Addicted (Mischief Books)

by Stein, Charlotte

  And that’s enough to push me over the edge.

  My body practically jackknifes, curling in on itself so fast and jerkily he almost loses his rhythm. His hips kind of stutter to a stop and one of his hands slides up my side, before he regains his balance – though I kind of wish he’d lost it for good. I wish he didn’t have the wherewithal to keep fucking into me, because I can barely take the first burst of sensation, never mind the next seventeen of them.

  I think I pass out about halfway through. I know I tell him to stop, at the very least – though I’ve no idea why I have to. I’ve gone so tight around him I’m sort of afraid I’m cutting off the blood supply, and he should definitely be keen on reeling things back a bit.

  But of course he isn’t. He’s more frantic than ever. He jerks into me, over and over, until I’m almost beside myself. Until I’m squeezing my eyes tight shut around actual tears, too far gone to repeat the one word I need to.

  Stop, I think, stop, and then just as it’s unbearable … just as I’m sobbing with it, and broken with it, he lets me have this long, rough ‘ohhhhhhh’. He tells me he’s coming, that I’m making him come, and I don’t know what’s better.

  The feel of him doing it inside me, or that singular concept:

  Making him.

  I’m making him do it. I’m forcing him into an orgasm so intense that soon he can’t even issue a sound. He goes all tense and wordless, the way I did thirty seconds ago – and when I turn I’m just in time to see it all over his face. His mouth is a big, silent O, and there’s a gloriously deep line between his brows … as though his orgasm is causing him actual distress. He can’t quite take it, but that’s fine, it’s fine.

  I can’t take it either. I can’t take it; I can’t take him. I can’t take the aftermath of my orgasm, so intense it’s almost like it’s happening all over again. But most of all … most of all I can’t take what happens to me afterwards, as I’m lying there in his arms. He doesn’t make jokes about being unsure about hugging, again. He just hugs me. And he says things, too, like ‘you sure that was OK?’ and ‘now’s the time to tell me if I was too rough. I know you kind of want that, but I need to know how much you want that, you know?’

  And they’re all such cool things to tell me that I simply think it, unbidden.

  I love you, I think, like a total idiot. I absolutely love you.

  Chapter Eleven

  It must be just a fluke, I think. A knee-jerk reaction to all the affection and the mind-blowing sex. He’s hit the emotional equivalent of my central nervous system, and now my feelings are spasming out of control. I have to rein them back in before he notices, because Dillon … well. Dillon is definitely not the kind of man who wants to randomly hear an ‘I love you’.

  No. Dillon is the kind of man who bursts out of his wardrobe while wearing my underwear, because I said he wouldn’t dare. He even puts my bra on, and then in the middle of my stunned sexual confusion he persuades me to do things that would make a porn star blush. At the very least, they make me blush.

  Which is practically his mission in life now. As I get hardier and more inured to sexual excess, he has to push harder to get me to go red. He has to go deeper into chapter nine hundred and twelve to get me to that point of ‘please, no’, and, by God, he’s unafraid to. He’s like an extreme spelunker in the cave of me. Just when I think he’s reached an unchartable depth, he burrows his way further down.

  And he’s so sly about it, too. So crafty and ingenious. ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he says, which sounds so innocent I can’t say no. I’m even looking forward to a variety of new and exciting things that he just seems to slip in there when I’m barely looking – like hand-holding and being together outdoors and spending a casual Saturday together.

  It’s not just my imagination, I think. We’re sort of becoming a couple in some stealthy, sideways sort of way. I glance to the right, and when I glance back our fingers are laced together. We’re taking in scenery. We seem just like everyone else who’s made it outside on this lazy Saturday morning.

  Apart from the bit where he jostles and cajoles me into going inside the Pennyside Lane church. He practically dares me to do it, as though I’m the Devil and might burst into flames the second I step over the threshold – though that’s not why I’m concerned, of course. I’m concerned because he’s giving me those narrowed eyes and that little half-grin, and he’s doing all the things he usually does when he gets me to partake in something I never thought I could. He nudged and tickled me just like that last week, when he felt it was important for my wellbeing to do a 69 before I hit that actual age.

