Though it’s still entirely possible that I gasp. I feel as though I haven’t been touched in a decade, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s Gabe who’s doing the touching. Gabe, who often seems too terrified to make eye contact.
Even if he’s not too terrified to do this. He rubs his hand up and down, up and down – almost like a friendly reassurance, if it were not for my trembling response. I shudder as I watch him watching himself touching me, his too-dark and too-intense eyes following his own hand, over the shivering sensitive inside of my arm. He follows it all the way up to my shoulder, where his fingers pinch and rub the material of my shirt in the most weirdly lewd way.
And then the lewdness flickers over to something else, as quickly as it had arrived. Something else worse, because I think he might actually be about to kiss me. He’s very tall, so it’s not hard to miss. He has to lean down, and come so close to me, and I think of all those cheesy movies with the hero going in finally, finally for a kiss. The heroine swooning, hardly able to believe it.
This wasn’t what I had in mind, when I started this. And yet I find myself tilting my face up to his, as his parted lips get closer and closer, and all I can think of is the utter hilarity of an odd backwards movie kiss.
That doesn’t make me want to laugh. By God, I think I might actually be swooning – at the very least, I don’t think I’ve ever closed my eyes before, on feeling someone’s mouth pressed to mine. And he’s so tender and so gentle that it makes me ache, in a hundred odd and completely unused places. Unfortunate, really, that I don’t have all day.
I want to touch his body and I want him to touch mine, and I want to be naked and writhing with him, immediately. So I worm one sly hand beneath the prison of his olive green tank top. And maybe I also curl my tongue, around his earlobe.
He goes stiff against me, and stiffer yet when I poke said tongue right into his ear. Though really I think it’s the combined effect of me gripping his jaw hard and holding his face down where I can reach, on top of my exploratory probings.
He makes a sound like this: unf. And when I lean in to kiss him, his mouth is soft and yielding. He sags against me, lips no longer quite so mean, fingers finding the slick mess I’ve made of his right ear.
Clearly, he’s still sensitive from that earlier orgasm – he can’t seem to take it when he touches the wetness, and his reaction gets even more pronounced when I stroke over one still hard nipple. There is whining, and wriggling, and when I move to pinching that firm little bud, he lurches forward as though doing so will get more contact on his cock.
It doesn’t, however. I shy my lower body away from him in perfect tandem, and then tug and twist at the nipple I’m still playing with until he gives even more over to me. Even more cries of pleasure, even more squirming and whining – it opens him up to such an extent that when I push for it, he lets me slide my tongue into his mouth.
And of course I know that, ordinarily, such a thing wouldn’t be world-shaking. I can’t remember the last time I had a kiss, without some tongue. But with Gabe, everything seems to have a new level of lewd – my hand up his tank top is like a hand on someone’s cock. Pinching his nipples through his clothes seems akin to something far dirtier, like, say, forcing someone to masturbate with a vibrator.
And sticking my tongue in his mouth is like fucking it.
He makes a little startled sound, before moaning blissfully – exactly the way I imagine he’d respond, if I did just fuck him. His mouth moves against mine tentatively, at first, but then with a little more boldness as my hand slips beneath the confines of his shirt.
It takes some tugging and wrestling, but I manage it. And then my hand is on his bare stomach, his bare chest, while he presses his lips to mine, wetly.
It’s a shock, to discover that he’s as hairy everywhere as that glimpse had suggested. Somehow I’d imagined him largely smooth and soft, but there’s nothing to apply those two adjectives to. His torso is uniformly hard and lean, thick with hair and utterly masculine.
He goes to say something, when I twist a few strands around my fingers. Something embarrassed or awkward, that I muffle with my mouth forced against his. This time when I kiss him, his tongue flickers against mine. Just a little. Almost as though it isn’t doing such a thing at all.
And when I move back, he moves forward, eating at my mouth hungrily, slippery tongue getting bolder and bolder until I’m trembling again, and more aware than ever of just how wet I am.
