The Second Time I Saw You: The Oxford Blue Series #2

by Pippa Croft

  He takes my hand in his and helps me to my feet, before tugging the side zip down the last few inches. The gown slithers over my hips and settles around my knees. So now I’m standing in the middle of a jet, with a three-thousand-dollar gown round my ankles and only an itsy-bitsy lacy thong to cover my modesty. Not, I might add, that I have any modesty left.

  His eyes are molten with desire for me and he shakes his head and tuts. ‘Now I’m shocked. You look fucking incredible.’

  ‘The underwear isn’t too much, then? It’s La Perla. I was saving it for a special occasion.’

  ‘Too much? I love it. I especially love the lack of it.’

  He sinks to his knees in front of me, running his palms up my calves and the backs of my thighs and resting them on the bare cheeks of my ass. He presses his face to my mound and pushes his tongue through the sliver of silk over my sex. I was wet already and now I’m soaked, as his tongue pushes the fabric between my lips. His fingers tighten on my butt cheeks and he pulls me against his face and inhales. ‘You smell incredible too.’

  Even the roar of the Gulfstream’s engines can’t dull my whimper of delight when he pulls aside my thong and slips his forefinger inside me. I moan, grasping his shoulders for support while he eases his finger deeper inside me. He hooks his fingers either side of the lace string and pulls it sharply over my hips and down my thighs. Just as I try to wiggle out of it, the plane drops.

  ‘Oh God!’ I make a grab for the back of a seat and half fall on to the flat bed. ‘Shouldn’t we be buckled up?’

  ‘Probably, but we’d better get on with this, just in case.’

  He unbuttons his fly, strips off his tux trousers and black silk socks revealing a massive erection only restrained by a pair of brief black boxer shorts. He climbs on to the leather flat bed above me.

  Something cold and hard touches my bare butt and I let out a squeak.

  ‘What?’ he says, pulling off his jacket.

  ‘Seat-belt buckle.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Ouch.’

  Then he returns to my body, laying a trail of hot, wet kisses around my navel, and below it, over my pubic bone.

  ‘How appropriate, a landing strip …’ he says, glancing up at me from between my legs.

  No matter that I’m naked with a hot man between my legs, this comment makes my cheeks burn. ‘Pure coincidence,’ I say, before my ability to speak is snatched away by the soft pressure of his thumb on my clit. His sensual assault is relentless; he thumbs me and circles the nub, varying the pressure, soft and firm, until I cry out, and my climax begins to take hold.

  His erection brushes against the inside of my thigh, as he kisses his way back up my stomach and between my breasts, ending with a long, deep, wet kiss on my mouth that tastes of me.

  Loving the weight of his body on me, I slip my hands down the back of his boxers, kneading his glutes in my fingers. I tug at the side of his shorts, pulling them over his behind so I can grind my bared pussy against his cock. He takes the hint and shifts his weight off me, pulling down his shorts. His cock springs out, thick and hard, and I close my fingers round it, loving the smooth feel of his skin and the weight of it in my hand.

  ‘Fuck, I love this.’ Alexander has ecstasy in his eyes when I slide the circle of my fingers up and down his length. When I tighten the circle, he groans in sheer pleasure and I feel all-powerful.

  In a second, he’s on top of me again, pushing inside me. I claw at his back, clutching the thick cotton of his dress shirt. He drives into me, the pressure of him deep inside combining with the friction of his pelvis against my clit. It’s a frantic fuck, against the clock, as we both grapple for our climaxes. I think I feel the plane jink again but it’s too late to do anything because my body tenses in that taut-sinewed, high-tension way as my orgasm spirals through me.

  When I open my eyes, Alexander is slumped on top of me, coming down from his own climax.

  ‘Oh!’ I grab him as the plane suddenly drops again and the pilot’s voice crackles into life.

  ‘Sorry for the bumpy ride; we should be out of it very soon but it may be a good idea to fasten your seat belts.’

  ‘How does he know we’re out of them?’ I say, in between gasps.

  Alexander climbs off me, still naked except for his dress shirt. I manage to slide into my seat and fasten the belt, worried we’ll end up tossed around the cabin like bubbles in the champagne bottle.

