Control (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels)

by Stein, Charlotte

  ‘Would you … you wouldn’t really do that, would you?’

  I’m glad I put a pair into my trouser pocket.

  ‘I thought hot pink might be your colour,’ I say, as I pull them out for him to get a look at.

  He immediately shakes his head – but I think it’s just a reflex, really. I’ve hit him on the knee with a hammer of sex, and he has to voice some sort of protest. Otherwise he’s just easy as well as kink-riddled.

  ‘No,’ he says, faintly disbelieving.

  ‘I bet you’ll look fabulous in them. All that lovely pale skin against shimmering pink. Very nice.’

  He screws up his nose, but then goes with something I don’t expect, ‘They won’t fit, Madison.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You’re skinnier around the hips than I am.’

  ‘I doubt that – but the hips aren’t my problem. You know they won’t fit.’ And then he leans forward, and whispers in this fabulous and hilarious co-conspiratorial way, ‘Because … you know. Because of my – I have trouble with underwear as it is.’

  I giggle. I can’t help it. He rolls his eyes.

  ‘Well, I guess you’ll like it all the more then, right? Nice and tight on your big dick.’

  He groans – I think partly with embarrassment.

  ‘Go on. Go to the bathroom and put them on. Or would you rather I make you do it here?’

  He snatches the dangling slip of pink silk from my hand, at that. Almost angry, but not quite. And then he makes his way into the back, material bunched in his fist.

  I wait until I hear the door lock, before I follow him back there. It’s no fun if I don’t get to hear him mutter and curse, after all, as he slides those little knickers up his thighs. Everything comes through muffled and jumbled up, but one thing gets to me loud and clear: the way he moans, when that silk clasps around his cock.

  ‘Feel good?’ I ask, and he makes a little startled sound. I guess he hadn’t known I was there.

  ‘It’s … can I take them off?’

  ‘Is it hurting you?’

  He takes a moment, with that one.

  ‘I – no.’

  ‘Is it pressing nice and snug against your dick?’

  Even more reluctant, this time.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does it feel good?’

  ‘It feels like women’s underwear.’

  I like it, when he’s funny.

  ‘Good. Now put your trousers back on and come out here. You do remember how you said you’d work extra hard for me, today, don’t you?’

  ‘I – wait. Wait, I can’t. Madison, I can’t.’

  ‘You mean you’re not going to keep your word?’

  ‘I can’t walk around with these on. You know I can’t.’

  ‘Then maybe you gave me the wrong passage to read.’

  He makes a little exasperated sound.

  ‘No. No. It’s not that – I do want – God. OK.’ I hear him take a deep breath. ‘I can’t walk around with these on because they … they’re rubbing against me. It’ll just be too much.’

  He sounds wretched. But in some really, really awesome sort of way.

  ‘You know what I mean, don’t you.’

  ‘You mean you might come in your brand new underwear. God, how disgusting.’ I pause. Just for effect, you know. ‘Now get out here.’

  It takes a minute, but eventually the lock snaps. The door opens. He’s sweating, and smoothing down hair that doesn’t need smoothing.

  ‘Show me,’ I say, and he makes a sound like the wind, dying. ‘Just lift your jumper and pull down the waistband of your trousers, so I can see.’

  The flash of pink is a sight to behold. As is him, showing it off. I love how he twists his body and rudely reveals it, like a dirty bitch showing off her obscene tattoo.

  ‘Very nice,’ I tell him, and he groans. Not in a despairing way, either. In an excited sort of way.

  It turns out to be a very amusing day. At one point I see him crouch to get at a lower shelf, and when he does so his entire face changes, as though someone twanged a little string inside him. He has to stay like that, on his hands and knees, before whatever is going on inside him dies down.

  But it’s OK, because luckily, a customer stoops to ask him if he’s all right. I guess she heard the faint noise of protest he made – that sigh of pleasure and frustration and fear, all the sounds so sweet and fumblingly sexual.

