear over my own breathing as he whispers is beyond frustrating. “You’re just a bored little cunt wandering in a world of clichés, aren’t you?” His fingers move from my breast, travelling the length of me until he rucks the fabric up and draws it up my thigh.
He just hit the nail on the head. I am. I’m so full of stories that end well, happily, dreamily, pleasant and acceptable. It’s all the same—love, connection, admiration. And that downstairs, those blissful moments by the pool, were beyond compare. “You want me to fuck that out of you?”
Oh god, his hand is near my crotch, flicking gently and moving my g-string out of the way. I can’t think. Fuck it out of me? If I could speak it might help, but the sensation of him breathing and moving his hand closer, dragging his finger over my mound and slowly starting to dig inside my knickers is too consuming. I could come without thought. In fact, my hips are grinding with no help from me, welcoming his fingers even though I hardly know who he is. “Ask me to do it and I might.” Ask him, yes. All I have to do is ask. He told me that downstairs. Just ask.
“I want you to…”
I haven’t got all the words. For once in my life, and because of him, I haven’t got all the words I need to explain something. It’s foggy, unpredictable. I don’t know what’s coming or even what I’m asking for. And as his finger slips inside the material, the very tip of it skimming my clit as his lips touch my neck, I couldn’t give a damn what I’m asking for. It’s in his hands. That’s what I want. He’s my answer, I think. This right here is going to give me everything I need.
Chapter 6
Blaine
A bored little girl with too many happily ever afters in her head to be affected by them anymore. The thought makes me wait for more to come from her mouth, enjoying the lilt of her voice as she half Americanises her British accent, but nothing more comes. She just stands and offers herself nervously. If it was nerves associated with pain, I’d be profoundly disinterested, but it isn’t. It’s fear of the unknown that tests her resolve, nothing else. She’s the fierce kind. Wild with her mouth and rightly so given her intelligence. It makes me finger around her clit some more, listening to the hesitation in her breathing and waiting for her to ask. She doesn’t. She just hovers there, her arms neither engaged in the moment nor pushing me away from it as my lips skim her chest again. It takes everything I’ve got not to just take her body and do with it as I choose. She smells of sex, her perfume wafting between us, the chlorine of the pool not diluting any element of passion that’s pooling around my fingers. And she’s as stunning as she was the first time we met. Her ass is as firm as I thought it would be, her hips as womanly as they ought to be. They’re hips that need wrenching open, her legs spread wide so I can devour what little sense of realism she has, replacing it with the very thing she begs for. The vision makes me smile as I trace over the edge of her nipple, considering how she’ll scream if I bite into it hard enough for blood to seep out. She’ll yelp, I’m sure, but she’ll buck against me, too, her
cunt grinding for something she has little comprehension of. She has enough guile to warrant the pain, which is as interesting as the way she pants in front of me now.
She’s riled me carefully, crafting her route to getting what she wants without deliberation or remorse. It’s stimulating, and my mind’s already engaged in thoughts of manipulation, enough so that I’ve barely been able to keep myself from fucking her where she stands as this damned cock throbs beneath me. What isn’t as stimulating is the way she looked beneath the pool. The vision reeled thought back from places I’d hoped buried. Thoughts of connection, ones dowsed with the reality of being bonded in truth, being aware of commitment. Trust. It makes me haul in a long breath, giving her a few more seconds to make a decision and breathing her uncertainty in. Still she doesn’t offer her words, but it doesn’t stop the ache from building inside me. If anything, it heightens the need.
Eventually, I find some moral fortitude and reluctantly step away from her again, backing my footsteps slowly until I’ve put adequate distance between us again. Nothing about this should happen, irrespective of her need for it. Or mine.
“Put the clothes on, Alana. I’ll call you a cab.” Not surprisingly, her look of unadulterated sin turns to one of shock again as she steps a foot towards me, provoking more thoughts.
“But you said—” She doesn’t finish that, which interests me more by the second. For a woman who can rally off a string of words without pausing when motivated to prove her worth, she’s useless at it when sexually enthused.
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