by Kris Pearson
“Total magic,” Ryan agreed. “I had an older lover when I was sixteen. She’d make me stand up and then she’d kneel and take them into her mouth and hum. It was like a hot, wet, all-surrounding vibrator. I went off in seconds the first time—jism all over the room.”
“Can I see that too? Would you mind?”
His eyebrows rose. “You want to watch me jerking off?”
She nodded.
“Only if it’s mutual. I won’t do it alone.”
“Mutual?”
“You do you. I’ll do me.”
Her lips parted on a gasp of surprise. “I couldn’t. I mean—I don’t.”
“Never?” Now it was his turn to look amazed.
Sophie shrugged.
“Take your panties off.” His voice had gone hoarse.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“I’ll do it for you then, shall I?” He knelt and tugged her toward him so she sat on the very edge of the bed. “It’ll be the best thing you ever felt. Never?” He shook his dark head.
Sophie trembled, desperate to know more.
It’ll be very valuable information, she assured herself.
But who was she kidding? Now she wanted the sensation for more than her writing. She wanted to know what she’d been missing. She wanted to enjoy Ryan’s sexy confidence. To prolong her time with him, here in this private room with its musky male smell and motor-bike pictures—and the pulsing music that now pounded right in time with her heartbeat.
She tensed as his hands slid under her red dress and peeled her panties down. Then she leaned back on her elbows and dragged in a deep breath. Would it be as good as he’d promised? The best thing she’d ever felt?
His hands settled onto her knees and he stroked a little way up her thighs.
“Great legs,” he said. “I’ve been looking. Have you noticed? Noticed me taking notice of you?”
She’d had no idea—hadn’t dreamed someone so hunky would be interested. She sent him a small pleased smile. “Maybe.”
His hands smoothed up higher—still gentle, still not threatening. “Lie back.”
Sophie obeyed his husky suggestion as his fingers kneaded and stroked, up and up, until he pushed her legs apart and touched her slippery clit.
“Shhhhhh...” he soothed as she gave a soft gasp of alarm. “Relax and enjoy.” His fingertip began to circle and slide, over and around, over and around. “Top quality research,” he murmured. “Is it nice right there?”
She swallowed, and nodded, speechless with sensation.
Ryan pushed her dress right up to her waist, and bent to kiss the quivering skin of her belly.
Deep inside Sophie turned hot and liquid with wanting. She parted her legs further.
Ryan licked his finger and rubbed faster, slower, harder, lighter. “That’s it, babe,” he encouraged. “Just like that. Let go for me.” And Sophie spun out of control, shuddering and moaning.
Minutes later they lay together on the bed. He looked down at her with tender amusement. “Think you’ll recover?”
“That was wonderful,” she whispered. “Thank-you.”
“You’ve never come before?”
She shook her head. “Not until just then,” she said with a shy smile. “That’s why I wanted to know everything properly, so I don’t get things wrong in my writing. I could write something great now.”
“You don’t know the half of it yet,” he muttered. “And I don’t want you treating me as clinical research any more, either.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“I won’t let you. From now on this is a date—a proper date. Okay?”
Sophie swallowed. “Okay,” she agreed.
“So,” Ryan said, I’ll put my clothes back on and we’ll have that glass of wine, and then you can undress me as though I’m more than a piece of meat.”
She leaned up on one elbow and watched. He was beautiful, and still so pumped up he had difficulty tucking himself away and zipping up his jeans.
“Why don’t we do it now?” she asked as he topped up their glasses.
“After what you’ve just told me? I want to seduce you properly. We’ll do it, Sophie. We’ll do it for hours if you want, but we’ll take our time and wind each other up to fever-pitch first.”
Her lips parted in anticipation.
“You won’t be thinking about your writing—you’ll be thinking all about me. All about me.” He leaned down and took her mouth in a sudden savage kiss, then drew back, lifted the glasses of wine, and held one out to her. He raised his in a toast. “To making things amazing?” he suggested.