  When it gets to lunchtime, I turn the open sign to closed and wait for him to go to the bathroom. Of course, I know what he’s going to do. He knows that I know. I can see him watching me, out of the corner of his eye. I can see him trying to hide the stiffness in his trousers, by holding a box in front of his groin.

  He’s done the same all day. Such an assortment of things, to keep prying eyes off his erection. A cardboard sign, a plastic bag. Though really, it’s not as bad as it would usually be. The knickers seem to be holding him in nicely.

  And by nice I mean in all senses of the word.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say, but he doesn’t answer. He’s grim-faced and determined, likely not thinking about the scene he circled, where the heroine catches the hero, masturbating, frantically.

  Or maybe he is thinking of that. He probably is. What else would he be thinking about?

  When I go to the door I can hear him, breathing through it. At first a little hectic, but then with more rhythm. And every now and then, he’ll cut a sound or a high breath short, and it’s so real and strong that I can picture exactly what he’s doing:

  Pressing his hand to his mouth, to stifle his moans of pleasure.

  ‘Gabe, are you all right in there?’ I say, and it’s so much like a game I could cry with happiness. I can feel it filling my chest as much as it’s filling other places, even when I try to hold it down.

  Don’t, I think, don’t, but then he answers, ‘I’m fine. Really. Don’t come in here.’

  And I’m not sure I can stop it. He’s playing, with me. It’s obvious. I think he means it, but at the same time …

  The door won’t be locked. I know it before I even get close to trying it. And I just reach out and turn the handle and push it open, not quite bursting in because I’ll never be Delaney, but close enough.

  He has his trousers shoved down – not around his ankles, in a pathetic puddle. Taut between his legs, and no further than mid-thigh. He hasn’t taken the underwear off, and it flashes pink and gleaming against his delightfully hairy and finely muscled thighs.

  I can’t see his balls, because the elastic is cutting over them – likely too tight for comfort. Though I suppose that’s the point. It doesn’t seem to be putting him off to have a pair of little knickers, digging into him.

  Quite the contrary. His cock’s in his fist, the ruddy tip peeping between his tense, squeezing fingers, everything so clearly ready to go off that I freeze in delicious anticipation. I run my gaze all over this frankly startling tableau – one that’s so sexy and dirty and fabulous that I’m sure he must have planned it just so, oh God, you little whore – just waiting for it to happen.

  But I guess he’s in no rush.

  He squirms, first, and stutters some sort of apology that I think is at least half-faked. Though the flush that spreads over his cheeks and down his neck is real enough. He swallows, audibly, and that seems real, too. We might be playing dress-up, but clearly he can press the actual feelings down on himself hard enough.

  ‘Ms Morris,’ he says, and I can feel myself slipping into the role as easily as I would glide into a warm bath. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. I notice that although he’s straightening up and trying to act presentable, he can’t resist pumping his shaft just once. I think he does it when I raise one stern eyebrow.

  I raise the other, in the hopes that he’ll do it again.

  ‘I’m sorry – I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t do it again.’ His eyes dart to one side, but not in shameful penitence. I think he’s actually considering �
�� probably mentally flicking through every dirty book he’s ever read, for just the right thing. ‘Can I pull my trousers back up?’

  Ah, asking permission. Always a bad thing to do, when you’ve just been caught doing something naughty and you’re starring in an erotic novel.

  ‘I don’t think so, Gabriel.’

  Again, he surreptitiously strokes himself. Or not so surreptitiously, really. More like he wanks right in front of my face and waits for me to punish him for it.

  ‘I think you need to finish the job. Don’t you think so, too? I mean, how can you come back out onto my shopfloor with that thing waving between your legs? You’d frighten all the customers.’

  He groans. He shuts his eyes tight. His cock jumps in his twisting grasp.

  ‘No. I think, what you need to do is jerk off until you come, right here, in front of me.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says – so lustily despairing. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. How can despair be lust-filled? And yet somehow, he manages it.

  ‘On my tits, I think. Wouldn’t that be nice? You do want to come all over my tits, don’t you?’