  Alexander buckles up next to me as the jet seems to hop across the sky. My fingers tighten around his in a death grip.

  ‘Not scared, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, but this is a little disconcerting.’

  He gives a knowing smile. ‘We’re absolutely fine.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me this is nothing for someone used to abseiling from helicopter skids.’

  He laughs. ‘Well …’

  ‘Look at us. Imagine if we did crash and by some miracle they found us both, buckled up next to each other like this.’

  We stare at each other and burst out laughing. I’m completely naked; he has only his dress shirt on. He slips his arm around me and manages to kiss me, despite the plane bumping along.

  ‘Apologies again for the rough ride. I’ve re-routed to go around the storm so we should be fine from now on.’

  ‘I hope so!’ A few minutes later, we get the all clear, so Alexander unbuckles his belt and rescues his boxer shorts from the carpet.

  ‘I’m staying where I am,’ I say while he dresses. ‘But I’d appreciate some help with my underwear.’

  He retrieves my thong from the top of the cupboard containing the fridge. How the hell did it get there?

  I hold out my hand but Alexander loops the thong over his finger and holds it up in front of my eyes.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t put knickers back on.’

  ‘Give it back!’ I try to snatch the thong but he waggles it tantalizingly just out of reach. ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Shh. Our captain will hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care!’

  ‘If you want your knickers, you’ll have to come and get them.’

  I undo my belt and stand up, just as the plane decides to have one last hurrah. The drop is tiny but it overbalances me and I tumble against Alexander. He catches me, of course, and I find myself pressed against his chest, with his arms around me.

  ‘Please, Alexander, may I have my underwear back?’ I ask sweetly.

  ‘With a very sexy and very naked girl in his arms, what do you expect a man to say to that?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  We managed to get our clothes back on; after all, it wouldn’t have been great to greet the Italian customs officer naked. Once the formalities are over, Alexander helps me down the steps to where an Italian version of Brandon, in a sharp suit like a Mafia boss, stands by a Mercedes.

  Italian Brandon – who turns out to be called Antonio – whisks us straight to the Teatro dell’Opera. Lights glitter in the river as we cross the Tiber, towards the city. As Alexander helps me out on to the sidewalk in front of the Teatro, and takes my arm, Rome makes an assault on all my senses at once. The night is milder than in Oxford, but it’s still cool and I tug my wrap tighter as we walk up the steps. Sirens blare and horns toot and tubs of spring flowers perfume the air. Couples in tuxes and full evening dress sashay along the red carpet to the foyer, diamonds glittering in the lamplight. I could claim that I’m not seduced by the glamour, but I’d be lying.

  ‘Wow, I had worried we might be a little overdressed,’ I say as we’re handed a programme.

  ‘It’s a Gala Night in aid of a charity,’ Alexander explains while the concierge shows us to our front-row seats. ‘And we’ve only just started. Tomorrow, I have some surprises that will make an art historian orgasmic.’

  ‘Orgasmic, huh? I can’t wait.’

  Four hours later, Alexander and I are sitting in an elegant restaurant tucked away in a corner of a piazza. A succession of waiters bring tiny mouthfu
ls of Italian delicacies from the tasting menu until I have to beg for mercy. Alexander confesses to knowing very little about ballet, but seems willing to listen to me telling him about the story and giving my opinion on the choreography and performances. He did take me to Covent Garden last term, when he’d come back from an op with his regiment. That was a surprise, but this trip is on another level. I’m still buzzing from the ballet, and the fact I’ve just had dinner in Rome, when Antonio finally delivers us to our hotel. It’s situated next to the Spanish Steps, and the white marble is lit softly by lamplight. There are still some couples around, walking hand in hand, even though it’s the small hours now. When I get out of the car, I hear the water in the fountain at the bottom of the steps tinkle softly.

  Alexander takes my arm while Antonio hands the luggage to a uniformed bellboy. ‘I hope this is OK. It isn’t the grandest hotel in Rome but I think it’s the most beautiful, and it was a favourite of Picasso so I thought it was appropriate.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I breathe.

