by Mandy Lee
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Relax then. Where was I?’
I groan as his mouth travels further, down to my breasts, setting me alight with new sensations. His lips latch onto my right nipple and he sucks gently. And while my pulse soars, I gaze at the mop of blond hair that’s right in front of me. It’s far too tempting. I dig my fingers into it.
‘Behave, Maya.’ Raising his head, he smiles at me. ‘Hands up.’
‘Or what?’
He grabs hold of my wrists, manoeuvres my arms back into place. ‘I’ll think of something.’
Pushing out an exasperated sigh, I resign myself to my fate. It’s all I can do. Seeing as I’ve already given him my complete submission, there’s really no point in arguing. His lips are already back on my skin, batting any logical thoughts to one side. Moving to my left nipple, he sucks and releases, slowly, over and over again. When he’s finally finished, his eyes meet mine.
‘Two hundred to adore each breast. Are we in a tizzy, Miss Scotton?’
‘Yes. Get on with it. Go there.’
‘Where?’
‘You know. There.’
‘But I’m in no rush. Thirty thousand to the rest.’
‘No,’ I groan.
‘An age at least to every part.’
He lowers his head again, running his mouth between my breasts, across my stomach, smelling me, tasting me with lazy, unhurried movements. I’m a gargantuan, sweaty mess by the time he returns to my crotch. Breaking contact, he looks up at me, his eyes glinting.
‘And the last age should show your heart,’ he whispers, his voice deep and smooth.
I raise my head from the pillow. ‘You … you already have my heart,’ I manage to stammer.
‘I know that, Maya. I’m reciting a poem. Go with it.’
I smile and let my head fall back.
‘For lady, you deserve this state.’ He runs a hand across my pubic hair. ‘Nor would I love at lower rate.’
I quiver inside. ‘Love?’
‘Did I say you could talk?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Bloody woman, ruining my poem.’
‘It’s not your poem.’ I’m betting on that.
‘Correct, it’s Andrew Marvell’s poem and he was a dirty bugger, I can tell you. Now, spread these legs.’
Yes! At last! And about time too! Don’t get me wrong. I’m in seventh heaven here, on top of the world, drunk on ecstasy, but now I need the release. He takes a while to run his fingers across my clitoris, sweeping further down to my vagina. And then he leans in, his warm tongue lapping at my labia while a finger enters me, finding just the right spot and massaging me from the inside. Gripping the pillow, I moan and groan, drowning in a floodtide of delicious warmth, wanting nothing more than to run my hands across the muscles of his broad shoulders, but I’m under orders. I must resist.
I’m teetering on the edge when he finally comes to a halt.
‘And now for some real poetry.’ Slowly, he lowers himself onto me.
I feel his cock at my opening, sliding its way in, filling me perfectly like it always does. He pauses, wraps a hand under my buttocks and smiles into my eyes before he begins. Withdrawing to the hilt, he eases back in again, over and over, with the same controlled, unhurried movements, keeping it up until my insides become super-charged.
‘Oh Jesus, fuck! Go quicker.’
‘I’m taking this slowly,’ he retorts, barely out of breath. ‘I’ve put in the groundwork, laid the footings if you like.’
‘Oh.’ I swallow back a grunt. ‘Builders’ talk.’
‘Exactly. Now when you’ve spent all that time on the foundations, you don’t want to rush the erection, do you?’
With a devilish grin, he drives into me again, sending me to the edge of sanity, and I just can’t resist any more. My hands fly up to him, fingers clutching at his hair, pulling frantically. I move on to his shoulders, digging in as the pressure intensifies.
‘I’ll come,’ I gasp. ‘I can’t hold it. I’ll come.’
‘Come all you like.’ He brushes his lips against mine. ‘I could do this forever.’
‘Shit, no.’
‘Shit, yes. Tantric sex.’
And then the joking stops. Our eyes connect. Secured by his gaze and helpless beneath him, I let it all go as, moaning as my muscles seem to implode. A deep, long orgasm undulates inside me, rippling outwards and clutching at his cock. Soaking it all up, I’m lost in a Never-Never land of ecstasy. And through it all, he keeps up the same steady rhythm, holding me tight.
Time backs out of the room, leaving us in oblivion, and at first I hear nothing apart from the sound of my own breathing, my heartbeat pounding inside my head. But then it filters through. His breathing has picked up pace too, and it’s coming to pieces. He’s struggling to control himself. His hands tighten against my skin as the pressure begins to build again. Forcing his head in towards me, I press my lips against his, kissing him with a feverish passion. And he kisses me right back, his tongue probing my mouth while his muscles stiffen. For all his trash talk, he won’t be able to hold on for much longer.
‘Fuck it,’ he growls.
Finally reaching breaking point, he ratchets up the tempo. With his eyes fixed on mine, his pupils dilated and his lips open, he drives into me relentlessly, and spurred on by the intensity of his pounding, a second climax builds in my core. Sensing the tension in his back, I hold my breath, feel him jolt as I come to the boil. Knowing that it’s time, I release myself again, tripping over the edge into pure bliss while he empties himself inside me.
