Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I

by Akeroyd, Serena

  “No.” I exclaim. Christ, that’s something my father hadn’t done. “Where my mother was concerned, maybe. But never me. That would have gone against his Church.” With a sigh, I whisper, “I don’t even know if they’re dead or alive. As soon as I could, I got out of there. I guess I should have stayed and tried to get mom out, but we were never that close. I don’t think my father would have ever let that happen. He was too jealous and possessive of her time to let me forge any kind of bond with her.” I hesitate over the question forming in my mind and eventually decide to take the plunge. “When you had me investigated, did it say if they were alive?”

  Noticing his wince at my phrasing “investigated”, I hide a reluctant smile. “Your father’s dead. Your mother’s still alive, still in Fountain Springs, and still in the same house.”

  “Oh.”

  There isn’t really anything to say about that. Even knowing, I doubt I’ll make a return journey home. Especially considering the unorthodox relationship I’m living in. Mom could be as judgmental as father. At least she’s free from his tyranny. That’s enough for me to know.

  Zane seems to read my thoughts. “If you want to go down and see her, Jake or I will be glad to go.”

  Noticing the either/or there, the breath I suck in is shaky. It’s hard not being able to be acknowledged as a threesome. But it’s something we’ll just have to get used to. That is to say, something I’ll have to get used to. Jake and Zane seem to be okay with it, although this is a first. Why I’m here and why Zane isn’t alone for the family reunion makes no sense.

  The thought urges me to ask, “Why am I here, Zane? You can’t introduce me as the maid. Although maybe valet?”

  Unsmiling, even at my small joke, he stares ahead. “We— I was wrong to say you were the maid. My family are traditionalists, but you already know that. Calling you anything but a live-in member of the household staff would have raised questions and at the time, I was still pretty shell-shocked at Caroline being there at all.

  “But after the way you stood up for me, for the way you fought, I can treat you with no less respect than to have you meet them as who you are. My partner.”

  My belly twitches and twists, almost cramping with the formally phrased words. Gratitude and unease flutters through me. That he’s willing to do that, to reveal who I really am, touches me like nothing else could. And if there was any deeply buried resentments floating through my psyche, well that just exhumed them.

  It’s perverse that I find myself saying, “Oh, baby, you don’t have to do that. You’ll never know how much I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t want you to fall out with your family as soon as you get your foot in the door.”

  Zane shakes his head, and the hand still connected to mine, tightens a little. “No. They accept me for who I am or not at all. Christ, they’re not perfect. They’re nowhere near but they dare to judge me? If they want me back, then they want me warts and all. When I left, mother was having an affair with the pool boy, for God’s sake. Father has God knows how many mistresses dotted around the south. Caroline is more interested in her shoe collection than she is Stefan, who only married her for her money. And my other sisters… they’re just as bad. Affairs left, right and center and yet, I’m in the wrong, I’m the one disgraced for daring to be with someone I love?” He grits his teeth, and I can hear the grinding sound. “And through it all, did I judge? No. I accepted them for who they are.

  “I’m sick of pretenses, sick of having to hide who and what I really am. If father wants to see me, then he can meet one of the people who have changed my life.”

  For a man of few words, that speech was a doozy. Tears bite at the corners of my eyes, longing to fall but I hold them back and whisper, “Thank you for saying that.”

  Unspoken is that the feeling is mutual.

  If I changed Zane’s life, then he’s altered mine beyond all recognition.

  And that’s for the better. Not the worse.

  No matter what pitfalls stand in our way, we can do this. We can be together, regardless of what life throws at us.

  * * *

  I always thought that the house in Bayling Cove was pretty close to a mansion. But it’s only as I awaken on my first morning in the Jefferson-Matthews’ plantation house that I realize this is more like a palace. And Zane grew up here. This was his childhood home.

  Christ, he’s lucky his head isn’t as huge as Lady Liberty’s, because with a background like this, a background that only hits home as I take in the size and the scale of the plantation, it’s a miracle.

