Clusterf*ck

by Ash Harlow

  “I’m attracted to you as much as you are to me. I can tell by the way your eyes dilate when we’re close like this. See here,” he touches my mouth, “this is ready to be kissed, even if you say you don’t want me to. Your breathing’s shallow, there’s a light flush to your skin. Is your pussy wet?”

  I squeeze my thighs together and nod. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “I thought so.”

  “And for the record,” I whisper, feeling more brave than my voice suggests, “I don’t want you to kiss me. I want you to fuck me.”

  He pauses, swallows, gathers control. This power I have over him is heady. More so because of all the times I crumpled under his dismissive words and the scowl he tacked onto them to propel his message home. I thought he despised me, but I’m getting the impression he worked hard to put on that act.

  I should have worked this out a long time ago. His attraction to me is what drove his derision. Luther might be my King, but I’m not a lowly maidservant. I am Queen.

  Reaching behind my back he pulls the door to the hallway closed, then edges me along until I’m pressed against it. His left hand finds a place on the door in the space between my shoulder and head. I turn and kiss his wrist, finding the steady beat of his pulse with my tongue, then look back to his handsome face. Sharp, glacial blue eyes smile at me.

  “I’m not going to fuck you, Ginger, so don’t ask.” He opens the first button on my blouse. “But, I am going to make you come, standing here, against the door.” Another button pops open. “I didn’t catch your bra size. I intend to do that tonight so that I’m safe in the knowledge my nanny is wearing classy underwear.” The third and fourth buttons are rapidly freed. “Because it’s a fucking crime,” he continues, jerking the blouse off my shoulders and down to my elbows, “covering the most spectacular tits I’ve ever seen, in cheap lingerie.”

  Deft fingers release the clasp at the front of my bra and he pushes it out of his way. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine as he thumbs my nipples. They draw in tight, and exquisite little bursts of pleasure fire my nerves to life. I gasp when he pinches, noticing his slow, soft blink of satisfaction. Luther is firmly back in control.

  He trails kisses down my throat, nipping at the tender point at the junction of my neck and shoulder before continuing down my collarbone, over the place where my heart thuds. He squeezes my breast, sucking the nipple into his mouth and tonguing the tip. I have to lock my knees to prevent them from buckling. He alternates, mouth and fingers from breast to breast and all I can do is tip my head back and enjoy the ride.

  During the dark before Sunday’s dawn Luther learned a lot about the way I respond and it appears he remembers his lessons. My body hums with pleasure, if I squeeze my legs I can feel my panties are soaked. He’s becoming rougher with my nipples to a point that almost crosses the threshold to pain. My fingers tangle in his hair, but he pushes my hand back flat to the door.

  He loves to be in control but I want to touch him. His jacket’s off and I want to remove his tie, unbutton his shirt and push it off his shoulders so that I can play with his muscles, trace the tattoos, kiss him. I sneak my hand up and reach for his tie and he immediately releases my nipples, stepping back.

  “Don’t touch. If that tie comes off my neck it’s going around your wrists,” he warns.

  I give it a quick tug before I let go. I read a lot of kinky books. Those and lipstick are my crack. I read them, though. I think they’re hot, but that doesn’t mean I want to be tied up.

  “Not your kink?” he asks.

  “Is it yours?” I should have behaved. I was hovering on the edge of an orgasm there, and now it’s fading.

  “Your kink is my kink, Ginger. I’ll do whatever it is that’ll get you off.”

  “I want you to take your shirt off. I want to touch you.”

  “Not tonight. I have case notes to read, and forms to fill out for Rachel’s school enrollment, neither things I’m thinking about right now when there’s a wet pussy that needs attention. Back against the door, keep your palms there, too.”

  I’m right where he wants me without argument.

  “Look at me, Virginia.”

  His voice is lower and the way he says my name makes me feel worshiped. Our eyes lock as he takes hold of both of my nipples and squeezes. They’re so sensitive now, and I moan in response.

  “Pull your skirt up for me and tuck it into the waistband, then put your hands back on the door.”

