by Alam, Donna
We step outside.
It’s baltic this evening and, as we walk, I grab her hand. It’s an innocent gesture that contradicts the images flooding my brain. I find myself smiling, thinking back to what her mouthy friend said about snow and inches. I’m not biggin’ myself up by saying I’m the higher end of her scale.
Wonder if I’ll get to snow in her mouth?
‘What’s so funny?’
Her hand slides out of mine, and as I look down, I notice she’s folded her arms across her chest and her teeth are chattering. She’s also tottering alongside me, two tiny steps to each of my strides, so I slow down. I feel a bit of a shit for not noticing earlier, not that it matters. We’re almost there.
‘Nothing,’ I answer, sliding my jacket from my shoulders. Before she can say anything, I’ve stopped and slid it over hers. She protests, like a girl, even as her arms unclench, uncovering nipples as noticeable as door knobs beneath the flimsy material of her shirt. If I wasn’t hard before, you can bet I am now. ‘We can’t have you dying of hypothermia.’ At least, not before I’ve screwed your brains out.
‘Chivalrous,’ she says, smiling up at me. ‘I like it.’
It’s a smile that falters as I grasp her shoulders, turning and pushing her up against the cold brick wall. I don’t give either of us time to register anything else as I glue my mouth over hers. She tastes of fruit and lip gloss and a kind of sweet desperation as her shocked squeak becomes a mewl in my mouth. She’s pliant for a moment before rousing herself, her hands feeding around my neck and pulling me closer. I kiss her harder then, gliding the tip of my tongue against hers once or twice.
I’d meant it as a way of ridding her of the notion of any kind of chivalry, but I hadn’t expected her response. For her to fully open to me out in the dark; wriggling her little body against me as I pushed her against cold brick.
‘What did you do that for?’ she murmurs, tugging on my neck as I pull away—I have to before this goes any further. I’m not against the great outdoors, per se, but I think my balls would end up looking like corduroy caps exposed to this kind of cold.
‘Do I need a reason to kiss a pretty girl?’ I take her hands in mine, unlinking them from my neck and holding them in my own.
‘No,’ she says, looking mussed up, sexy and a little confused. ‘I meant why did you stop?’
I can’t stop the chuckle that breaks from my chest. From I’m not sleeping with you to I think I can do this to don’t stop .
‘Let’s get you inside,’ I say, swinging open the wrought iron gate and pulling her inside. ‘I’ll show you how chivalrous I can be.’ I throw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to my side as we walk the garden path that I know will be overgrown with wild flowers in a couple months.
‘That sounds promising.’
‘Darlin’,’ I whisper against her ear, ‘I’ll even let you come first.’
Thirteen
Fin
His tongue isn’t pierced anymore.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. I liked it, sure, but maybe it was better served as a memory, because I can’t imagine his kiss being any hotter or more enjoyable. I’ve never been pushed up against a wall, or held hostage by hips and a pair of lips. He must have had a lot of practise in the intervening years, not that I’m going to ask. No need to encourage the epic loser vibe tonight.
The cottage is still chocolate box perfect, even on this cold winter’s night. Evergreen vines hang over the entrance and twist around large leaded windows, rising up as far as a chimney built to look more like a turret. I shiver under the cover of Rory’s jacket, though not only from the cold. I was shocked when he’d slipped it over my shoulders. I can’t remember the last time anyone but my friends showed me any concern. Warm from his body and smelling heavenly, I can’t help but pull the lapels under my nose for one more inhale.
Damn. He caught me checking out his ass.
‘Are you smelling my jacket?’ The porch light highlights the knife of his cheekbones, along with a tiny scar near his eyebrow as he turns, ignoring for a moment his quest to open the solid front door.
‘Actually, I was wiping my nose,’ I say snuggling back in to the fabric, because if I don’t, I think I might be at risk of reaching out to touch him. To make sure this is real and not some trick or dream; my mind bringing the past us to now.
He smiles, turning back to try another key, a moment later pushing the door open and pulling me into the warmth.
