by Lily Harlem
Cougar
An Erotica Collection
Table of Contents
Title Page
Pawn Shop – Lily Harlem
B and B – Primula Bond
Dear Fuckbook – Kyoko Church
I’m with the Band – Elizabeth Coldwell
Katrina’s Stallion – Kathleen Tudor
A Wonderful Time – Olivia London
Things to Do in New York When It’s 90 – Chrissie Bentley
Dirty Gertie – Heather Towne
Insegnante – Giselle Renarde
Money, Honey – Tenille Brown
More from Mischief
About Mischief
Copyright
About the Publisher
Pawn Shop
Lily Harlem
I glanced up from my crossword puzzle as the bell above the shop door tinkled. A man, broad shoulders, bright white smile and wearing black wraparound shades, strode into the warren of dusty shelves and cabinets. He moved with purpose, the material of his jeans hugging the tops of his long thighs and his paces eating the ground.
I’d bet my last ten quid he wasn’t from around here. Fenchurch Brokers had been my home from home since I was a young girl and I’d taken it over when Pops had died ten years ago. I knew everyone’s face, the way they knew mine.
‘So what have you got for me?’ I asked, then realised a few moments too late that I’d fluffed my brunette locks over my shoulders and licked my lips.
His broadening grin told me he was used to the effect he had on women, of any age.
Inwardly I berated myself. I was the local bank-of-crisis, get-money-quick supplier. I bought crap, or treasure, for pennies, and sold it on for a few quid whenever red letters landed on doormats or kitchen cupboards were bare. I didn’t do the whole simpering female thing. That just wasn’t me.
‘DVDs,’ he said and dumped a dark-green carrier bag on the counter.
‘Not much call for them, I’m afraid.’ I sighed, trying to feign nonchalance. ‘What kind of films are they?’ I put down the pen I was holding, to keep me from tapping it on the counter.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘This is a pawnshop, right?’
‘Yes.’ His cologne was wafting towards me – tropical breeze and fresh open water. It seeped up my nostrils, sped up my pulse and created a tickle of sensation around my temples.
Damn.
‘So I can sell you these, for cash,’ he went on, ‘and if I decide I want them back, and they’re still in the shop, I can repurchase them?’
‘That’s generally how it works.’ I noticed that his bottom lip was fuller than the top and had the tiniest indentation in the centre. To my annoyance I found myself utterly mesmerised by it and unable to tear my attention away from his mouth.
‘Great.’ He pushed the bag nearer to me. ‘Because I don’t need these anymore, I’ve watched them all. But I’d like the chance of getting them back if I can at some stage.’
Standing, I smoothed my skirt and glanced at my displayed cleavage. Today I wore a low-buttoned, silky-black blouse and a string of pearls. ‘Are they recent movies?’
‘Yeah, all from the last year.’ He cocked his head and grinned, his gaze following mine and leaving a heated trail down my throat and over my chest.
I withdrew the first DVD from the bag. Full of Tristan. On the front was a picture of two naked guys standing facing out to sea, one with his hand on the other’s arse.
‘They’re not conventional blockbusters,’ he said. ‘More of a speciality, you know, collectors’ editions.’
I frowned and pulled out the next one. The Gardener’s Best Tool. I studied the cover: a large green bush strewn with underwear, from behind the foliage two pairs of feet stuck out in such a way it was obvious what the couple were doing.
He leaned forward on the counter, placed his elbows at points and rested his chin on his clasped hands. ‘I understand if they’re not your thing,’ he said then bit down on his bottom lip, flattening out that delectable dink. ‘Some people just can’t cope with porn, especially older generations.’
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. What the hell did he think I was? Some old lady about to get shipped off to the nursing home with nothing more to look forward to than Strictly on a Saturday night? Cheeky bugger!
‘I don’t have a problem with porn,’ I said, casually stacking the DVDs on top of one another and counting them with a neutral expression on my face. Eighteen in total.
He lifted his shades, propped them on his head. His irises were an interesting mix of hazel and green and reminded me of melting mint-choc-chip ice-cream.
‘You don’t?’ he asked, raising his brows.
‘No.’ Small drops of sweat popped on my cleavage as his eyes twinkled. Damn it, why was I letting some gorgeous young man get to me this way? I was Nadia Fenchurch – no one got to me.
‘So how much will you give me for them?’ he asked, touching a small silver cross that sat in the hollow of his throat.
‘Well, there are eighteen, I reckon I’ll sell them on for just a few quid each, so twelve pounds the lot.’
He raised his brows. ‘That’s not much, hardly worth the bother.’
I shrugged. ‘You want an extra few bob in your pocket or what?’
‘Barely get me a couple of pints.’
‘Better than giving them away.’
‘Mmm.’ One side of his mouth twitched into a half-smile.
I reached for his empty carrier bag and set about smoothing it and folding it. A completely unnecessary task but I had to do something to engage my fiddling fingers.
‘I suppose it will be interesting,’ he said.
‘What will be?’
‘To give them to you.’ He dropped his shades down over his eyes again.
‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged, in a maddeningly sexy kind of way that made me want to slap him and lick him all at the same time. ‘Nothing, I didn’t mean anything by it. Can I get my cash?’
I opened my ancient vinegar-brown till and plucked out a note and a couple of coins. ‘Here you go.’ I passed him the money and for a second our hands connected. The briefest of moments when heat from his flesh seeped into mine and created a sizzle of sensation up my arm. It had been a long time since I’d touched a handsome man and every erogenous zone in my body went on full alert.
But the connection was over in an instant and he turned, weaved past a table of odds-and-sods and a selection of old TVs and disappeared out onto the street.
I sat with a bump and fanned my face with my puzzle book. Phew, he was a hottie. If I was ten years younger, he’d have been just my cup of tea for getting naked, sweaty and down and dirty with.
After nipping into the backroom for a glass of water, I set about sorting the DVDs. They were all pornographic with a variety of either lewd or suggestive covers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d watched something explicit, and as I set them out on a high shelf behind the till I wondered if I might borrow one, take it home and remind myself of what a good fuck looked like.
Full of Tristan didn’t appeal, though The Gardener’s Best Tool was a possibility. I sifted through the other titles, Spanked, The Blushing Bride’s Darkest Desire, His Best Performance. Which one to choose?
The male on the cover of His Best Performance caught my eye. Tall, dark hair, sensual mouth with an indentation in his bottom lip.
No way.
Bloody hell, was it him? My hot customer!
It couldn’t be.
I studied the cover more closely. It absolutely, definitely was him. Those eyes, high cheekbones, broad shoulders. OK, I’d seen him fully clothed and on the cover of His Best Performance he wore only a pair of swimming trunks – t
iny, tight, yellow – but I recognised him beyond doubt. I swallowed a lump in my throat. What was beneath his clothes was nothing short of beautiful. Golden chest, defined abs and a tantalising trail of hair from his naval to the waistband of those itsy-bitsy trunks.
Behind him a woman reclined on a sun-lounger, her arms tossed above her head and a towel carefully placed on her naked body to cover the juncture of her thighs, though her full breasts jutted towards the sun. She was the picture of bliss with her eyes shut, back arched and parted mouth upturned in a smile. He’d obviously used the cock I could just decipher the outline of, to give her exactly what she wanted and then some.
My heart thudded. I could hear my pulse whooshing through my ears. I glanced at the door half expecting to see him watching me through the glass.
He wasn’t.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I slipped the DVD into my handbag between my purse and a paperback. There was no competition as to which porn film I would be taking home tonight. It could only be His Best Performance. I just hoped it lived up to my expectations.
I glanced at a grandfather clock I’d been trying to sell for three years. Good, it was nearly time to shut up. A heat was flooding my pelvis and my nipples were tingling. For once I was looking forward to something other than EastEnders on the TV tonight.
* * *
I re-checked there wasn’t a crack in my curtains and hit play on the remote. My darkened living room flooded with light. The movie prelude was a bright sun rising from a black horizon. I skipped forward a few frames. The movie began and I was deafened by a piano tune that accompanied crashing waves.
After turning down the volume, I took a sip of my drink. The gin was sharp on my tongue, a delicious bitter assault on my tastebuds. I was all about my senses tonight. I was hoping Jared – I knew his name now, it was written in bold letters across the top of the box: ‘starring Jared Letterman’– would give me a little bit of the experience that naked pool lady had enjoyed.
The movie started, a set-up about a rich but bored woman with a movie-executive husband. Jared – in the movie he’s known as Dirk – turned up for an audition at her lavish Hollywood home only to find the husband out at work.
Within minutes the action was getting steamy. I gulped at my drink and shrugged out of my cardigan as Jared stepped out of his jeans. Seeing his naked body did funny things to my insides; they were tumbling and heating, swelling with a hunger for something I’d lived without for too many years.
Before long, the glamorous wife and Jared were shagging. At first in the pool, then the hot tub, and finally they performed oral sex on each other on the lounger which led to her riding him like a world rodeo champion.
I stared at his face, his cock, the rippling muscles on his back and buttocks as he threw himself into his tasks. He was perfection, every single inch of him exactly how a man should be. As the film came to an end – Jared being offered the starring role in the next big blockbuster by her unwitting husband – I found I’d slipped my fingers beneath the waistband of my skirt.
A need had grown, a desire for pressure and stimulation. My breaths were coming quick and as I pressed on my clit my knees flopped open and my butt-cheeks tensed. Quickly I rewound to the sun-lounger scene, Jared licking the woman’s pussy, making her squirm and squeal and clutch at his hair. Staring, unblinking, I imagined it was me that he was fucking with his tongue, just like that.
Rotating my fingers, I canted my hips upwards. I wasn’t gentle; this was about satisfaction and letting my imagination fly me away on a wonderful fantasy. To have a man as insanely beautiful and talented as Jared sucking on my clit, thrusting his fingers into my pussy, was an image that had given me wings.
Soon I was coming, just as the woman on TV shouted that she was in her loud American voice. I upped the speed and gripped my left breast with my free hand, the way Jared was doing to her.