Tigger stretched and closed her eyes. Not bad. People would buy that. She’d price it at 99 cents, seeing it was short, but it was surprising how Deepli D’Amore’s e-book sales were adding up. No-one at that afternoon’s meeting had been into self-publishing. More fool them, in her opinion. She hadn’t encouraged them to try it. Why add to the competition?
Deepli’s next story would be the seduction that followed. Another 99 cents worth on Amazon.com. And she really needed some masculine input to make it feel authentic.
Frowning, she tapped out another email to Tank, knowing she’d be lucky to get anything different from the last couple of replies. They’d simply said ‘Missing U 2 Babe.’
Yeah, she just bet he was. Off with some groupie was more his style. Well, two could play at that…
CHAPTER 12 - ROMY’S CRUEL CORSET
What else could she buy her children for Christmas? It was exactly five weeks off, and Romy knew she’d only get busier and busier until then.
And of course she needed something brilliant for Neill. Darling Neill, who held things together for her.
Ten year old Natasha already invented wildly unlikely fairy tales. Eight year old Sarah read way above her age. And little Daniel was Neill’s, and all the more precious for being so.
Neill Farrell had been one of the helpers on the Community Clean-Up truck six years earlier. He’d seen the petite divorcee struggling with some heavy old steel piping she was dragging to the front gate for the free collection. And he’d simply taken over. Hauled out the pipes as though they weighed nothing. Returned at the end of the afternoon to offer any other help she needed. Stayed to dinner. Slipped into her bed and into her heart.
He was unfazed by her two young children, had her pregnant with Daniel only weeks later, and married her soon after. She’d not cooked a meal since the day he moved in. Nor mowed a lawn or changed a light bulb or hung a load of washing.
“You earn the money, and I’ll look after everything else for you,” he’d said. And somehow their system worked.
Neill pushed out walls and added new rooms when he was not being mother or teacher’s assistant. Created a study for Romy and a workshop for himself. Bought her time to relax, and loved her silly.
Romy was a Senior Account Manager for ADverts. Her clients were blue-chip. They expected instant action, real results, huge sales increases for the vast expenditure the ADverts Agency extracted from them. And they expected Romy to jump if they snapped their fingers.
She spent a lot of time on planes... a lot of time in the transit lounges of airports. She’d started writing to fill up some of that time—because you could only go over and over the brief and the campaign strategy so many times before it started to blur in front of your eyes.
She’d check in and tune out—to a different century, where everything was less frenzied, more mannered. Just for fun, to start with.
She’d been finishing off a chapter at the kitchen table one night four years earlier and Neill had paused to drop a kiss on the top of her dark curly hair. He’d flicked his eyes to the screen to see what she was working on, and been amazed to find it wasn’t media forecasts or TV rates or sales projections.
Isabella studied Don Antonio through her lowered lashes. Sooty lashes, as luxuriant as her midnight hair. She was merely a serving wench, but prayed that her lush figure and smooth, smallpox-free face might find favor with
this gentleman of wealth and power.
She inhaled deeply, knowing her breasts would rise inside the gathered white blouse with its enticing drawstring... knowing full well they would strain against the black velvet over-bodice, and that his fingers might be tempted to tweak the ribbon undone and investigate further.
She saw him pause, hesitate, decide. She raised her eyes to his.
And Neill’s big hands slid over Romy’s shoulders and started to undo the row of buttons down the front of her pin-striped business shirt.
“Senorita,” he suggested. “Allow me the pleasure of stroking your milk-white skin and admiring your pretty boobies.”
“I don’t think ‘boobies’ was a word they used a lot in eighteenth century Spain,” Romy chuckled.
“And I dinna think Don Antonio came from Edinburgh,” he replied, hands on her breasts, lips on her neck. “But I like the sound of that drawstring arrangement. We’ll have to get one of those.”
“We’ve already got one,” Romy said, reaching around to pull his pajama cord undone. Neill’s slippery burgundy pants shimmied down his legs and hit the floor. Romy turned and looked, and reached, and fondled.
