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“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, murmuring to my hair.
A million questions rifle through my mind. Primary among them: why would he think he’d never see me again?
I feel him lift the cigarette to his mouth and inhale. He smokes quietly, exhaling over my head. He flicks the butt into the fire.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s risky.” His palm smooths over my head, fingers brushing through my hair. “For both of us.”
“You’re worth it.” I don’t know why I say that, but it feels true.
“So are you.” His voice is a low rumble in my ear, his mouth nuzzling my earlobe, my jaw and then kissing along my jawline, my chin, my throat.
My hands curl into the fabric of his suit coat as the feel of his mouth on my skin sends tingles through me. I shiver as his hand slides down my spine, cups my ass, his other hand still buried in my hair.
We’re in the private study of his home, making the meeting even more risky than it already is.
I’m curled up on his lap, knees drawn to my chest, my cheek against his heartbeat, and my palms on his shoulders. He’s big enough and broad enough that I fit like a kitten on the expanse of his powerful thighs, and his chest blocks out the whole world, except for the flicker of the fire behind me.
I feather my fingers into his beard, tug his face down, and look up into his liquid brown eyes. He stands up, sets me on my feet, towering over me, staring down at me. He brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth, his hand at the small of my back, tugging me against him. I can feel his erection bulging against the zipper of his trousers, pressing into my belly. He just holds me for a long moment. And then, slowly, as if at war with himself, his fingers gather in the dove-gray cotton of my dress and lift the floor-length hem up to my calves, to my knees, which shake as more and more of my legs are bared. And then the hem is at mid-thigh, and I’m shaking all over and leaning against him, willing him to keep going, or to stop. I don’t know which. My heart is thundering. A part of my mind is screaming at me, inexplicably telling me that this man touching me is somehow wrong, that he shouldn’t have his hands on me, that he shouldn’t lift up my dress any further, that he shouldn’t have it up around my hips now.
But then, another part of me is screaming just as loudly, telling me his touch is just...right.
“Shit,” he growls. “You’re not wearing panties.”
“No, I’m not,” I breathe.
He releases me abruptly, and the hem falls to the floor, covering me once more. He backs away slowly, hand raking through his shoulder-length black locks. His palm trembles.
“You make it impossible, you know that?” He retreats from me, until he catches up against the wall beside the door.
“What do I make impossible?”
“Resisting you.”
I cross the room, pursuing him, until I’m pressed up against him, breathing in his scent. “Why should you resist me?”
“Because you’re not mine,” he growls, his voice thick and tense with frustration. “And I’m not yours. We shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t do this.”
“It feels like you’re mine. Like you should be.” This is the raw truth, rupturing up from deep within me.
His fingers bury in my loose blond tresses. He tugs my head back, gently, but firmly. “I know. God, don’t you think I feel the same way?”
“Then if we’re not supposed to be doing this, why are we here?”
“Because I can’t seem to stop myself. I’ve tried to stay away from you. God knows I have. But I can’t. You make it impossible. And then you show up wearing that damn dress, with nothing on beneath it, and…” he shakes his head, pausing, and then sighs.
He continues, “I’ve never been this man before. The kind who does this sort of thing. But there’s something about you, some dark magic that I cannot withstand.”
I do nothing but stare up at him; his face a mask of mixed emotions. Desire. Need. Frustration. Pain. Conflict. Anger, even.
I want to kiss away all the unpleasant thoughts, so all that remains is the need and the desire and the passion. I lean closer to him, and lift up on my toes. Lips parted, hands flat against the wall of his chest. He watches, scrutinizing my face. His mouth opens, and moves toward mine. His grip on my hair tightens, becoming almost painful. He pulls me flush against his body, tilting my head even more. I cannot resist his hold on me, and have no desire to try. Just kiss me, that’s all I want. Just kiss me.
“One kiss,” I whisper. “Just one.”
His lips touch mine, a grazing brush. A tease. I’m breathless.
But then he lets go of me and jerks himself free. “I can’t. I cannot. I—I just can’t. If I kiss you once, I’ll never stop.”
“Would that be so bad?” I ask. “To kiss me and never stop?”
He’s in the middle of the room, now. Tense. Ramrod stiff and straight, his features hard and cold. He’s fighting with himself and he’s staring at me, chest heaving, as if remaining there is taking all of his strength.
“No,” he admits, “but I can’t. I want that more than anything, but I can’t have it. Not yet.”
“Then why am I here? Why did I come here, if I can’t have you?”
“You tell me.” He sounds angry. At me? I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know.
He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit coat and withdraws a rectangle of yellow paper.
Western Union Telegram is stamped across the top.
Beneath that is a typewritten message:
CK,
I must see you. Please.
HT
“You sent this to my office.” More anger. Deep, virulent. “My office. You should know better. It was only pure luck that my secretary had stepped out and I was able to receive it myself. I cannot afford scrutiny. You know that. I thought you knew that, at least.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“’I’m sorry’ won’t get me my reputation or integrity back, if we’re discovered.”
“Nothing has happened yet.”