I spiralled into bliss, my clit throbbing and pulsing. I wanted to shut my eyes, close in on myself, but I didn’t. Instead, I kept them wide open, staring straight at Jared as he slowed his ministrations and wiped his forearm over his shiny mouth.
‘Oh, oh,’ I panted, slipping down the armchair a little. My spine like dust, my thighs trembling.
But only one thing was going through my mind.
Had he meant to leave that DVD in my shop?
* * *
The next morning business was quiet. An elderly gentleman enquired about the grandfather clock but grunted when I told him the price. A woman who visited regularly with fine pieces of jewellery accepted thirty pounds for a gold bracelet with a butterfly clasp. She gripped the notes, her eyes moist and her lips a tight line. I decided to put the bracelet to the back of the cabinet so only the most observant of punters would spot it, then gave the little girl standing quietly at her side a mint from my jar.
I was just about to switch the sign at the front of the shop to CLOSED and retreat to my back room for a cheese sandwich and a Cup-a-Soup when the door opened.
‘I’m shut for an hour,’ I called, my head still dipped over the glass-topped drawer.
‘So do you want me to flip this sign for you?’
A flush swarmed over my chest and up my neck. I would recognise that voice anywhere. Especially after listening to him on my TV last night.
I shut the drawer and straightened, trying to look unflustered. Then watched Jared flip the cardboard sign hanging on a piece of putty so it read OPEN to the inside of the shop.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, heat travelling over my scalp and flaming onto my cheeks.
He sauntered up to the desk, removing his shades and poking them into the ‘v’ neckline of his black T-shirt. ‘I need to buy one of my DVDs back. It shouldn’t have been in the pile.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later. I’m closed now, for lunch.’
‘But it won’t take a minute. It’s the one called His Best Performance.’ He tipped his head and studied the shelf behind me.
Shit.
The DVD he wanted was still in my player at home. I’d had plans to watch it again, later, after a hot bath and with a dildo that had been gathering dust of late.
‘Mmm,’ he said, rubbing his bottom lip with his index finger. ‘I can’t see it.’
My mind whirred. I struggled to think straight. ‘I sold it. Someone bought it, this morning.’
His sharp gaze caught mine and he gave me that look again, the one that made me feel like he was seeing right inside me. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ I fiddled with a string of red beads around my neck, looping them in and out of my fingers.
‘That’s an odd coincidence.’
‘Why is it? Someone came in, they wanted porn, that’s what they bought.’
‘Male or female?’
‘I, um, male, not that it matters.’
He lifted his finger and made a show of counting the remaining DVDs, mouthing the numbers as he did so. ‘And he just bought one?’
‘Yes.’
He sighed and rested a black leather jacket over the counter. ‘Fuck, that’s a real pity.’
I licked my lips and studied the cross that was wedged at a slight angle at the base of his throat. I couldn’t help but wonder what his flesh would taste like there, what it would feel like on the tip of my tongue. A little rough in texture but a sweet flavour that matched the way he smelled. ‘Why does it matter?’ I asked.
‘Because it was important to me.’
I just bet it was.
‘There’s nothing I can do, Jared, it’s gone out into the big wide world, never to return.’ As I spoke my stomach dropped. Panic swam through my veins and my breath stuttered in my throat.
Fuck.
He raised his brows and straightened. ‘How do you know my name?’
I stopped fiddling with my necklace, crossed my arms and balled my fists.
‘How do you know my name?’ he asked again, cocking his head.
‘I’m shut for lu
nch. Please leave and come back another time if you want to repurchase your DVDs.’ I turned and went into the sanctuary of my backroom. My legs were wobbly, my knees weak, but I held my chin high.
I gasped when there was a sudden tightening on my right upper arm.
‘You watched it, didn’t you?’ Jared spun me to face him. ‘You didn’t sell it, you kept it for yourself. That’s how you know my name.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ He didn’t look angry; instead he looked pleased, triumphant almost.
‘So tell me, what did you think of my performance?’
I stepped backwards and he followed, holding both my upper arms now. My shoulders hit the wall and he pressed his body against mine and looked down at me. His face was so close I could make out a small scar just below his left eye and see every dark eyelash individually.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, acutely aware of his hard pecs shoved up against the soft mounds of my breasts. Pushing, pressing into me.
‘Quit the games,’ he said with a slow smile. ‘You watched me in action, you loved it, it turned you on.’ His voice was low and rumbling, and it did funny things to the very pit of my stomach.
‘No, I didn’t.’ My denial was feeble, even to my ears.
Suddenly his mouth was on mine, hard, urgent and dominant.
I gasped a protest and smacked my fists against his solid body. But he ignored me and plundered my mouth with his tongue, feeding me his syrupy yet raw flavour.
My protest turned into a groan of delight and I scrabbled for his shoulders, barely knowing whether to shove him away or drag him closer for more.
God, the man could kiss. Not only that, he was kissing me like he really was enjoying it, not acting, but actually wanted me.
He ran his hands up my arms, over my shoulders and cradled my face. ‘You’re fucking gorgeous,’ he whispered onto my lips.
If I could have let go of him to pinch myself and make sure I wasn’t dreaming, I would have. ‘Really?’