“What a wonderfully accessible body you have, Don Antonio,” she murmured. “Obedient, too. So pleased to see me.”
“Senorita, you forget yourself.”
“Milord—I’m simply admiring you, and there’s more to admire by the second.”
“Aye, lassie, so switch that contraption off for the night and let me turn you on, eh? What’s the writing in aid of? Have you got another career I don’t know about?”
Romy had Saved and smiled. “Just something to do while I’m waiting at airports,” she said as she rose and walked with him to the bedroom. Neill didn’t bother to replace his pajama pants. Romy slipped an arm around his waist and stroked the warm skin over his hipbone as they dawdled together up the hallway. “I’ve always liked history. It’s fun doing a little research and getting things right. Details like underwear and hairstyles.”
“Whalebone stays and pantaloons?” he queried. “Crinoline skirts with all those petticoats? I’ve often thought it would be wonderful unwrapping a woman who was so tightly laced and totally concealed...” He pulled Romy into his arms for a sudden savage kiss.
“Turns you on, does it?” she asked when he released her. She could see and feel exactly how aroused he was.
“Not that I don’t like removing your lacy little skanties and titty-covers,” he continued, “but a man could enjoy investigating what’s under some of those old-fashioned passion killers.”
And so their games had started. With time on his hands and a magpie nature, Neill delved into secondhand clothing shops and antique stores, placed ads on the internet sites, and inspected all manner of alarming garments. He found Victorian and Edwardian underwear was still to be had, and the private presents he gave to Romy for her birthday or Christmas—or no occasion at all—gave them much mutual pleasure.
The heroines in her novels began to divest themselves of their clothes with great regularity so they could display their lovingly described underwear.
And that had been the turning point with the publishing house to which she’d sent a couple of hopeful manuscripts. Her third novel had been just what her editor needed. And some skilful reworking of the first two meant they were sold as well. Sylvia Farrell became Romy Farr. Romy because she was the first and only daughter of an immigrant couple from Romania, and because it just seemed to go with the Farr from Farrell.
She shook herself back to the task at hand. Christmas presents. It would be the latest ‘Samara Sleuthhound’ for Natasha. Oh to achieve such success with her own books!
She sipped her coffee and admired the muscles flexing in Neill’s very good legs as he and Daniel built a fort at the far end of the lawn. The late sunlight sifted down over them through fingers of cloud.
Strange that something so ordinary could look so idyllic. She reached for her ever present iPhone and popped off a couple of shots before dragging her brain to eight-year-old Sarah’s gifts. Money was no longer a problem. ADverts paid handsomely in return for her body and soul. Neill had rounded up some nine-till-three home-handyman jobs for cash as soon as Daniel was settled at school. And the book royalties were a pleasant extra.
The prospect of being a serious writer now ate at her constantly. Perhaps Neill could get a full-time job and she could write—and take back the cooking and housework? She’d sound him out tonight.
Right after he’d laced her into the whalebone corset that pushed her breasts up almost to her chin. How had women survived it all those years ago? She could scarcely breathe once Neill had her all trussed up. But the effect on him was electrifying. He’d spend hours in their four-poster bed doing anything she wanted... pleasuring her with his hands and mouth until she begged for mercy.
And then pull the laces apart with infinite slowness, kissing her shoulders and breasts as he peeled the fabric away, tut-tutting at the cruel marks the devilish garment had made on her pale body, knowing that she suffered it only for him and his special pleasure. Yes—she’d ask him tonight.
CHAPTER 13 - TIGGER PLANS AHEAD
She needed to find something to wear that would be accessible without being obvious. Jeans, cut-offs, shorts—they were all she’d brought home. And she couldn’t stand the thought of being so exposed, with her thong and jeans crumpled around one ankle in their haste to get at one another’s flesh, because for sure they were going to do it.
She opened the wardrobe onto her past. Maybe there’d be something old but still possible lurking there? She pushed the hangers along the rail. Awful. Worse. Unwearable. Unbearable. Maybe...