  He’d had a point. I needed that push towards being a normal person. And the pushing is working, too. I no longer zone out and think about neurotic non-existent scenarios. I zone out and think of our bodies sandwiched together so tightly you couldn’t have slipped a piece of cardboard between us; his cock in my mouth and my pussy in his. I think about how crazy it had made me … how utterly wild and uninhibited – and how he’d played on that for what had seemed like seventeen hours. All he had to do was work me up to the point of orgasm, and suddenly I was sucking and licking and running my hands over his body like a goddamn sex maniac.

  I let him put a finger somewhere really rude. I put a finger somewhere really rude.

  And I was so proud, too. I’m proud of the person I’m turning into – looser and more relaxed. Not so worried about a million things. Able to successfully take my clothes off during sex, and even occasionally suggest certain stuff without squirming.

  Until he goes one step further. And then I’m not sure who I am or what’s happening. ‘No,’ I say, ‘don’t, not in here,’ but the trouble is … I’m starting to like that, too. I’m liking the edge that refusal provides; I’m liking the sting of saying no. It’s ironic, really: the minute I discard some of my baggage, I want to set it back up again. I want to rebuild barriers – though I suppose the difference is that I’m the one in charge of them now.

  I get to make them, just so I can knock them down.

  And oh, I love knocking them down. I love him for helping me do it. He just hauls me over to the confessional, heady with the scent of furniture polish and forbidden things, and once we’re sat on either side of the latticed partition he says something that makes me bristle all over. He builds barriers fifty feet high and thirty feet wide, and then he just waits. He waits, to see if this is the thing I’ll really refuse to do.

  It isn’t.

  ‘I don’t know when my last confession was,’ I tell him, because that’s absolutely true. I don’t. I’ve never confessed anything in a church.

  Unlike my heroine. Oh, my heroine is pious and perfect; she wore knee-high socks and prayed every day in school.

  But I didn’t. In fact, I’m surprised this is such a thrill. I say the words and then I add one on the end – one that she said, one that she felt to the bottom of her soul – and an echo of the sentiment goes through me.

  ‘Father,’ I say, like Master, only more warped. All of this is warped, I think.

  And he agrees.

  ‘Well, that’s pretty terrible of you,’ he says. ‘I guess you’d better tell me everything.’

  Which is isn’t very convincing as a priest. But it is very convincing as something that makes me go all hot and cold. I can just imagine the dusty conversations that have gone on in here before, and how this descent into dirty is about to compare. Please sir, I stole a penny sweet, I think.

  And then I confess my own tale of torrid woe.

  ‘Last night,’ I tell him. ‘I let a man take my virgin ass.’

  There’s a silence that I don’t expect, once the words are out. As though I really did say them to a priest, and now he’s wrestling with his shock. He can’t quite believe I said such a wanton, wicked thing, and in that sudden quiet I can’t quite believe it either. I get a little frisson of thrill and fear, so sure for a second that I’ve actually done the impossible:

  I’ve stunned Dillon Hol
t.

  Which has to be way worse than giving a priest the vapours. If you shock someone like Dillon, you have to be beyond the pale. You’ve got to be a lascivious lady of the night, or worse – and I really feel the impact of that, for a second. I feel all sorts of things, for a second. A flash of shame, so familiar to me and yet so far away from the person I’ve become. A bloom of heat between my legs, as I consider any number of unlikely things: his cheeks flushing, his mouth falling open, his erection stiffening against his will between his legs.

  And the worst part about it is: I like it. I love it.

  Go on, I think, pretend to be outraged.

  Only he takes it one step further than that. He doesn’t pretend. He sounds genuinely faint and faraway, when he speaks again. I’ve really somehow done it, though I don’t know how. Because he thought I couldn’t confess, and now I can?

  Because I give it away more freely than he does, now?