The hallway still smells of beeswax polish. It looks the same, sort of warm and shadowy, the only source of light coming from a room somewhere beyond. I don’t have time to register much more than these small facts before Rory’s hard body is pressed against the length of mine, contrasting with the actions of his soft mouth. His kisses are all tender lips and subtle strokes of tongue, and much less urgent than outside. When I made the split decision to more or less proposition him, I’d imagined it would be strange, kissing him after so many years of kissing someone else.
It’s slightly disconcerting to find the opposite.
It’s raw and heady and unravelling. I’m not missing his teenaged tongue piercing, absolutely melting under his touch. Actually melting—wobbling knees, heated insides and everything. Physically, this man is so very different to Marcus. No, I won’t let my mind go there. He’s so tall it’s almost as though he looms over me, and this in itself provides its own kind of thrill. But it’s not only that; the differences are also in the subtleties of his touch. The way his hands slide down my body. The way his tongue dances across my lips.
One moment we’re kissing and the next we’re hit by the lash of lust, almost devouring one another; our kisses turning desperate and frantic as we battle to be closer, to inhabit, to steal breath from the other’s lungs.
‘Nbedroom?’ I mumble against his mouth. I don’t want to stop, it’s more like I physically need to go on. It’s clear neither of us is interested in any kind of precursor; a drink or a chat. We’re both down for cutting to the chase and abandoning anything in the way of that.
‘No.’ His response is little more than a rasp as his kisses travel down my neck, his hands, one minute spanning my waist before travelling down to my ass.
My head falls back without cognisance, my groan vibrating under his lips, prompting him to bite. The moment is sheer sensation overload; the smell of his aftershave, the hardness pressing between my legs, the soft rasp of his stubble against my cheek.
My clit pounding between our bodies like a drum.
‘Oh, God.’ It’s a drawn out sound of appreciation, rather than a plea for divine intervention, as his teeth find my neck again, my body responding and writhing against his, greedy and desperate for relief. Rory’s curse is more base as he pushes me up against the wall, some kind of wainscoting or moulding hard at my back.
‘I need to be inside you.’ His voice is somewhere between a breath and a groan, his hands sliding to the high hem of my skirt.
‘Oh, yes please,’ I return breathlessly, grounding myself with my palms against the wall as my body begins to tremble. My whole body. Aching. Shivering. I want him so badly I can almost taste it. Neither his head nor his hands move from their task though his eyes track up from their focus on my thighs. His features are stronger in the shadows; his easy, confident smiles replaced by something that speaks of solid determination.
Is it wrong to think he looks a little dangerous and to be turned on by it?
‘You like to be bossed about.’ He doesn’t exactly ask, his smile a little feral now. ‘Dominated.’
My gaze flicks from his knowing one to his wet, warm mouth. ‘I—I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think I don’t.’ Did that even make sense? My heart trips and I know it’s not fear. And his smile right now? It looks like I’ve just handed him the keys to my chastity belt. I exhale a convulsing, quivering breath, confused by the caustic rebuke I can’t find
‘So, what are you?’ he asks, eyes back on his task of gliding my skirt slow
ly up my legs. I feel my brows furrow, my stomach knotted at where he could be going with this, because I desperately don’t want to bring up the w word. ‘Are you a good girl or a bad—’ His words halt as he skims his hands down the front of my black hose covered thighs. ‘Tights,’ he says, not bothering to hide his delight.
‘You didn’t strike me as the fetish kind.’ Dear God, please don’t let him have the hots for hose.
And then he smiles that dangerous smile as he begins to pull them down. ‘A useful item of clothing, these. Binding wrists and ankles. Tying pretty girls.’
‘Not this girl,’ I return, though I don’t think I’m the only one who hears the libidinous drop in my tone.
‘At least, not the first time,’ he purrs.
Before you can say hose whore, my tights are magically mid-thigh and his knuckle is brushing down the front of my satin panties. And I’m whimpering, widening my stance, opening for him.
‘First time?’ I reply through a sigh. His touch is electric, my body jolting against his hand.