  The faded stucco exterior of the boutique hotel looks divine to me, and it occurs to me how much effort Alexander has put into arranging this trip.

  We’re greeted by the concierge and shown to a suite on the top floor.

  ‘Would you like me to unpack your bags, signore?’

  ‘No, thanks. We’re fine.’

  Taking the hint, the concierge leaves us alone. OK, I’ve stayed in some nice hotels with my parents but this is sensational. The decor and furnishings are contemporary yet perfectly in keeping with the hotel’s historic charm. There’s a king-size bed and a dressing room that leads to an opulent marble and mosaic bathroom, with a huge sunken tub.

  ‘This is the best part.’ Alexander opens the windows on to a private roof terrace, where dozens of tea lights are arranged on the deck and the tables, casting flickering shadows over the flower tubs. I cross to the rim of the balcony and lean on the wall, transfixed by the Roman skyline, the domes and the church towers, temples and tiled rooftops. The flowers fill my nose with scent.

  ‘Wow. Just wow.’

  ‘Is it what you expected from Rome?’

  ‘It’s beyond anything I ever imagined. I think I’m in love.’

  I can’t see his face but his breath is warm on the back of my neck. ‘With Rome, of course …’

  ‘Of course.’

  His answer is to slip his arm around me and to point out some of the cityscape twinkling ahead and below us. ‘That’s the Villa Borghese and the Pincio. You might just be able to glimpse the Colosseum and the Palatine Hill, but we’ll get a better look tomorrow.’

  ‘What have you got planned for tomorrow?’

  ‘After we’ve checked out that bathtub? You’ll see.’

  Of course, I’m aching to see the finest art treasures of Rome, but I’m afraid they aren’t foremost on my mind when his fingers rest lightly on the soft flesh of my shoulder. Maybe it’s his touch, maybe the cool night air, but goose bumps prickle my skin and I shiver.

  ‘You’re cold,’ he says simply.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Too late – he is already slipping off his tux jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. His arm is tighter around me now as we drink in the view. I can’t believe we’re here, and I feel shivery inside and out. How can I distrust him at a time like this? How can I not love being here with him and being part of this world? It’s not the money and the lavish gifts that impress me, it’s the way he’s planned this whole thing so carefully to make me happy. I suppose it could all be an elaborate apology to make up for the sex tape, but I genuinely don’t think that’s Alexander’s style.

  I kiss him softly on the lips. ‘This is a wonderful surprise. I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Then don’t say anything. There are other uses for your mouth.’

  ‘That’s outrageous.’

  He folds me in his arms and looks so handsome in the light from the flickering candles that my knees feel wobbly.

  ‘If I had my way,’ he says, ‘I would lock the door to this suite right now, forget the art and keep you here until you passed out from being shagged by me.’

  ‘How do you know you wouldn’t crumble first?’ I tease, tracing a line along his jaw with my finger.

  ‘That sounds like a challenge.’ The gleam in his eyes is wicked, and I realize again that issuing any kind of challenge to Alexander is quite literally asking for trouble.

  ‘I think we should go to bed,’ he murmurs. ‘We’ve got an early start and a lot of things to see and do.’

  ‘Of the orgasmic variety?’

  ‘Those start now. I believe you offered to put your tongue to good use earlier?’

  ‘No, I believe you made the suggestion first.’

  In the end, both our mouths were put to very good use – or should that be very bad use? – and neither of us has had a great deal of sleep. Yet, he shows me no mercy and it’s not quite light outside when I wake to the sound of water splashing into the huge tub. I’m still rubbing sleep from my eyes when Alexander crosses to the bed, naked, and says, ‘We have an early start but first it’s bath time.’

  I blink, taking in the sight of his naked torso and burgeoning erection. ‘But I’m not dirty, Alexander.’

  He grins. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll soon put that right.’

  The mosaic tub is set into a recessed platform in the centre of the bathroom. Alexander turns off the tap and the torrent is replaced by the gentle swish of bath oil being swirled into the water. The scent is divine – orange blossom, I think – and wisps of fragrant steam rise from the surface. With a naked and fully ripped Alexander standing by, I feel like some Roman goddess about to be bathed by her warrior slave.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asks.