It comes in fits and starts, however. He’ll kiss and kiss me and explore my mouth until our jaws ache, but then he’ll stop and pull back, and every muscle in his body will suddenly tense against mine. Only when I grasp a handful of the thick hair at the nape of his neck does he push forward again, seek me out again, moan thickly into my mouth.
But I can see that this is all building to him pushing me away. He feels hot and too feverish, shivery-sensitive everywhere and eager to get away from my prying hands. And sure enough, after what seems like a desperate age of frantic making out, he tugs away from me, turns his face to one side.
Even in the low light of his bedroom, I can see the flush devouring his cheeks and throat. His lips are kiss bruised and pouty-slick, and I just want to go for another round, just one more round of this juvenile sticky fumbling – like I’m back in college again, wrestling with my boyfriend in the back seat of his Ford Fiesta. Tongue-y kissing seeming like the height of filth, my sex so wet and filled with ache that I could die from it.
I am going to die, if it isn’t my turn, soon.
‘Don’t –’ he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. Or at least, not with words. Instead he tries to shove my hands down and out of his shirt, struggling to straighten himself before he’s even free of me.
Even stranger, as soon as my hands are away from his bare body, he actually reaches for me, again. His left hand – much bigger and broader than his lean frame suggests – cups the back of my neck, my jaw. He reels me in as though forgetting how nervous and hesitant he appears in every other way, and when he kisses me this time, it’s hotter. Bolder.
While his right hand … his right hand moves forward, to cup my breast.
I go rigid. I think I come. Either way my defences are down and all rational thought flees – I don’t care what he does next, or what I do next, or what he wants. Just please have him carry on doing what I think he’s doing: unbuttoning my shirt.
Whatever it is, he does it quickly and with fumbling fingers, as though at any moment I might stop him. His kisses grow sloppy and erratic, each one punctuated by a desperate groan or hum of pleasure.
It’s clear: he didn’t want me to undress him. But he sure wants me to be undressed.
I let him push me back onto the bed, body thrilling at this brief new side to him. So eager and hungry for something, for me – indeed, once my shirt is unbuttoned he moves back, almost crouching on the edge of the bed with my body sprawled out before him, and the look he gives me as he does it …
His dark eyes gleam, assessing me, and he chews on that plump bottom lip as his hands wander over the skin he has exposed: the almost-flat plain of my stomach, the steep hills of my breasts still encased in black silk. My nipples are standing out stiff and proud through the material, I know, but I don’t know it until his lips part on seeing them. On seeing my tits, my throat, my collarbone. The little dip of my belly button, that he touches first.
I feel him press just one finger there, tentative and curious, before laying his big hand over my stomach. Then he spreads his fingers wide, taking in as much skin as possible, before sliding his hand up, up, to the valley between my breasts.
He doesn’t quite let himself touch them, however. I think he might be waiting for permission, but his soft shaking breaths and marvelling eyes tell a different story. I think he knows he’s allowed – more than allowed. This is his chance to explore.
I don’t have any choice. I have to ask, ‘You want me to take off the rest?’
His patiently w
andering gaze flicks up to meet mine, suddenly agitated again but no less arousing for it. I like his agitation, his nervousness – both rub against my tingling hot spots like calloused fingertips, though I couldn’t say why.
‘Is that what you want?’
He doesn’t answer again, but his jaw tightens when I shimmy back on the bed and away from him. I lean against the headboard, smoothing my skirt and almost closing my shirt as I go. Prim, again. Neat.
‘Tell me you want me bare, and I’ll give it to you.’
His eyes flash wide for the barest second, before he composes himself again. Though in all honesty, his composure is not what it should be. His hair has slanted sideways and his mouth can’t seem to close, and I can see the tension in his thighs and his shoulders. The tremble through every inch of him.
And of course, he’s hard again – I can see the thick jut of his cock through his tweedy trousers. When he passes one hand over this obscene bulge, unconsciously, my sex swells against its cotton confines. I feel as though I’ve been straitjacketed, down there. I feel too full and uncomfortable, just aching all over to remove my clothes in ways my words belie.
