The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘Seriously, you could drive a truck through it.’

  ‘It’s not a truck I’m thinking about driving between your thighs, Sarah.’

  Ohhhhh.

  ‘So can we move on to something I haven’t seen?’ he drawled.

  ‘This is a push-up bra, in … in case you didn’t realize.’

  ‘I realize. Now, take it off.’

  ‘And I’m unwaxed, unlike … unlike …’ Nope, she couldn’t say Rebel’s name. ‘I mean, it’s not an equatorial rainforest down there, it’s trimmed, but just … just … Gah!’ She closed her eyes, tight and hard. ‘I cannot believe I’m standing here talking to you about my pubic hair.’

  ‘One for the rulebook, bluebell: not all guys like a naked mound of Venus.’

  ‘Mound of Venus. That is so … ick.’

  ‘Got a better word?’

  ‘I am not going to go all thesaurus about female genitals, David.’

  ‘Want me to start you off?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then quit stalling and let me see what I’m getting.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to be disappointed.’

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you—you show me your body and I’ll resist the urge to bore you rigid by talking about my lack of a six pack, my inadequate biceps, and the fact that you can’t bounce a quarter off my arse.’

  Sarah started laughing, which made her fingers clumsy enough for it to take three goes to unhook her bra. But when she’d managed to get the bra off, then her panties, the intent look in David’s eyes dried the laughter right up.

  He took his time examining her. His eyes roamed from the top of her head, over her face, across her shoulders, to her breasts … where he paused. Her nipples had already sprung out in their little-pink-shell way, and as his eyes roamed over them, they obligingly hardened even more. Pop—here we are, please come and touch us!

  But his eyes were travelling down again until—wooshka!—they came to a hot stop on her not-naked-just-trimmed ‘mound of Venus’. God, she hated that expression. Hated that she wasn’t Rebel with her perfectly depilated whatever-the-hell-it-was. Pubis! Yeah, pubis. What was wrong with ‘pubis’? Arrrgggh, no that was ghastly. And why was he still looking at it?

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to your place yet. I want you right now.’

  And with that, David hauled her in and kissed her. A long, long moment, in which she could hear his breaths coming short and hard through his nose. Those breaths hinted at desire, hot and strong—and yet his mouth was closed, determinedly so. Pressing, marking, branding, but closed.

  She felt … controlled. It was there in the way he kissed her, the way he was standing a little apart from her, the way he was subtly directing their manoeuvres so she couldn’t get close enough to take over the action, even in the way she was naked and he was fully clothed. Their only physical connection was via their mouths and his hands on her upper arms, and yet her head was spinning, her heart pounding, her body shivering with lust—because that was how he wanted her to be.

  Before she could even try to understand the need for that control, David finished the kiss and drew back.

  ‘Go into the bedroom, Sarah.’

  ‘Which … one?’

  ‘Our room.’

  Our room. Were those the best words in the world?

  ‘Turn on the lights and leave them on so I can see you. Get into bed. Wait for me.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay, but where are you going?’

  He smiled, but shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  She tried to slow her breathing as she walked down the corridor, but it kept hitching. Tried to still the trembling in her limbs, but couldn’t. Please don’t let me disgrace myself by orgasming the moment he comes into the bedroom, she thought, as she entered the room and turned on the light.

  And then she moved to the bed, turned down the covers, and as she started to climb into bed, she saw them.

  Four paintings on the wall, grouped together.

  Rebel.

  ***

  David wasn’t proud of the fact that he had to take a few minutes to dampen his raging lust via a quick trip to the bathroom for some self-gratification, but that one kiss that had been meant to test his control hadn’t gone as easily as he’d hoped. In fact, it had been touch and go whether he’d tumble her to the floor. Thank God he’d reeled it back; he was not going to have this time turn into a carbon copy of the fumbling experience their first time had been. There would be foreplay—lots of it. He would actually get his clothes off. There would be no falling on her like a madman. And the only way to guarantee all that was to take the edge off first.

  Even with the bathroom stop, he was practically drooling with anticipation as he opened his bedroom door. But one look at Sarah’s face kept him in check. Something was wrong. Something was— Ahh!