  I grab the skirt and tug it over my thighs, tucking it in, trying not to squirm as he twists my nipples. It honestly feels amazing and precarious.

  “Legs wider.”

  I open them and feel like a total slut. Honestly. Luther’s standing in front of me, fully dressed including his tie and I’ve got my blouse half off, bra hanging free, skirt hitched up, ready to beg.

  His hand reaches between my legs covering the wet crotch of my underwear.

  “Your panties are soaked. Don’t move,” he says, and with that he walks into the kitchen. I hear a drawer open, close, and he’s back again. “Hold still,” he warns, and in a snip, he’s cut away both sides of my underwear.

  “Luther!”

  “They are fucking ugly, Ginger. I want you to throw all your underwear away. There’s half a dozen pairs in that bag, and I’ll buy you more.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with them,” I protest.

  “There is now,” he says, holding them up. “The sides are broken.”

  His fingers slip between my legs and I forget all about underwear as he strokes me. He’s standing side-on to me now, propped on his forearm which rests above my head. Every word he says washes over my cheek with his warm breath.

  I’m close to coming, and Luther hasn’t varied what he’s doing with his fingers at all. Just one long stroke from my aching pussy that wants to be filled, along my slippery cleft to my fat clit. He presses it, then strokes back the other way.

  “Do you know how fucking hot it is to play with a wet, virgin pussy?”

  “You could fuck it,” I say, ever hopeful.

  “Then it wouldn’t be virgin anymore.”

  He slides a finger inside, curls it, thumb finding my clit, and that’s pretty much it for me. That is the move that gathers all the energy into a fierce ball low in my stomach.

  “Luther, I’m going to come,” I warn.

  His other hand takes my head in a similar fashion to the one between my legs. Thumb pressing into my jaw and two fingers curling into my mouth. It’s a dominant move, primal and hot.

  “As you come, suck my fingers the way you’d suck my cock.” His tongue’s in my ear, teeth nipping at the lobe. So many sensations zip through my body for a moment I lose track of that low ball of pressure that’s waiting to detonate.

  “Suck,” he says, and for some reason, that word does it. My orgasm rips through me with the shock of an unplanned explosion. My knees buckle, but Luther has me, holds me upright, continues stroking until I’m done.

  As my breathing levels he tugs my skirt back into place and actually slips an arm behind my knees and carries me over to the sofa. I let my eyes close as I lie in his arms and simply enjoy the post-orgasmic bliss I feel. When I finally open my eyes he’s smiling at me.

  “I should probably be mad at you.” My voice is croaky from so much heavy breathing.

  “Orgasm not up to scratch?”

  I shrug. “It was okay, I guess.”

  “Just okay?”

  “You have to admit it’s kind of frustrating.”

  “Because I won’t fuck you?”

  “Yeah, and seriously, Luther, we can’t keep doing this.”

  He pushes a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “Don’t worry. Come Sunday what’s between you and me is strictly business.” He eases me up until I’m sitting, then pulls up the back of my blouse.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking your bra size.”

  I elbow him away. “Don’t, please, Luther. Don’t buy me
things. I’m getting so many mixed messages. You give me orgasms, but won’t have sex with me. I can feel how hard your cock is. That must be agony. You scowl at me, then you buy me beautiful underwear. Is all this just so that I would agree to help you out with Rachel?”

  His face hardens to something more familiar. “I only found out Rachel was coming to live with me on Sunday afternoon, so, no, that had nothing to do with it. But, I promise from now on, I’ll keep my fingers out of your pussy.”

  “Good,” I say, wriggling from his hold and buttoning my blouse. He’s offering me nothing. I’ll never be his girlfriend and just because I have this obsession with him, I also have to have some self-respect. He doesn’t get to play with my body just because it’s fun for him, and he’s what? Bored?

  He leaves soon after. Jacket on, briefcase in hand, contract stored away. I can’t even kid myself that I agreed to be a temporary nanny for the money, or because there was a child in need. I was seduced by the idea of spending time almost alone with Luther. Lots of time. Day to day. Morning breakfasts and evening meals. In my haste I didn’t even ask what my job would be. Do I cook for them, or only for Rachel and me?