  He rarely tells me a thing that he fantasises about, or wants, or feels. But I’m deep into enemy territory now. I’m talking for myself, without the help of words I wrote some time ago, or his knuckles digging into my ribs.

  ‘That’s really …’ he says. ‘That’s really wrong.’

  And I just answer without even thinking about it.

  ‘I know. But it felt soooo right, Father,’ I say, half in someone else’s character, half in my own. My voice sounds high and plaintive, but it’s all me dragging that one word out. Because oh, it did feel soooo. It feels soooo now, just to recount every little detail of it.

  From this:

  ‘But he was so persuasive.’

  To this:

  ‘And once he’d made me all slippery, I couldn’t really say no.’

  ‘You couldn’t?’

  ‘I tried, honestly. I thought of pure things, and pleaded with him to have mercy on me. But when he made me lie like that, with my legs spread … when he suggested I lick and suck my fingers and just stroke myself there …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I found that I … that I …’

  ‘That you?’

  ‘Oh, I liked it, Father. I liked the stroking.’

  ‘I see. And why do you think that might be?’

  I picture the scene from the night before – my face in the pillow, again. My skirt up around my hips. He’d told me to leave it on, this time, even though he usually prefers me naked, and I absolutely know why. It just made it so much naughtier, to have my bare ass framed and exposed like that. The contrast of my restricted body and my naked bottom had driven me nearly wild, before he’d even told me what he wanted me to do.

  And I know why, too.

  ‘Because I love making myself lewd for him.’

  ‘You do?’

  It’s unsettling how genuinely curious and surprised he sounds. Can he really possibly not know? Does he think I’m lying when I moan for him, when I gasp for him, when I squeeze the sheets into my fists just to feel him easing into my tight ass?

  I guess he does, a little.

  And that needs to be remedied immediately.

  ‘Oh, God, yes, yes. I loved fingering myself for him.’

  ‘Because of how it felt?’

  ‘Because of how it must have looked. Oh, I bet it looked so bad.’

  ‘I bet it did. Yeah. Yeah. I’m sure it did.’

  ‘And then he trailed oil all over me, there, and I’m certain it looked worse.’

  ‘Oh, man, it – it probably would have done, sure.’

  I love how he corrects himself, there. He almost couldn’t help himself, I think, but he pulls the façade back just a fraction of a second too late. Which makes me wonder: is this my fantasy … is it mine, or could it actually be his? He sounds so breathless and so unlike himself, and when I come out of my reverie for a moment I see his hand gripping the lattice between us. He’s hooked his fingers through, and the knuckles have gone all white.

  And that idea is so exciting me … it’s so explosive that I’m briefly stunned by it. I’m fumbling all over myself, wanting to do more, to get more, to push him into something the way he pushes me … even as the backseat of my mind worries and worries.

  Why does he seem to find it so difficult, to play outside the parameters of me? Where’s his book for me to read and follow? – because, oh, man, I want to. If he wants it, I want to give it. I’m ready to do and say anything, to give it.

  ‘And it felt … it felt …’

  ‘How did it feel?’

  He asked me at the time. In fact, I sometimes think he likes hearing more than he likes doing. But if that’s the case, I don’t mind reiterating.

  ‘So big. So thick. I thought I was going to split in two.’

  ‘But you … you didn’t like it, then?’

  His grasp on this priestly role is really starting to slip now. I know why he started that sentence with ‘But you’ – he wanted to finish it with ‘liked it though,’ only that wouldn’t have worked. No man of the cloth needs to be sure that you secretly enjoyed yourself in the middle of anal sex.

  But Dillon … oh, my Dillon wants to be sure. He pretends to be confident at all times, I think – and he is. He’s perfectly, hugely confident, right up until the point where I might just be faking it. Apparently, that idea lingers so much in his mind he’s able to somehow forget me wriggling and moaning and sobbing into the sheets.

  Then stand on tenterhooks, waiting for the verdict.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say that, Father. I’m sorry to say that I loved it. I loved every second of it. I loved having someone take me there.’