‘You’re teasing me,’ he says, after a second – but he doesn’t sound upset. ‘Are you going to refuse if I ask?’
I suppose he would seem very practical and ordered, like usual, if it were not for the tremor running through his voice. That cut of hoarseness, right at the back.
‘Is that what other girls did, on this prim little bed?’
His face doesn’t darken, the way I expect it to. The question bounces right off him, not hitting the mark of offence that someone who’d been snubbed would certainly have.
He just shakes his head. As though there haven’t been any girls to snub him.
‘If you want it, you have to ask,’ I say.
His thick brows gather together, but not really in anger or frustration. Again, I can practically see him considering and struggling, attempting to plot out his next move.
‘Shouldn’t you just be telling me what to do?’ he asks, and though it’s true that a thick gush of pleasure goes through me when he says such a thing, I wonder what ideas about sex are floating around in that complicated brain of his.
‘No – I think I’d like this, instead. I think I’d like you to ask me. I think I’d like for you to come and get it.’
His brow smoothes out, but he looks no less disconcerted.
‘Take –’ he begins. And then again: ‘Take …’
I think about him looking at my shoes. My dirty, sharp little shoes on his beautiful polished floors.
‘What do you want, Gabe? Would you like to see my tits?’
His eyes close briefly, on the word tits.
‘Yes.’
‘Then ask.’
‘Why do I have to –’
He stops himself, before his words become a frustrated shout.
‘Because I say so. Go on, be dirty. Say I want to see your tits, Madison.’
He shakes his head, almost amused.
‘I can’t say that.’
‘Then say Ms Morris. Ms Morris, I’d like to see your tits. You can make an appointment, if you like: Mr Kauffman to view the breasts of Ms Morris five seconds hence.’
Of course he knows I’m mocking him – just a little, not enough to singe, I hope – but he goes for it anyway. All in a jumbled rush, as though the words are sharp and scour his insides as they go.
‘Take off your bra for me,’ he says.
It’s close enough. Who am I to deny him, after an internal battle like that? And when he adds the word please on the end, well. I just want to shove my hand into my knickers and bring myself off, immediately.
‘Shirt first?’ I prompt, and his mouth almost makes a smile.
‘Yes,’ he replies, breathy and bashful.
I kneel up on his uncomfortable bed, stockings almost making me lose my way, and then I take my time. I unbutton the cuffs of my shirt; I fold it neatly once it’s off. And all the while his impatience vibrates against me, a living, arousing thing, made worse by his inability to push through it. He doesn’t demand or ask anything further of me, though he shakes with the need to.
When I unclip the bra and slide it down my arms, finally exposing my breasts to his heavy gaze, his passes one hand over the bulge in his trousers, again. This time, it lingers there. It really rubs, and his tongue flickers out to lick his firm lips.
The cool air feels wonderful on my tense nipples, but I bet that tongue would feel even better. Not that I think he’s going to do anything like that, of course. No, instead he says in this blank, strange voice, ‘Turn around.’
At first I’m sure I’ve misheard. Not only because it’s Gabe actually telling me to do something off his own bat, but because the request itself is so … odd. I thought he wanted to see my tits. The back view’s not half so interesting.
And yet he’s waiting, he’s just waiting for me to obey.
So I do. I turn slowly, on my knees. Consider putting my hands on the headboard – even though that seems much more like an Andy sort of request. It seems like an Andy thing to do, too, when he puts one firm hand on my back, and bends me forward.
Somehow I end up on my hands and knees, facing the giant cross that isn’t over his bed. And though I adore many deliciously naive and awkward things about Gabe, I won’t lie. The newness and unexpectedness of this act prickles delightfully along the length of my spine.
For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to fuck me. His hands even go to my thighs, and he pushes my skirt up until I know most of me’s exposed to him. Just a strip of white knickers between his gaze and my cunt, and that’s got to be see-through by now. I can feel the sodden material trying to merge with my flesh, in some sort of awful shameful fashion.