  And then my mind sneaks off in another direction. That orgasm tonight. Was that some reward for me because Luther had just got exactly what he wanted? Does he intend to keep me compliant with orgasms? By the time I slip between the cool sheets after my shower I’m thinking I’ve just been expertly played.

  I pick up my Kindle. One of my favorite authors has just released a new novel and I’ve been saving it until bedtime because I know it’ll be hot and sexy. Except about the last thing I need right now is sexy inspiration. If this keeps up with Luther, I could write my own sex scenes.

  My phone chimes, alerting me to a text, just as I switch off the lamp. It’s Luther. Yes, I have his contact details in my phone even though I’ve never used them to contact him. I put them in there years ago. The excuse I used was that you never know when you might need a lawyer.

  — Clear your schedule for the week. You’re on the payroll as of now —

  Typical infuriating male, thinking I can drop everything for him. My fingers fly over the screen.

  — I have commitments this week —

  — Stop playing hard to get. I already make your pussy wet, and give you countless orgasms, so it’s too late for those games —

  I should be annoyed with him. Instead, the memory of the way he touches my body makes me smile. He doesn’t only make me wet, he makes me weak.

  — Those orgasms weren’t countless. I think the number to date is six —

  — I included the ones I inspire when you play with yourself. (You’re welcome, BTW). I’d tell you to add them up, but the number is countless —

  — You flatter yourself —

  He doesn’t, but I’m not handing credit for every orgasm to him.

  — My office 1pm tomorrow. I have the afternoon blocked out. Be on time —

  — I am working at the charity shop —

  I could ask to change shifts with someone. I’m always the accommodating one when it comes to rosters. But, there’s a part of me which needs to take a stand against Luther’s expectations that I’ll rearrange my life for him.

  — Tell that to the little girl who has no princess comforter on her bed —

  — [eyeroll emoji] That’s emotional blackmail —

  — Whatever it takes. See you at one —

  […]

  I wait because he’s still typing.

  — and you can tell me about that orgasm you’re about to have. —

  I switch off my phone. He’s infuriating, and I’m going to juggle my day for him. Correct that — for Rachel. The last thing I want is a sad little girl.

  17 ~ LUTHER

  My week is full. I have a big case on, and I have to organize one of the bedrooms at Ormidale to be turned into something appropriate for a young girl. I’m trying to get as much as possible done to free up some time in case any disasters occur during Rachel’s first week. Poor kid’s going to be lost as hell.

  Ginger arrives on time, flustered, and has clearly ridden over on her bike because her hair’s kind of flat from the helmet, and her cheeks are flushed. The dead giveaway are the fluoro bands velcroed around her ankles pinning, her jeans tight to the bottom of her legs. She catches me looking at them and her cheeks redden even more.

  “Whoops,” she says, bending to rip them off.

  “Why didn’t you use your car?” I ask.

  “It died, remember? It’s still in the workshop but it’s going to cost more to repair than it’s actually worth, so I’ve told the mechanic he can scrap it.”

  This is the sort of shit that exasperates me because I don’t want anything that’s patched up or limping when it comes to Rachel. Nor when it comes to Ginger for that matter, but I can’t show that. “You should have said something. I’ll arrange a car for you this afternoon. Have a seat. I need a minute with Sammy.”

  I punch his number on the phone and in seconds, he’s filling every inch of space in the doorway. The guy is huge, intimidating, and affable.

  “Chief?” His chin lifts with the soft upward lilt of his voice.

  I know he’s taking the piss calling me that, but I’ve let it slide for too long to make a change.

  “Sammy, call that contact of yours at the car yard and get something safe for Ginger to drive around. One of those small Audi SUVs. Arrange for a child booster seat in the back for a kid aged five. I think she’s average size. That’s palagi average, not Samoan. Got it?”

  “Okay. Skinny white kid-sized booster seat. Got it, Chief.”