  ‘I see.’

  He sounds relieved, but not enough for my liking.

  ‘I loved being filled like that.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘And just when I thought I couldn’t endure any more, he made me take two fingers in my pussy.’

  ‘He made you?’

  ‘Yeah. He always makes me. He gets me so wet I just can’t say no. And even if I want to, even if I struggle, he forces me to enjoy it.’

  ‘It sounds like you need to get away from this sinner immediately.’

  ‘Are you sure, Father? Because I think you like hearing me talking about him. Do you want me to tell you what he did next?’

  ‘No,’ he says, but I know it’s no meaning yes. We’ve changed places, somehow, and now I’m the one in charge. He’s the one who has to sit there and listen – while stroking himself, I suspect. I can hear some deliciously slick sounds coming from the other side of the partition, as the fake him falls to half-mast.

  All I have to do is turn it around a little more, and I’ll get what I’ve been hankering after.

  ‘He came inside me, until it ran down the insides of my thighs.’

  I don’t know what makes me say it. It isn’t true. We’ve never done it without a condom, and even if everything was perfectly safe I’ve no special predilection for the idea. It’s just something dirty to say, I guess.

  So his reaction is … his reaction is delightful.

  ‘You’d do that?’ he says, in a voice that sounds both high and tight. And that slick noise is now extremely pronounced. In fact – I don’t even have to rely on that alone to know what he’s doing. Through the grate, I see him lick his palm before he returns it to his cock.

  ‘I would.’

  ‘You’d let me come in your ass?’

  ‘I’d let you come anywhere you’d like. Is that what you want, baby?’

  Suddenly I know why he uses that little term of endearment so often, during sex. It somehow makes the dirty talk so much easier … so much sharper and clearer. I’m not afraid to do it, when I’m him and he’s me. When he’s my baby, my honey, my sweetheart … so ready to do my every bidding.

  I don’t even balk at saying the rest.

  ‘You want to fill me there?’ I tell him, and I’m proud of myself for doing it. No prompting, no nudging – the words just fall right out of my mouth.

  So it’s a shame that he responds with this:


  ‘Only if you want me to.’

  God, I never thought I’d find selflessness so frustrating.

  ‘No,’ I say, sharper than I intend. ‘No. Tell me that you want to. I know you want to – is that a fantasy of yours? To fuck a girl skin to skin and then cream inside her?’

  ‘I don’t know, oh, God, I don’t know.’

  I think that’s a yes, but admittedly it’s hard to be sure. Just the idea of the thing I’m suggesting is enough to make him moan inside a church confessional. I’m not even certain if he cares whether anyone hears him, because a second later he actually says my name.

  ‘Kit,’ he moans, like I’m everything he so desperately needs. And if that’s true … if I’m right … then God knows I’m not going to leave him hanging on that score. I don’t know why he finds it hard to share his fantasies, when he’s so free about fulfilling mine. But I’ve got no problems trying to rectify that – even in a church.

  In fact, I don’t even think about being inside a church, as I slip out of the confessional. I barely notice whether there’s anyone sitting in those dusty, sunlight-dappled pews. I just go to where he is. I have to go to where he is.

  And oh, boy, I don’t regret it once I have. There’s something doubly salacious about seeing him like this, seated on that well-worn wooden bench with his hand inside his shorts. He hasn’t even taken them down, or taken himself out. He’s being so secretive about this, so furtive, that only his hand on himself under cover of clothes and darkness will do.

  Which is enough on its own to turn me on. I don’t need the other stuff – though I take it anyway. His brief look of panic. The way he closes his eyes when I step close. The harsh rattle of his breathing …

  Yeah, seeing Dillon Holt this excited, and yet this inhibited at the same time …

  It’s very compelling. It makes me wonder if he’s at all religious, underneath his brash exterior. Or did he have other reasons for appreciating the game we’ve just played? I rarely use dirty talk, but it seems he enjoys it – a fact that drives me on even harder than any of his other persuasions.