Her old black wrap-around skirt. Ancient, but so plain it’d be almost unnoticeable with a decent top. And the ties would adjust it to fit. Tigger was jubilantly slimmer after the miles of walking on her postal round each day and eighteen months away from Eloise’s butter-laden cooking.
So which top? The acid yellow T-shirt with the hologram? Or the red with the gold ink angels’ wings on the back? She loved that one—but she wasn’t feeling too angelic this evening. Or the skimpy dark blue with the tiny straps and the silver stars? Perfect.
Would he let her? Yes—of course he would. He’d probably beg if he had to. Wouldn’t he?
Where could they go? Not back here to her old bedroom, that was for sure. She wouldn’t risk smuggling him in through the deck doors.
She wasn’t going to walk him past her parents as they sat watching TV either; Eloise had mentioned she sometimes asked him to help with computer problems.
And they couldn’t go to Ben’s room—it opened right off his Mom’s sitting room.
She hoped he had a big car.
Did he have a car at all? Would he arrive in a taxi? Would he be walking? She wrinkled her nose. This was getting complicated.
And should she offer to pay for her movie seat? If he was still at school, he wouldn’t have cash to burn. The house had been pleasant. Lived-in and comfortable, but far from luxurious. His mother had been widowed for several years. Ben said she worked as a librarian, so they weren’t rolling in money.
But what a delicious treat he’d be. Seventeen. Tall and built. Not quite a man yet. Sporty she presumed, from the rugby and cricket posters on his bedroom walls. So a toned body and a gorgeous kissable sulky mouth. What more could a girl want?
Well, his eyes were rather nice. Brown, but golden. And his hair was clean and thick when it could have been greasy and dirty, or shaved to scratchy stubble. Ben was a peach, ripe for her plucking.
Tigger pictured them side by side in the darkened cinema, his hand moving shyly across to hold hers. Or his arm sliding with caution around her shoulder, drawing her a little closer. His breath on her cheek. His lips nuzzling her earlobe, hoping he was appearing grown up.
God, she hoped he’d suck her earlobe. Already the thought of it had her feeling raunchy. She’d suck his, to give him the right idea if she had to…
Dressing with speed, she freshened her smoky eye makeup, and wondered about writing a few more sentences.
At that instant the doorbell pealed. She grabbed her cell-phone, stuffed it into her bag, gave herself a last once-over in the mirror, and dashed out to the living room.
“Bye Dad—going to a movie. Back by midnight.”
Johnno grunted, immersed in the newspaper. Eloise was in the bathroom—Tigger could hear water gurgling through the pipes.
And there her downy virgin was. Well, decidedly un-downy. Seriously shaved. One small cut on his chin. In jeans like a second skin. And a silver-gray shirt with a couple of buttons undone at the neck.
Six foot two and he had a little old Toyota.
Oh fuck, we’ll never fit.
CHAPTER 14 - MANDY’S UPLIFTING EXPERIENCE
If Max ever found out about Peter, she’d be dead meat, because Max wasn’t a nice man at all. The best thing about him was he was hardly ever home.
Mandy knew that was a terrible thing to say about her husband. So she was careful no hint of Peter ever reached Max.
Not many hints of Peter reached Mandy these days. They’d had a sudden little fling at a hospital party, months ago. Gone into the elevator together on the ground floor and started to rise with a bump and a hiss.
Delicious Doctor Piers Peters reached past the pert little theatre sister and pushed the ‘stop’ button.
“Special treat for you, Nursie,” he muttered as they jerked to a halt between floors. He stepped closer to her. Far too close. Her lips parted in heated expectation. Her breath rushed in and out as she waited for him to make his move. For make his move he finally would!
They’d worked only inches from each other for weeks now. Sometimes their flesh touched as she slapped the retractors or scalpels into his grasping, demanding hands. Even though they were separated by the thin barrier of surgical gloves, she’d felt how hot his body was. Burning hot. Burning for her?