  When we arrived at four in the morning, a butler—yes, an honest to God butler—answered the door. He was obviously an old retainer, because there were tears in the old man’s eyes as they lit upon Zane, who immediately embraced Melvin.

  “I jus’ had to see you, sir. Volunteered to stay up and welcome you home.”

  Somehow, I’ve a feeling that the emotion brewing in the old man’s eyes, the deeply scored wrinkles in the dark cheeks as his face literally creased with his happiness, is the warmest welcoming Zane’s going to receive.

  I hope not. I hope I’m completely wrong, but I doubt it.

  Melvin turned to me, his eyes slightly confused as to who I was, but I gingerly reached out to grasp his hand and shake it in greeting. Those old, gleaming chestnut eyes smiled at me, deep down from the soul, and I smiled back.

  “This is Mona, Melvin. My partner.”

  “Oh.” Melvin frowned but quickly hid it. I guess he thought it wasn’t his place to ask why I’m a woman and not a man.

  Or maybe he thought I was a transsexual.

  Even now, as I lay in bed, slowly acclimating to the sheer heat simmering in the room, my lips widen into a silly grin at the idea.

  Zane shocks me by growling in my ear, “What’s so funny?”

  Stretching, I shiver as one of Zane’s hands come up to cup one of my breasts and to palm the soft mound before slowly retreating to my belly, where he plants it. The warmth seeping from his fingers against my stomach is almost uncomfortable in the muggy temperature of the room, but I refuse to break the connection.

  Hell, teaching Zane to be affectionate is going to be a lifelong project. I can deal with a body temperature akin to a fever just to keep us joined together for a few minutes.

  “Just thinking about Melvin’s reaction when you introduced me. I wonder if he thought I was a lady boy.”

  Zane snorts, before laughter guffaws out. Pleased at his humor, I stare over at him. When he catches my eye, my lips twitch again, and yet more laughter peals out of him.

  Sighing with satisfaction at his amusement, I wait for him to calm down. He rolls over on to his belly, the muscles in his shoulders rippling and bunching as he does. My mouth waters at the sight but I merely ask, “What time is it?”

  There’s no clock that I can see in the room and that comes as a surprise, considering that there’s everything else.

  This place has the same anonymity as the hotel suite I shared with Jake in Paris. Strangely enough however, I prefer the hotel.

  Just like in Paris, this is a suite, but it consists of one large room and bathing quarters and its vastness is discomforting.

  We’re at the northern side. The bed is a mass of Rococo curls and swirls, mahogany stained almost black with its edges brushed with gilt until the sheer mass of overdone glamour looks like something an Ancient Grecian God might vomit. Combine it with cream background, coffee foreground brocade, and it’s enough to put anyone off climbing into it. And as large as Zane is, the bed is larger. He tends to take up a lot of space. Not in this monster.

  Another reason to dislike it.

  Beside us are two three-legged, hexagonal tables. Two lamps with matching bases are topped with cylindrical, cream shades.

  At the eastern side is the ‘eating’ area. This time, strangely modern. A glass oval supported by what can only be described as tree branches. I quite like it, if I’m honest. Two chairs sit directly opposite each other
, low cream leather bucket seats with a running stitch hem. Beside it is a bay sash window with a seat tucked into its curve. In the light of day emitted from there, the polished surface of the table glints and sparkles. Even from here, I can see it has a perfect view of the grounds and the Mississippi.

  To the south, there’s an entertainment center. A squat sofa with feather cushions thicker than the mattress I’m lying on and dressed in a brocade matching the duvet sits directly opposite the television. Two armchairs sit catty cornered to the sofa.

  There are also two doors here. One leading to a bathroom that is white-tiled and reminds me of a hospital bath. Old-fashioned faucets and a shower from the sixties—strange how they haven’t modernized that part of the suite. And a dressing room with racks for him and her as well as a huge floor to ceiling mirror.