  He bites his lip. I’ll take that as a yes.

  Though I don’t have to. I don’t have to make do with subtle, because when I get up close to him he actually reaches forward, and starts fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. And he kisses me – he really kisses me, while I just stand there, frozen.

  It feels good, though. I won’t deny that. His cock pokes into my skirt, coming close to the V between my thighs. His mouth is warm and soft and patient, not frantic as I had expected. And then he pushes his hand inside my shirt, and fondles my half-clad breasts, and I forget every single thought in my head.

  I wonder if he’s going to try and make love to me, on the bathroom floor.

  ‘Gabe, wait –’

  He’s somehow got my bra undone. The shirt is off my shoulders.

  ‘Don’t you want me to do this, any more?’ he asks, but he rubs his erection against my skirt as he does so.

  ‘No – I do –’

  ‘It’ll be messy. I’m really close.’

  God. God. Fuck.

  ‘Do you want me to climb up, or are you going to … to kneel down. Like before, when you …’

  ‘When I sucked you?’

  ‘Yes, yes exactly.’

  He’s stroking himself, again. Short, restrained tugs, squeezing when he hits the base.

  ‘When Andy forced you to put your cock in my mouth?’

  ‘Oh my God, oh … oh Maddie, I’m gonna come.’

  Did he just call me Maddie? He did. I’m sure he did.

  ‘I can’t hold off – please,’ he says, so I get on my knees in front of him, for the second time. Not that I care about little details like that, when he just called me Maddie. When I keep flashing on us on the bathroom floor, holding each other.

  His hot come spurting over my breasts is a nice, clean, slap to the face. Something to wake me up and get me focussed on the matter at hand: him groaning above me as his cock jerks in his fist, streamer after streamer of spunk coating my nipples and my chest and even all the way up to my throat.

  Feels good. Silky and dirty and cooling on my heated flesh. And then I get to say this as he breathes unsteadily and tries to sit down where no seat is, ‘Now clean me up, you filthy little mess.’

  I don’t look at him as I say it, but I hear him simultaneously trying to tidy himself up, while obtaining some tissue for me. He should really know me better, by now.

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘No tissue. I want you to lick me clean.’

  I hear him pause. I can see tweed, out of the corner of my eye. At first I think he’s going to balk, and he makes a little sound that could be turning into a protest. But then he just gets to his knees in front of me, as determined as he had looked earlier, on his way to the bathroom to start this game off.

  ‘Quickly,’ I say. ‘I don’t have all day.’

  And then he puts his tongue to the drop of sticky fluid that landed right on my left nipple, and laps, and laps, and laps. I can’t help the little cry which escapes from between my supposedly pressed together lips.

  When he hears it, he suckles instead of licking. I clasp a hand to the back of his head – I can’t stop that, either. Just the sight of him, hungrily licking and sucking at my covered tits, groaning softly as he does so. His pink tongue against my pale skin, against the near translucent liquid …

  ‘Oh baby,’ I say, even though I hate myself for doing it.

  He gets to my throat, and my knees would buckle if they had anywhere to go. I just want to kiss and lick and suck him back, plunge my hands deeper into his silky black hair – but if I do, what then?

  I don’t mind admitting that it’s a relief when someone bangs on the outside door.

  He tastes like come, when I kiss him. The streets are rain-slicked and grey and we stand briefly under a shop awning, when it rushes down heavily, suddenly. He looks out onto the street as it thunders down, oblivious to my eyes on him. He’s talking about nothing in particular, and ends by saying that we’re not going to make it to the cinema in time.

  I think he might be beautiful. Not classically so, but just – he looks so lovely, in the low light. He’s worrying about some little thing, and yet he seems so much less concerned than he once did, as though the weight on his back has gradually lifted.

  There’s more stubble than there used to be, on his face. It looks good – especially at the firm curve of his jaw. His hair isn’t as tightly smoothed to his head, and there’s no tie, today. It’s just little things, really. Little things that become big, on him.