“Oh no?” He crumples the telegram, tossing it into the fire, and we both watch the edges crinkle and catch, and then the paper is gone in a bright yellow flash of flame. “Nothing has happened yet?”
He turns back to me. His eyes burn as hot as the fire, now.
“I wouldn’t call what happened in New York last month nothing, would you?” He moves closer to stand in front of me, huge, exuding power and barely-restrained need. His eyes blaze. His hands are curled into fists. His zipper strains to contain his erection.
I bat my eyelashes at him. “I’m having some trouble remembering New York,” I say, endeavoring to sound playful, breathy, toying with him. “Remind me.”
“The Hilton Midtown.” His voice strokes the words, rife with heat. “You snuck into my room and waited for me.”
“And then?” I stare up at him, breathing deeply.
My breasts strain against the bodice of my dress with each breath, and his eyes follow their movements, unabashedly ogling me.
“I barely even made it in the door.” He touches my lower lip, almost reverently.
He trails his finger down my chin, down my throat, to my cleavage. Tugs between my breasts, and then, with a sound that is equal parts sigh of resignation and moan of desire, he slides his finger between the fabric of my dress and
my breast. He bares my left breast. Then the right. My nipples pebble as the air caresses them.
“You pushed me back up against the door.” He steps backward, puts his back to the door, re-enacting the moment. “And then…”
I can’t breathe. My thighs clench together, and my core aches. He cups my breasts in his palms, caresses them, and thumbs my nipples. And then his hands slide up to rest on my shoulders.
He applies a gentle pressure to my shoulders. Urging me down.
I let him push me to my knees.
“You unzipped my trousers.” He toys with a lock of my hair, waiting.
I pull at the zipper, lowering it. “And then?”
“You pulled them down.”
I gather the soft wool of his trousers in my fists, jerk them down around his ankles. His cock springs free, ten inches of wrist-thick perfection, huge and hard and thick, slightly curved. My pussy aches, and my hands tremble. I want it in my hands, in my mouth, in my slit. But I wait. I play the game.
“Now what?” I ask, fluttering my eyelashes.
“You took me your hands and played with my cock, put it in your mouth. You couldn’t take it all, but you tried.” His voice is low, barely above a whisper, remembering. “God, you tried.”
I curl my fingers around his cock, and my thumb and forefinger don’t quite meet. I use both hands, circling around his head, just beneath the groove under his glans. Squeeze. Stroke downward, feeling the soft skin sliding and stretching around the iron of his shaft.
“Like this?” I ask.
He groans, tips his head back, eyes shuttering closed in bliss, and then he looks down at me. “Just like that. God, you’re so fucking beautiful. Let me watch you choke on it.”
I tilt my head sideways and put the length of it in my mouth, tongue sliding against the veined flesh. Opening my mouth as wide as I can, I bury his cock down my throat. He groans long and deep, a guttural bass rumble like the purr of a lion.
“God, yes.” He tangles his fingers in my hair, working his grip near the roots, tight, rough, just this side of painful. “Just like that. Keep going. Suck it all. Take it all.”
I take as much of him as I can. I begin to gag, and then I back away. Saliva smears on his flesh, stringing from my lips to the fat mushroom head. I can taste him now, taste him on my tongue. I stare up at him, extend my tongue and lick him, stroke the opening with the flat of my tongue, lapping away pre-cum.
“You like watching me choke on you, don’t you?” I murmur.
“More than you know,” he says. “I love watching those plump lips of yours stretch around me. I love watching your eyes go wide as I slide down your throat. I love that gagging sound you make when you can’t take any more of me. I love the feel of your hair in my fists. I love, most of all, watching you try to swallow my seed when I come. I love watching it spill out around me, and trickle down your chin.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?” I say, slowly caressing his cock with both hands, playing with him, fondling his heavy balls in my palm. “You’re going to come down my throat?”
He grips his cock in one hand, rubs the tip across my cheek. Traces my lips with it. “Oh yes. I’m going to fill your mouth with my cum. I’m going to mark you with it.”
I shiver. I can feel it. A memory? Almost. Not quite. Or something else. A visceral knowledge of the way he tastes. The way his cum feels in my mouth, splashing down my throat, trickling down my chin.
I wrap my mouth around him again, fists gliding lazily at the root of his cock. Slowly, then, I take him until my jaw aches and I have to focus on opening my throat. I can’t help the gagging sound I make, but that only makes him twitch in my mouth, makes him tighten his grip in my hair and thrust deeper. I gag, and take more. Until there’s no more to take, and my nose is against his belly and I’m seeing stars and breathing hard through my nose. I back away, slowly.
“Jesus, you took it all. God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that? How am I supposed to resist you when you do this to me?” He groans as I start moving faster, long strokes of my mouth around him, taking him deep and backing away, faster and faster. “I think about you all the time. When I’m working, I think of you. All this last month, I had trouble focusing, because I keep thinking of you. Thinking of this, watching your sexy little mouth on me.”
I spit him out and smear my saliva and his pre-cum all over his throbbing length with both hands. I look up at him. “Do you masturbate, thinking about me?”