  Clearly, with all his blood draining straight to his dick, there hadn’t been enough left to engage sufficient little grey cells in his brain to remember those damn paintings.

  He’d hung them after he’d arrived home that infamous Saturday night. A reminder that he wasn’t the man to go with Sarah’s white picket fence, SUV and two-point-five kids. Side benefit—they were a lust deterrent. If only Rebel knew one look at her naked body could turn him right off! Oh, the irony.

  Not that he could provide Sarah with either of those explanations, so without saying a word, he lifted the paintings off the wall, bundled them carelessly together, took them down to the spare room, and slammed the door on them.

  ‘Better?’ he asked, coming back into the bedroom.

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘They’ve served their purpose.’

  ‘What purpose?’

  ‘Not important.’

  ‘I know you’re only going to put them back on the wall the minute our three weeks are up, so—’

  ‘Three weeks and one day,’ he corrected.

  ‘—seriously, you may as well just leave them there.’

  Okay, time to acknowledge he’d stuffed up. ‘Get up, Sarah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘You can’t! We have a deal! And I—I don’t care about the paintings. I don’t, I promise I don’t.’

  ‘I do, however. Now get out of bed, get dressed, go out to the kitchen and pour yourself a drink. There are no thousand-dollar bottles of wine out there, but you might get lucky and find a five-hundred dollar bottle—and if you want to drink that, have at it. I’ll be with you as soon as I’m packed.’

  ‘As soon as you’re … huh?’

  He grinned at her—and knew his dimples were digging deep. He felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He felt … happy. ‘I’ve decided to move in with you instead.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  David had given Sarah short shrift on the drive to her place when she’d reminded him she lived over the Harbour Bridge (Which is why I am, in fact, driving over the bridge); that her place was very girly (You are, in fact, a girl); and that it was exceedingly small (I’m going to be all over you like drool on a baby, how much room do you think we need?)

  When he started whistling, Sarah gave up trying to figure out why a sophisticated man like David Bennett would willingly move from an elegant city apartment to a teensy tiny granny flat in someone else’s yard, just because a few paintings had spooked a girl he was going to have no-strings, short-term sex with. It didn’t fit with the whole ‘get the hell out of my life’ sentiment he’d expressed such a short time ago, but so be it. He could whistle Dixie if he wanted, or La Marseillaise, or even go all Rocky and whistle Eye of the Tiger, because she’d got what she wanted—the best lover in the universe, to herself for three glorious weeks and one day. No guilt, no curse, just sex. She could leave her analysis of the situation for three weeks and two days from now.

  It wasn’t until they were inside
the flat that he stopped whistling.

  ‘First things first,’ he said, nodding at the new indigo blind. ‘How does that thing work?’

  She walked over to the wall and hit the switch to demonstrate.

  But the blind had barely started to rise when she was spun around and crushed in David’s arms, being kissed. If you could call that blur of harsh breaths and heady scents and rushing hands a kiss. The complex taste of whisky and heat; the sure firmness of his mouth; the hardness of his chest; his arms, holding her so easily, exactly where he wanted her; the confident skill of his tongue, as it slid along the seam of her lips, then slipped inside to taste and coax and thrill; his heartbeat, strong and fast. There was a throb between her legs, a hit of moisture, and she moaned, unable to keep it in, not wanting to keep it in.

  David made some tortured sound—frustration, desperation, desire. ‘Tell me you want me,’ he breathed against her mouth.

  ‘I do,’ she panted back. ‘You know I do.’

  He kissed her harder. Another spin, a fumbled step, two, and Sarah found herself on her back on the couch, David on top of her, mouth still fused to hers. Hands holding her head still so he could kiss her more deeply. Tiny, tiny breaks to drag in air. Who needed air, anyway? She was kissing him back for all she was worth, writhing beneath him, trying to get closer. Couldn’t he feel it? That throb? She needed him there. There, there, theeeere, hurry! God, she wanted to melt. She was melting.

  ‘Tell me you’re ready for me,’ he said against her mouth. ‘Just from this.’