‘The first time I fuck you tonight.’ I open my mouth to reply when his hot mouth melts my words. As it slides against mine, his knuckle begins to rub rhythmic circles over my panties, the pressure increasing until he’s worked the soft fabric to cling wetly to my clit.
‘Do I look like a one ride kind of man?’ My gaze follows his from the damp patch of my panties as he raises his head.
‘You look like you could go all night.’
‘Fuck, yeah,’ he growls, watching my face—watching his actions—slipping his hand into my panties’ lacy waistband.
I can’t hold back the sound of my pleasure as he slides his fingers backwards and forwards, gathering my wetness and rubbing it against the swollen nub. In fact, I think I might beg as a knuckle becomes two circling fingers, then two fingers that thrust.
‘Please, please, please.’ My breath is short and my voice is hoarse. Please let him still be hung like a horse. ‘Oh God, please, please, please.’ It’s been so long.
I so badly want to come—crave it as I crave him. My hands grasp his shoulders as much for balance as it is to hold him closer, as the heel of his palm cups and pressures, paced in time with his thrusts. Arching away from the wall, I pull his mouth to mine, sucking on his bottom lip. Arching. Sucking. Finger fucking. So sublime.
My hands slide from his shoulders and I grasp his forearm, using my body to ride his hand. I’ve never been so forward, so demanding. Felt so reckless and powerful. So full of need.
My veins feel powered by liquid fire; the knot between my legs building and building, before bursting at its peak. And I’m all out of breath, coming so hard and so silently I think this must be what it feels like to implode. I’m conscious of my chest heaving between us—and that’s never happened before—and think I might actually be dissolving from pure pleasure. But I can’t be, because I can feel my body weighted against his arm; the arm I’ve clutched so hard, I think it might have left nail marks.
His body is motionless but when he speaks, his voice is so rich and soft and his sentiment so flattering, it washes away any potential awkwardness.
‘That one was for you. Happy birthday, Rose.’ He smiles down at me, sort of sweetly. ‘But I should warn you, the next one’s all mine. You’re a real looker and stunning when you come, but I want to be inside you when I make you do that again.’
My insides clench greedily at his words and by the way his smile shifts, I know he feels it, too.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ My voice is hoarse, like I haven’t used it in days. My eyes fall to his forearm where, sure enough, the half-moon impressions of my nails are visible against his skin. I purse my lips against the notion of apologising, pressing them harder at the sound of his fingers slipping wetly from between my legs. Is it shame? Embarrassment? Whatever it is, the thought dissipates the instant he paints my wetness against my own lips.
‘Taste yourself,’ he coaxes. As his grey eyes dare me, I curl my tongue against my top lip. ‘So, you’re a good girl,’ he says softly, lowering his head as his mouth finds mine again.
I can taste myself on his lips and tongue, the musky scent that he must taste, too.
Hells bells, I want him to.
I realise I’m still wearing his jacket as he pushes it from my shoulders, pulling my blouse from my skirt and making quick work of the tiny green buttons. And I just let him, torn between watching the actions of his long fingers, and the hair that’s partially obscuring his face.
‘Now bedroom,’ he growls, his forearm pushing away the hair before he grabs me by the waist to propel me further into the hall. I don’t have time to contemplate how ridiculous I must look, tights clinging to my thighs and my skirt rucked up, before his arm bands my waist and he hauls me against him, his front to my back.
‘On second thoughts . . .’ I squeal a little as his voice rumbles against my neck. ‘If you keep making those noises, titch, you won’t be going anywhere.’
‘What noises?’ I squeak as his large hands slides under my blouse. The feel of his fingers against my ribs is as distracting as his mouth at my ear. His soft lips envelope the shell just as his fingers find my nipples beneath my bra.
‘That noise.’ His words rumble against the sensitive skin beneath my ear. ‘Those little squeals you made as you came.’
‘I did not!’ It’s hard to sound indignant when you’re enjoying being touched, but titch? And my orgasm was almost silent, so I’m not sure—
‘Ohh!’ His fingers pinch my nipple and I squeal again.