“Sometimes I can’t help it. Good thing I have a private bathroom, isn’t it?” He groans again as I pump his length and suck on the head. “This morning, I went in there and made a mess of myself, thinking about you. Thinking about those huge breasts of yours. I pictured them wrapped around my cock. Pictured my cum dripping all over them.”
I lift up on my knees and squeeze my tits around his cock, sliding them up and down. “Like this?”
“Fuck…god yes. You’re making it hard to hold back.”
“Why hold back?” I ask, moving my torso up and down and squeezing my tits, letting him fuck between them.
“Because I don’t ever want this to end,” he says. “The way you make me feel…god, I don’t know what it is about you, the way you touch me, I just…it feels like nothing else ever has.”
I grip him with both fists, feeling the tension in his body tighten, feeling his knees flex and his abs harden. I plunge my hands around him and take the top couple of inches in my mouth, sucking, bobbing, and moving on him aggressively.
“Fuck, fuck.” He’s breathless, hips driving helplessly now. “You want it all, don’t you? You want me to lose control? You want me to fuck your mouth like it’s your tight little cunt?”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” I moan the affirmative around a jaw-cracking mouthful of cock.
I release his shaft and palm his ass. I pull him toward me. Encourage him to move. Grip that tight, hard ass of his; claw my fingers into the muscle.
His hands bury in my hair, gather the blond tresses in his fists. His eyes fix on mine, and there’s a tableau, then, his cock buried in my mouth, my hair in his hands, him mid-thrust, paused, jaw flexing, breathing hard. As if holding back, still.
And then he growls, an animal sound. “You asked for it,” he murmurs.
He thrusts hard with his hips, pulls me by the back of my head toward his body. He’s fucking his cock down my throat, hard, fast, abrupt. All I can do then is hold on to his ass and breathe and take him, because now he’s not giving me any control over what’s happening, he’s just taking. Claiming my mouth as his personal playground.
Fucking my throat.
I do not derive sexual pleasure from this, but I do enjoy watching him lose control. I enjoy knowing he can’t help this. That I can turn him into an animal. A mindless, rutting beast. He would do just about anything for me, I know, if I promise him this.
He doesn’t warn me when he finally unleashes.
I can tell, though. His thrusts become jagged, stuttering, uncontrolled. His grip in my hair is painful, and he’s jerking me onto his cock roughly, harshly. I feel him tense. Feel him prepare to come.
He’s losing it, grinding now, thrusting slowly.
I moan, for his benefit, and that’s what puts him over the edge.
I feel his cock throb, once, and warm wetness spurts into my mouth, down my throat. Another pulse, and I can’t contain all the cum he’s blasting into my mouth, can’t swallow fast enough, can’t take anymore, and he keep thrusting, keeps coming, and—just as he threatened, or promised—his cum spills out of my mouth, trickles down my chin. He pulls out of my mouth, fists his length and a thick gush of cum streams out of him and onto my tits. Again, more viscous, warm, white cum spilling over my breasts, sliding wetly down between them.
He sags, then, spent. His head falls back against the door behind him. Leaving his trousers around his ankles, he reaches into a pocket of his suit coat and withdraws a handkerchief. He lifts me to my feet, wipes his cum off my mouth,
my chin, my throat. Folds the handkerchief, and wipes the mess from my breasts until I’m clean once more.
He pulls up his trousers, fastens them, and spears a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it back over his head. He strokes his beard, his eyes on me, brown and wild, inscrutable.
He turns and places his hand on the doorknob.
Something inside me twists. “You’re leaving?”
He hesitates. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You’ll fuck my mouth, come all over me, and then just leave? Get what you want, and that’s it?”
“That’s not—”
I interrupt him. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh really?” His eyebrow lifts, his voice low and dangerous.
I cross the room to the armchair, haul it around to face away from the fire, facing the room. I sit down. My breasts are bare, and I tweak my nipples with my fingers. Then I lift up the hem of my dress, gathering the material up around my waist to bare my core.
“I want mine.” I run my index finger up my slit. “I want to see you on your knees, too. I want to watch you bury your face in my cunt.”
His hand falls away from the doorknob. He sucks in a deep breath, his eyes fixed on my pussy.
Involuntarily, it seems, he crosses the room to stand over me, staring down at me. “You want yours, hmmm?”
“That’s how this works. I didn’t arrange this meeting so I could service your cock, you know. I have needs and desires, too.” God, do I.
“Needs and desires?” He breathes the question as he sinks to his knees. “Like what?”
I feather my fingers through his hair, gather it in my hands, hold it out of the way as he plants kiss after kiss to my thighs, closer and closer to my core. “You. Your mouth. Your tongue.”
He laps at my slit. “Like this?”
“Just like that. Keep going. Make me come all over your face.”
He stiffens his tongue and spears it into me, swirling it against my clit, and I can’t help but gasp and clutch him closer, harder, tighter. I writhe against his face as he devours me, slowly, skillfully. He takes his time, working me up to climax, and then slowing down, adjusting his rhythm to keep me off balance, to back me away from the edge.
The Black Room: The Deleted Door Page 1