  I try to look innocent. ‘Nothing whatsoever.’

  My slave steps into the bathtub first and sits down, and I get in after him, sinking down into the warm water, which laps at my breasts and licks my nipples. His chest is a solid wall behind my shoulder blades and his erection juts very satisfyingly against my butt cheeks.

  ‘You see, you are dirty, Lauren … filthy, in fact, and I’m going to have to clean you very thoroughly,’ he says.

  When he picks up a bar of soap and starts to rub it gently over my damp skin, I am in no state to contradict him. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as he soaps my breasts and slides his fingers over my nipples. Tendrils of steam rise around us and the fragrance of the oil is intoxicating. The whole sensory experience is so hedonistic and sensual, I can’t help wriggling back against his cock, over-eager to be satisfied.

  ‘Good?’ he whispers, rubbing my chest with the soap bar.

  ‘Mmm.’

  When I’ve been thoroughly laved, he puts the soap bar back in the tray and dips his hand below the water, down between my thighs. He plays with me, gently teasing and stroking me. The warmth of the scented oil and the incredible sensation building in my core lulls me into a kind of erotic daze.

  ‘Bad, dirty girl,’ he murmurs. ‘You are in so much trouble.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘A bath won’t be enough to cleanse those filthy thoughts.’

  ‘You think …’

  ‘I know.’ Gently, he scoops his hands under my butt and lifts it up a little. I know what he wants and I wriggle back, feeling for the tip of his penis under me. Water splashes over the edge of the tub and I giggle, then cry out as he spears me on his cock in one fell swoop. It’s not the easiest position to make love in, but it’s wonderful trying. Our bodies are slippery slick with soap, and I’m writhing and wriggling against the mosaic base of the tub but the sheer wantonness of the whole experience is enough to drive me insane. He keeps up the pressure on my nub while I rock back and forth on his penis.

  ‘Fuck, that is so good. You are so good …’

  His voice is full of wonder, just like a slave worshipping me. I know I feel like a goddess, lying in the tub. If he knew what I was thinking, what I want hi
m to do to me … what I want to do to him after this. My orgasm ripples through me, in wave after wave, and the tightening of my muscles is his cue to let go and thrust up and into me until he comes himself with a groan of agonized release.

  Our early-morning ‘bath’ meant we had to pass on the hotel’s breakfast, and instead we snatched pastries and cappuccinos standing at the bar with the real Romans at a tiny cafe. As for the Colosseum and the ruins of the Forum, they will have to wait for another visit because Antonio whisked us to the Pantheon to see Raphael’s tomb and then to the Villa Borghese to view Bernini’s sculptures and the Caravaggios and Titians.

  Now, eight hours later, I have run out of superlatives. I have indeed experienced more cultural orgasms than one Art History student can handle in a day. After a panini on the hoof, we moved on to St Peter’s and the Vatican, where a feast of incredible art treasures was laid out in front of me. I’d heard the collection was astonishing, but to see in the flesh the pieces I’ve read about and studied blows my mind. We walk through gallery after gallery, marvelling at Renaissance paintings, Roman mosaics, Flemish tapestries, and Greek and Egyptian sculptures.

  We stop in front of a huge marble torso of Hercules by Belvedere that has caught Alexander’s eye.

  ‘You do know that this is meant to be the most perfect six-pack in the world,’ I say.

  Alexander looks doubtful. ‘Really? Are you quite sure of that?’

  ‘Well, maybe I need to make a further comparison later.’

  ‘I highly recommend it,’ he says, his arm shifting below my spine.

  I lean up and whisper in his ear, ‘Are you sure you should have your hand on my butt in the Vatican? We must be breaking some laws.’

  Finally, we reach the Sistine Chapel itself, and when we walk inside, I can’t even speak.

  We sit together on a bench at the fringe of the chapel, gazing upwards at Michelangelo’s frescoes. There are scores of people around us, all doing the same, and I guess it’s incredibly ‘touristy’ but I don’t care.

  When I get my voice back, Alexander listens patiently as I tell him the story of each of the panels.