  To the west, there is the way out as well as another seating area consisting of more armchairs with a low coffee table. On it, there are fashionable picture books.

  It’s about as anonymous as a hotel suite without the comfort of knickknacks to make it more homely.

  Whichever interior designer was paid to make this place look good, failed.

  I look to the window to try and get a handle on the time, but Zane solves it for me. A glance at his watch and he confirms my suspicions. “Nearly three in the afternoon.”

  “Whoops. I guess we’re not the most polite of house guests.”

  He shrugs. “We got in late. It’s only expected that we’ll need to rest.” He leans over, his lips pressing against mine. For a second, he just holds the position, eventually rubbing his mouth back and forth over my lips. His hand returns to my belly, but lower this time, nearer my mons.

  I stiffen a little, but my hips remain lax as they tilt and arch, listening and reacting to a beat of their own as they silently tempt Zane into slipping further down. A gasp escapes me as he complies, his fingers slipping down over the embarrassingly damp curls and between the outer lips of my sex. I shudder the instant the pads of his digits rub sensitive flesh. The passage of my pussy moistens, creams with the steady flow of my arousal.

  Even though he hasn’t touched them, my nipples peak and butt against the thin cotton shirt I wore to bed last night. His eyes, those espresso-dark orbs, graze over mine, reveling in the power he has over me before they drift toward my chest. His mouth opens and then closes over one nipple, cotton and all. He pulls his teeth over the nub, raking it and pinching it until my hips jerk up in a silent reminder to touch.

  And touch he does.

  His thumb slides and slips through the nooks and crannies of my pussy before wedging its way inside me. His index finger retains its possession of my clit as he nibbles and teases my nipples.

  “You’ve been a naughty girl,” he grunts against my breast.

  It takes a few seconds for what he says to hit home and my voice sounds punch-drunk, as I gurgle out, “I have?”

  “Yes. Very naughty.”

  “But nice?”

  My teasing has his head lifting away from my nipple and while my mouth makes a moue of displeasure, because I realize I’ve become quite greedy where my pleasure’s concerned, the grin on his face more than makes up for it.

  Wide, free, relaxed. They’re just three of the adjectives to describe him. And they in no way express the contentment he’s radiating. Considering our circumstances, I’d expected him to be tense, stressed and out of sorts with me and the rest of the world.

  I certainly never expected him to be comfortable enough to instigate anything sexual while under his parents’ roof.

  Shows how wrong I was.

  He pulls his thumb out of my drenched sex, abandons my clit and with those luscious biceps of his, does a push up off my body and leaps over the side of the bed.

  His athleticism has my belly doing a swan dive. Christ, he’s fit.

  Each muscle rippling and curling in a display meant for one. Me.

  And he’s wearing nothing to hide any part of him from me. His cock, his butt, the nape of his neck and even his toes are all there for me to see.

  Once standing at the side of the bed, he grabs me by the waist and hefts me over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. He walks over to the window seat, something that consists of bare hardwood with some fat, hot pink and black brocade cushions, and lowers me down to the ground.

  “Do we want the rest of the world to see what we’re doing?”

  “Naughty girls should be outed.”

  Even though I’m amused at the term naughty, I still frown as he grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head.

  “What are we doing?”

  His eyes flash. “Having fun.”

  At his heightened breathing and the sweat dotting his top lip, I’d say that was a given. His excitement is palpable and as discomforted as I am at the idea of someone seeing us up here, even if they shouldn’t be looking, well, his pleasure is contagious.

  He grabs me by the shoulders and urges me forward. Curious as to where this is going, I climb on to the raised seating area and let him widen my stance so that my legs are apart. I wince as my bare breasts press against the cool panes of glass and my nipples bud at the contact while gooseflesh shivers along my belly. He doesn’t stop pushing me until my spine is straight and the curls covering my sex are also touching the window. I turn my head to the left to let him position me how he wants.