‘Aye, like that.’ He chuckles darkly, his teeth pressing against my neck now. ‘Those little breathy noises you made as you came all over my hand.’
I’m not sure if this statement is dirty—or delicious—as he quickly turns me and I almost stumble against a large hall stand. In the dimly lit space, I can make out the piece looks like something you might see on an antique program, shabby and the glass mottled. I press one hand to the worn wood, its scars apparent beneath my fingertips, but as I brush my bangs from my face with the other, he catches it.
‘You look fine, darlin’.’ Raising my palm against the dark mirror, he covers it with his own as he starts kissing my neck again. ‘Real fine.’
I’ve no experience of dirty talk, but the things he whispers are thrilling; filthy worded compliments about my ass and tits. Husky promises of how he can’t wait to fill me. To fuck me, until the only thing holding me up is him.
Distantly, I can hear panting; soft and light. This time there’s no doubt where it’s coming from. Then, in a heartbeat, I sense his thumb pushing through the fabric of my hose, pulling and shredding the material until it falls like loose stockings down my legs. My heart rate spikes—from excitement? From fear? The former winning out as he places his hand behind my knee, lifting my leg.
Without thought, I move with him, my knee now resting against the ledge of the table as he grinds against me with a low groan. My hand still braced against the mirror, I move instinctively against him, rocking back into the hardness of his body. The hardness of his cock. How is it possible I’m still turned on after climaxing but a moment ago? He may not be a one-orgasm-wonder, but I am. I’m a one go girl before mumbling barely intelligible goodnights before passing out. Not that we’ve made it as far as a bed, which somehow heightens the experience.
Hungry anticipation tightens in the pit of my stomach. I need this so much that my insides pulse emptily, yearning for the thick slide of him between my legs.
Dear God, please make him thick where it counts.
One hand anchored to my hip, he uses his other to turn my chin to him, capturing my mouth with his own, but there’s little satisfaction here as we nip and bite, each of us desperate to taste the other as Rory’s strong body almost envelopes mine. It feels wicked and decadent and oh so right, though I suppose I should be surprised it doesn’t feel weird being held by a stranger, being positioned as I am. Currently, I don’t have the wherewithal to
give a fuck.
His long fingers pull my blouse from my shoulder, the action drawing my eyes to the mirror, and for the first time I see myself, rather than him. It’s a picture I’m unfamiliar with. My skirt is gathered around my waist, and a moment later, he has my aching nipples almost rimming the lacy cups of my bra. My hair is a mess, but my face, well, I don’t recognise that girl. Eyes heavy lidded though glittering, and even in the faint light, I can see my reflection is flushed, my mouth, completely bare of lipstick now, is still darkly pouty. Swollen. In short, I look well fucked.
Please let it be so.
‘Oh, please,’ I moan, breathing heavily. ‘Just, please.’
He swears, pulling back a little before slamming his wallet down against the wood and slipping out a condom. I can feel his hands working his belt and pants and then it all happens so quickly—my tiny panties are moved to the side, and then he’s there, sliding his length along me. Oh! Oh! Oh . . .
These are practised movements, his hardness gliding past my entrance and barely brushing my clit before sliding back again.
‘Do it already,’ I pant, this time biting back the please.
His eyes are reflected darkly, the faint lift of his lips almost obscured.
‘Are you givin’ out orders, titch?’
One more flex of his hips and he glides by again; part perfection, part torture. Beneath my skin is pure electricity, and I’m so wet that, with the smallest change in angle, he’d slip inside.
‘Yes—please—I am,’ I say, pushing up onto the toe of my high heels and leveraging my weight against him, ultimately succeeding in just that.
His sharp intake of breath is right by my ear, a sound that I could listen to again and again. His hips rock forward and his rumbling groan vibrates from his chest against my spine. I feel vindicated, and more importantly, so deliciously full.
‘You beautiful wee minx,’ he breathes into my neck. I can feel him smiling and a moment later, he pulls back and thrusts back in. And again. And again. ‘Is this what you want?’