  ‘Take off my skirt, rip it off me, and I’ll show you.’ She was so hot for him, she wanted to rip her skirt off herself, but she was too busy trying to touch him, hands slipping inside his jacket, under his T-shirt, feeling the scorch of his skin. That complicated smell of his, the one she was immersed in every time she changed into his cable knit sweater, was so intense she thought she might swoon with lust. She wanted him to consume her, possess her, do whatever the hell he wanted as long as it involved one of his body parts somewhere on her. No, all of his body parts, all over her. She surged upward, trying to spread her legs. ‘Please, please, touch me there.’

  He laughed, an ache of a laugh, and dragged his mouth away from hers.

  ‘No,’ she said, hands reaching for his face, trying to bring him back.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Just … God, just a moment, darling one.’ Another laugh, low and tormented. Kissing her, as he eased onto his side, again as he reached down to unbutton, unzip his jeans. ‘I need to do this first.’ Reaching into his back pocket, one more kiss as he tore open the packet. ‘And this.’ Freeing himself, smoothing on the condom, another kiss.

  Next moment, he was rolling onto her again, nudging the lapels of her jacket open wider. ‘And this.’ Moving down to take her small, hard nipple between his teeth through the fine cotton of her shirt and the skull-covered bra. Sucking, biting, as he fumbled with her shirt buttons. Shirt tugged open, bra cups yanked down, mouth closing over an uncovered nipple, sucking hard now.

  She grabbed his head, keeping him at her breast, ‘Oh my G-o-o-o-d, I love that.’

  He switched to her other nipple, licking, then sucking. ‘So do I. You are …’ lick ‘… just …’ suck ‘… so …’ kiss ‘… sweet.’ Hands moving down now, to the hem of her skirt, lifting, hitching, dragging upwards.

  ‘David, please, I want to feel you here.’ Bucking. ‘Here, oh God, right here.’

  ‘Open,’ he urged. ‘Wider. Fit me in. Let me touch you.’

  Instantly, her legs fell apart, one slipping off the couch. ‘Touch me. Do it now. Now, David.’

  Kissing her mouth, fingers feeling the patch of fabric between her thighs. She was so wet, it should have been embarrassing, but she didn’t care. She wanted him to feel it, to know what he did to her.

  But, ‘Not wet enough,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ she said, reaching for his hand, urging it closer, to touch her harder. ‘I am!’ His fingers slipping underneath. ‘Ah, ah, please,’ she begged, as he circled his fingers through the moisture.

  ‘I want you wetter,’ he said.

  ‘Oh God, God,’ she said. ‘I’m going to come, I really am.’

  ‘Then come, I want you to,’ he said, and kissed her again. ‘Come, Sarah, whenever you’re ready,’ as he twirled his fingers expertly around her clitoris.

  No words as she tensed … no words as she strained … no words as everything in her coiled tight … tighter … breathe … tighter … breathe … going to pass out … breathe … And suddenly there was a word, just one. ‘David!’ Keened into the labouring air as she gave her body over to the pleasure … and the whole of herself over to him.

  ***

  Could a man climax because a girl said his name?

  David was stunned to find that he probably could. He was certainly having to clench every cell in his body to ensure he didn’t. In his defence, it wasn’t as though Sarah had said his name, exactly. It was more like she’d breathed/gasped/panted/purred/wailed it. Sexy. As. Hell.

  Nevertheless, it wasn’t a proud moment. So much for taking his time. They were both still basically full clothed. He hadn’t even taken the five extra steps necessary to get to the freaking bed, instead tackling her to the couch before that thrice-damned blind had finished going up. The couch, where she was still splayed beneath him, hands loose in his hair, eyes closed, breathing slowly returning to normal, while he remained rigid with need, desperate with it, gloved-up, poised at the entrance to her body, ready to bypass a scrap of skull-printed cotton and a twist of crimson lace to slide home. He could do it, one thrust, she’d welcome it …

  No. No, goddammit, no. Sweat might be popping out all over his body, his head might be woozy from all the blood that had deserted it to pool below, he might have the shakes bad enough to be mistaken for an alcoholic with the DTs, but he was going to slow down if it killed him. And for starters, he was going to get her to the goddamn bed! Sarah opened her eyes then—the pupils enormous—and David leapt up, grabbed her hand, wrenched her up after him, and headed for it.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, stumbling along behind him.