Even though it’s Gabe that should be ashamed. He’s the one with all that baggage on him. And yet when I imagine his precise eyes assessing me, his carefully measured repression, doling out his slight, sighing reactions – my cheeks heat. I clench his perfect bedspread into white-knuckled fists, expecting maybe disapproving words: you little slut. Look at that soaking wet pussy. You know what you need? You need a big fat dick in that whore’s cunt.
Of course, no such words come. Instead I hear and feel him move off the bed, and I bark it out before I can stop myself:
‘Don’t you fucking go anywhere, boy.’
He hiccups around his response, but that’s OK. I hiccupped inside, while saying those words.
‘I won’t – don’t worry, I’m not.’ A pause, full with heat and tension. ‘Come closer to the end of the bed.’
I do, without looking – looking would spoil the surprise. Maybe he’s going to fuck me, long and hard. Maybe he’s going to tease and torment me. Maybe he’s going to play the sudden authoritarian, and spank me. How dare I toy with him, like this!
And it could be that’s what I want. Or what I deserve, at the very least.
However, I know what he’s actually doing, when I hear it – and it makes me thrill more deeply than any shame-based fantasy. He’s kneeling on the ground.
‘Gabe,’ I say, but he just tells me, in this breathless sort of voice, ‘It’s OK. It’s fine – I know what I’m doing. I know how to work this out.’
And then he just presses that gorgeous mouth to the tense strip of material between my legs, without having to be asked.
I have to hold in the sob of relief and pleasure because there’s no way I want him to hear it. It seems that I don’t want to do anything, apart from focus on the sudden slow drag of what must be his tongue, over that wet material.
His hands skate over the backs of my thighs and then up, beneath the folds of my skirt – and I think I know what he’s going for, even if the way he lets himself squeeze and fondle my arse – even daring to explore the cleft between – makes me doubt his intentions. I get a sense of being uncovered, or being detailed and mapped out like a science experiment …
And then his hands slide further
up, and find the elastic of my knickers.
Most of which would be just as excruciatingly pleasurable even if he weren’t feverishly tonguing my slit through clinging material, at the same time. But as it happens he’s doing both, and so it seems that I’m getting close to coming without anything like serious contact on my clit.
I think of Greg, saying oh, do I have to? I think of Kevin, getting bored after five minutes. I think of Andy’s cock in my mouth.
And I judder, from head to toe.
I don’t think I can stand him inching my knickers down. Of course I knew he was going to do it, but it still makes me delirious when the thin straps dig and roll against my tensing flesh. Cool and blissful air hits the furnace between my legs – God, I wish he’d go on peeling these off me for ever.
But all too soon they’re at my knees, and dear Lord he’s lifting my leg – just a little, just enough so that he can complete the operation. Knickers all the way off. Bare arse and pussy exposed. I bet it looks like sticky honey, in this low light. I bet I look as lewd as fuck.
Though of course he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say anything at all. Instead his breathing gets higher and tighter, and he sighs like the dying wind just before touching me right. There.
Nothing more. More’s enough.
I immediately push back against his delicately probing fingers, but only because I can’t help myself. It’s my intention to be patient – I want this pleasure to go on coiling itself for ever in the pit of my belly, but I’m desperate. I’m so wet that the barest touch slicks and slides his fingers the entire length of my slit, whether he wanted to go there or not.
It makes me sure that the first time he sinks something into me is not because he intended to. He just presses and fondles and runs unsteady fingers over and around each fold until suddenly he’s inside me, and I’m spread right open for him.
He moans, then – a real moan, tremulous and deep. I think he goes to say actual words, too – maybe about how hot I am, how slick – but like me he’s probably too engrossed in the slippery sounds I’m making. That click when he pushes a second finger into my greedy hole, then separates them. Tests me out, until whatever he’s feeling makes him shudder far more than it should.
Control (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) Page 6