  I don’t know where this is going and I’m not sure I want to, but something deep inside, be it in my pussy or in my psyche is thrilled at the way he’s manipulating my limbs as though he’s the puppet-master and I’m his marionette doll.

  Maneuvering my hands so that they’re palm up, he rests them on the glass and then steps back. I can feel the loss of his heat. My ears pick up on the sound of his rummaging around and then, the unmistakable click and faint hiss of a camera.

  I freeze and start to pull away in horror at being photographed like this, but he’s there, at my back, pushing me into the pane of glass and metaphorically pushing me past so many ingrained sexual limits that I don’t where they start and end.

  He lifts his phone to my eye level and the lids flutter shut as I look at the image taken and at the state of me. I’ve stopped being body conscious around these men, but maybe this is a time to start feeling uncomfortable?

  All of my imperfections are on display and I cringe inside, hating the picture and hating myself. Tears flood my eyes and then, they happen upon the text that he must have written before he took the photo on his phone.

  Jealous? Much? Panting like a dog, wish you were here to help me fuck her.

  Miss you,

  Z

  He likes this?

  He likes the dimpled butt and fleshy thighs?

  The hint of red at the apex?

  How can he?

  I swallow back the tears and whisper, “Are you going to press send?”

  His grin is wicked as he nods and I watch as he does just that.

  And then, I learn that’s not the end of my torture.

  He kneels down behind me and takes a picture of my pussy.

  The curls will be damp, my clit raised and free from its hood because as horrible as this is, some sick part of me is turned on.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I feel him spread the lips of my sex and hear another click as a picture is taken.

  And then, I jerk a little as a finger slides inside. Click.

  He pulls the nub of my clit further out of its hood. Click.

  With my breath starting to judder in and out of my chest, he stops his play and jumps up. But he hasn’t finished.

  The window to the left of me opens and he pulls at the antique and obviously period mechanism. Once open, he sticks his arm out and aims the cell’s camera lens in my general direction.

  He retreats but keeps the window open and I’m quite relieved, because I’m really hot, hotter still thanks to the glass and the situation.

  There’s silence as he composes the next message a
nd then, once again, he shows me the camera roll. I want to squirm and hide from it, but I can’t.

  My tits look huge, the nipples red raw and puckered after receiving Zane’s nibbles. I hate the expanse of my belly, but no guy would look at that when he could look a few inches up. I’ve never seen my sex so intimately and that Jake, on the other side of the Atlantic, will soon receive these images… well, my pussy further reacts. Fluttering and pulsing at the idea of Jake, hands at his fly, pulling it open and potentially jacking off to the pictures.

  My skin prickles with heat and then Zane shows me the message.

  Fancy joining in?

  Z

  He hits send and steps back, leaving me against the window with the harsh daylight displaying all of my imperfections to him and the rest of the world outside the damned glass.

  I want to cover myself, want to run to the bed and hide under the covers but something stops me. The idea of Jake seeing the pictures and being turned on.

  A part of me waits for his reaction, wondering if he’ll call. The other finally convinces me to pull away and rush to the safety of the sheets.

  Just as I make up my mind, Zane’s cell rings.

  The instant it does, my temperature shoots up another notch and my breathing grows choppy.

  It could be anyone, anyone. But it isn’t.

  It’s Jake.

  Call it sixth sense. It’s him.

  Zane’s laugh tells me as much and he mutters, “You should stand where I’m standing if you think your cock is hard.”

  Slightly in awe, because how can they find this attractive? I pause a minute to count my blessings and to thank God for whatever rose-colored glasses he gave my guys.

  Then, I focus on what Zane’s saying, refusing to waste another second on body consciousness.

  “What do you want me to do? Fuck her from behind so everyone can see her tits?”

  My belly quivers at the words and then, rather than have to hear Jake’s reply through Zane, the speakerphone suddenly blears on. Jake’s voice is loud and clear as he murmurs, “Now, Mona, what have you done to be so naughty?”