  He grins. He always grins. I cannot wipe the smile off that guy’s face, and I freaking adore him for it. He treats every piece of shit I throw at him like a tennis ball. Bounce. Serve returned.

  I shut down and lock away my laptop then tell Ginger to follow me. “We’re going shopping,” I explain.

  “Okay,” she says brightly, springing from her seat.

  “In Auckland.”

  She stops. “Wait. It’s going to take three hours to drive there—”

  I wave her on to keep up with me. “One. It doesn’t take me three hours to drive to Auckland.”

  “It does if you stay within the speed limit.”

  “Two. We’re going by helicopter.”

  “Luther, I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. I don’t even have a coat.” She’s still talking as we exit the building. “My bike,” she says, pointing at the wall where it’s propped. “Someone will steal it.”

  I’m about to say nobody would touch it, but it’s a nice bike, so I call Sammy, and looking Ginger directly in the eye as I make the request, ask him to collect Ginger’s bike and put it in my office. “Are you happy, Ginger?”

  “I guess, I think. But, Auckland?”

  “Is where the shops are.”

  “I need a coat.”

  “I’ll buy you one.”

  “I don’t want you to. I have a perfectly good coat back at Oliver’s house.”

  “Then we’ll stop by on the way to the airfield and collect it. Are you happy now? Can we proceed?”

  “This is crazy. We could shop online and save helicopter fuel, and the planet.”

  “And get an email a week later to say that the goods are being shipped from a warehouse in Outer Mongolia and might be here by Christmas. No. I want to be sure we can have a delivery before Rachel arrives. If you have further questions perhaps you can ask them in the car.”

  “Poor Rachel, having a grump like you for her guardian,” she mutters, following me to the parking garage.

  We stop by Oliver’s house and Ginger grabs a coat which looks as though it should have been replaced two years ago. She’s silent during the short trip to the airfield, then drags her feet approaching the helicopter. I don’t think she likes Auckland much, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy herself once I get her into the shops.

  “Come on, cheer up,” I say as the helicopter lifts off
.

  “I’m scared of flying.”

  One look at her face and I can see she’s ashen. Damn. I wish she’d mentioned that earlier. I take hold of her hand. “Listen. We’re going to be fine. The flight takes twenty-three minutes, and Mike is an extremely experienced pilot. He does rescue missions into dangerous mountain regions…” I stop. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned anything about rescue missions. She’s staring at her feet. “Virginia, look at me.”

  “I can’t,” she mutters in a tight voice.

  “Why not.”

  “Because I’ll see clouds whizzing past the window. I’m only supposed to see clouds when I look up, not to the side. This thing is a tin can. We could be struck by lightning and we’d plummet to the ground and end up in a fiery tangle of melting steel, and—”

  I grab her ponytail, turn her head, pull it towards me and kiss her. It’s the only thing I can think of doing to shut her up. It’s not the most romantic kiss we’ve shared, but it’s definitely the most fierce. She fights me, tongue, teeth, and I just keep kissing her until she finally gives in and kisses me back. When she’s really getting into it I break the kiss and get a well-deserved bite on my lip.

  “Now that I have your attention—” I start.

  “That is not the way to deal with people’s phobias, Luther.”

  “I was trying to kiss it better.”

  “And that’s probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. You cannot pull a stunt like this with Rachel. If she’s scared or concerned about something, you have to listen. Then you do something appropriate to help her out, not come up with some half-assed idea that you find amusing. ‘What Would Luther Do?’ is not good parenting.”

  “Are you angry with me, Virginia?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How angry?”

  “Really very angry.”

  “Is that because you think I didn’t take you seriously.”

  “Yes,” she huffs, but the wind has certainly left her sails.

  “Because kissing is never the answer, right? You must never kiss and make up, or kiss something better.”

  She shrugs and fiddles with the end of her seatbelt.

  “Let’s run through this, Ginger, because apparently I need a crash course in parenting. So, you were scared of flying, and I rushed you into a helicopter. Not entirely to blame here because you neglected to tell me about this fear.”