  So I kiss him, when he’s busy not looking. And he kisses me back, because that’s what we do, now.

  We also apparently go to the cinema, to see a double bill of probably inadvisable steamy French movies. I wonder if he’s going to want me to hold his hand, in the dark. Or put my hand over his eyes. Or put my hand down his pants.

  He’s still wearing the pink knickers.

  ‘What was that for?’ he asks, when I pull away. And I have to consider: is it really that unusual for me to just kiss him? Or is that we’re outside, in the open, like a proper couple?

  I hope he doesn’t want to hold my hand, in the dark.

  ‘I want to taste what you’ve been doing, lately,’ I say.

  But I’m lying. The real answer was: because you looked so gorgeous, I just couldn’t resist. And he’s blushing, now, too, which always makes him look even hotter, somehow. Though nothing on him even comes close to this, in the hotness stakes, ‘I’ve been licking your tits.’

  God I wish a customer hadn’t interrupted us. Maybe I could just let my business go to hell, and spend my days playing kinky games with Gabe until I turn myself inside out.

  ‘Really?’ I say, and he touches a cheeky tongue to his upper teeth. ‘And what else did you do, while you were there?’

  He leans in, then, too close for comfort. Whispers in my ear as an old lady hurries past.

  ‘I tasted myself, on you.’

  My world narrows down, to just his words. Not an anatomy lesson, not something he read out for me – his words, freely given. I kiss his cheek, as a reward, but somehow that’s even worse than the one I’ve just planted on his lips. So intimate and sweet – I can’t resist at all when his hand slides down my arm, and closes around mine.

  It seems as though we’re supposed to do that, now. I guess it was only a matter of time.

  We walk in silence to the cinema, getting a little wet around the edges. By the time we get there, I’m certain The Hairdresser’s Husband is a terrible idea. It’s all romance and tragedy and sex, people foofing around in French until you just want to drink coffee and have tortured affairs with the entire world.

  Through the darkness, he whispers to me, ‘I’m not even a fan of French films. I prefer spaceships and aliens.’

  And I want to cry, because that’s almost exactly what I wanted to tell him. But I don’t say anyt
hing at all, and then a little later he asks me if I think he’s uncultured, for saying so.

  ‘Why would I ever think that? You’re intelligent and well-read and …’

  Stop. Stop.

  ‘… let’s just watch the movie.’

  But of course we don’t just watch the movie. How can we, when I can’t keep my hands off him and apparently he can’t keep his hands off me? Even when he’s just got his fingers wrapped around mine, I can feel him stroking over my knuckles, methodically, one at a time. Pushing between each finger, in a way that seems lewd and is probably now intended as such.

  And everything is only exacerbated by the orgasm I didn’t get, a few hours ago. I had almost retired to the bathroom myself, when the ache through my swollen sex got just a little too much. And by too much I mean: please come into the bathroom and catch me masturbating, so I can lick my come off your chest.

  I still haven’t seen him without any clothes on.

  ‘Madison?’ he whispers. There are only two other people in the entire cinema, but as we all know by now he’s the considerate type. ‘Are you all right?’

  I guess I must be visibly squirming in my seat. He’s not helping by continuing to rub between my fingers. His thumb makes it to my wrist, and I have to lean over and kiss him. It’s just a necessity.

  On the screen, they’re sprawled on the floor. Doing stuff. If I can just hold off, I’m pretty sure she tops herself, soon. That’ll kill the mood of warm sensuous love-things, crawling all over me.

  Though probably not the mood that his hand inside my coat is creating. I think he really, really likes my breasts, because he seems to have no qualms about fondling them, any more. Once the top three buttons are undone, it could be that he traces all the places he marked, earlier on.

  ‘Madison,’ he whispers, but it’s not a question this time. And I can hear words stirring against my ear before they’re even out, his hand now at my throat and my coat almost off.

  So I push him back into his seat, and grab a handful of what he’s got between his legs.

  His hands immediately go up and off me, hovering just above the armrests as though they’re on fire. As though he’s being held at a gunpoint.