  ‘I just …’ Stride, stride, stop. ‘Here, that’s all.’ Clearly his mental faculties were still suffering from the blood draining from his brain straight to Dicklandia, or he might have put that a little more intelligently. Ah, what the hell? This was not the time for words, anyway. So instead, David started stripping her.

  ‘I can do that,’ she said, sounding breathily, confidently gorgeous, as he wrenched her jacket over her shoulders and off.

  ‘I want to,’ he said shortly, throwing the jacket who-cared-where and moving on to her gaping shirt. He yanked it out from the waistband of her skirt, undid the last two buttons. He eased his hands around her back, under the shirt, all the way to the back of the collar, then dragged it backwards. It pulled her shoulders back, thrust out her breasts, and he had to fight the urge to dive on her there and then. No!

  Teeth actually grinding, he kept working at the shirt, getting it down her arms until it caught at her wrists. Cuffs. Buttoned. Dammit. He didn’t have it in him to stop and undo them, so he simply yanked hard, felt the fabric rip, the buttons pop. Then with one rough tug the shirt was gone, and he faced a more urgent problem—the bra.

  Oh God, the bra! The sight of it—a disordered mess of black, white and red, the cups dragged down so that her breasts popped over the top—was more erotic than nakedness. Half-tumbled, that was how she looked. Well, that was what she was—half tumbled. And David was going to make damn sure the second half, the full tumble, was memorable. Slow, skilled, exceptional.

  Setting his jaw, he turned Sarah abruptly so she was facing away from him—relief! He undid the hooks and eyes of her bra, fumbled with the straps, managed to get the instrument of torture off. While she was facing away, he decided he’d do the skirt. It was safer to do it when he couldn’t see her naked breasts. And in any case, the zipper
was there, staring at him.

  Slight sound as it lowered, a sound that made his pulse leap—Jesus, what was happening to him? Push, tug, push, and the skirt dropped around her ankles.

  David stopped to take a breath, then another. Why hadn’t he realized the sight of her cotton panties would send him towards coronary territory? But there they were, pouching around her almost non-existent backside, and it just so happened that the combination of the piratical underwear and her tiny bottom in them was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. How could every part of her be so adorable? He wanted to drop to his knees and kiss every damn skull while his fingers edged inside the trim of crimson lace at her crotch to play with her again. He wanted to make her come on the spot, and come and come and keep coming.

  Get it together. ‘Step,’ he said hoarsely, and she stepped, and kicked the skirt away. Then, ‘Shoes,’ in the same hoarse voice.

  ‘Really?’ she asked, and looked over her shoulder at him, her quizzical eyebrow arching up. ‘A lot of guys like girls to keep their shoes on.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not Frisky Frank the prurient podiatrist,’ he said.

  ‘No, you certainly are not,’ she said, and giggled.

  Okay, he had to kiss her. Just her shoulder. Just one kiss. And there it was—frangi-fucking-pani, messing with his head. She shivered, delightfully, deliciously, and he kissed her shoulder again. ‘Another time you can keep the shoes on. Hell, you can walk all over me in them,’ he found himself saying, and turned her to face him. ‘This time I want just you, only you, Sarah, nothing between us.’

  Her eyes widened. She looked … shaken. Well of course she did. He had to stop saying that stupid shit. That stupid romantic shit. This was not a romance.

  He cleared his throat, stepped back from her. They stared at each other for a moment, and then she nodded, as though they’d actually communicated something, and kicked off her shoes.

  She shrank five inches in the process, which made him smile. It shouldn’t surprise him any more, how tiny she was—he’d known it from the start; it had a lot to do with why he’d chosen her for the painting, the fascination of a fairy-sized human. And he’d drawn her, had her in his arms. He’d had her, for God’s sake. But it hit him hard just then, how much he loved the size of her—and in the next thought, how easily she could be hurt because of that. One too-rough squeeze, one overly enthusiastic thrust.