‘Jesus!’ he cries out, continuing to thrust.
For a minute or so, he slows the rhythm, bringing us both down from an intense high. Steadying me in his grip, he kisses me tenderly, riding through the aftershocks until we both begin to slide into a post-coital fug. At last he flops on top of me, digging his head into my neck. I run my fingers up and down his back, through his hair, and I feel it again, that incredible attachment between us. At times like this, we’re one.
‘You’re rubbish at tantric sex,’ I grin.
He lifts his head. ‘It’s you. You make me want to go hell for leather.’
He nudges his face back into my neck.
‘I love you, Dan. You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, but I bloody love you.’
I feel his smile against my skin and I wait for the words to be returned. Surely, this is the moment. But nothing comes. When he finally pushes himself up, balancing on his elbows, he’s already super serious.
‘Remember what I said on Friday?’
I flick through the memories but thanks to Boyd’s involvement, it’s all a blur.
He helps me out. ‘I want you to move in. Here. With me.’
I’m flummoxed, again.
‘And I want you to slow down,’ I counter. ‘It’s too soon. Three weeks.’
‘I’m sure other people do it in three weeks.’
‘But …’
‘Listen.’ He shifts slightly, moving his weight onto his left elbow and sliding his right hand onto my chest, just above my heart. ‘In here, does it feel like the right thing to do?’
‘Yes, but I hardly know you.’
Because you’re a puzzle, Mr Foster. And I want every last part of it in place before we go any further with this.
‘You know me better than anyone else. You didn’t say no on Friday.’
‘That was before …’ I trail off into silence, spotting the concern on his face. That was before Limmingham. I watch the shadows settle in his eyes. ‘It’s not that,’ I add quickly. ‘It’s not because of where you came from.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I just want to know more before I commit to something like that. I just wonder how many more Dan bombshells you’ve got to drop on me.’
‘Bombshells?’
I gaze up into his eyes, but I just can’t work out what I’m seeing there now.
�
��I want you to open up to me. I don’t want any more surprises.’
The seconds tick by as he watches me, and God knows what he’s thinking about. In all probability, he’s rifling his way through all the secrets he’s keeping, wondering which bombshells he can drop and which ones to keep stored away. Finally, he pecks me on the lips and withdraws.
‘I understand.’ Reaching into a bedside cabinet drawer, he takes out a tissue and cleans me up. When he’s happy with his work, he flops back onto the pillow and holds out an arm, inviting me into his embrace. I snuggle up to him, wondering how he can still smell this good, even after breaking into a full-blown sweat.
‘So, how do we do this?’ he asks.
‘How do we do what?’
‘Get to the point where you say yes?’
I stare at him, incredulous, and then I remember. He’s never done anything like this before. He really doesn’t have a clue.
‘It’s very simple,’ I explain. ‘We spend time with each other and we talk. Small talk. Big talk. That sort of thing.’
He grimaces, bites his lip and claps me on the arm before edging his way out of bed. ‘Fair enough.’ He bends down and grabs his jeans. ‘I’ll give you the small talk and the big talk, but you can do it my way.’
‘Which is?’
‘Ever heard of fast-tracking?’
‘You can’t fast-track a relationship.’
‘Think outside the box, Miss Scotton.’
‘Think inside the box, Mr Foster.’
He ruffles his hair. ‘Never.’
While he searches for his T-shirt and pulls it on, I chuckle to myself and close my eyes. I let out a yawn, content to be back in his bed and back in his life. The world is locked out and we’re locked in. And right now I just don’t care. Feeling the bed dip, I open my eyes to find him sitting next to me. He draws a finger down my cheek.
‘You’re tired.’
‘I didn’t sleep last night.’
‘I know.’
‘How? Have you got Lucy spying on me?’
The same finger runs lightly across my bottom lip. He watches its progress. ‘I asked Lucy how you were. That’s not spying.’ Rain drops patter against the skylight. It’s an age before he lifts his eyes to mine. ‘I was worried about you yesterday. When the storm broke, I just wanted to hold you.’
‘I wish you’d been with me.’
‘I’m with you now.’ He leans down and lands a gentle kiss on my mouth. ‘Take a nap. I’ll go and rustle up some dinner.’
I’m smiling like a village idiot as I close my eyes again, brim-full with contentment, and before I know it, I’m back in a world of dreams. But this time, there are no nightmares. Instead, I’m in a kitchen garden, sitting on a bench beneath a shower of sweet peas.
And Dan is by my side.
Chapter Six
When I wake up, I find a crisp white shirt laid out on the bed next to me. Taking the hint, I put it on, stumble into the bathroom and retrieve my toothbrush from the space age cabinet. I’m half way through brushing my teeth when I notice a host of toiletries arranged next to the sink. Swilling out my mouth, I leave the toothbrush on the side and the cabinet door wide open while I set about sorting through the bottles and tubes of shower crème, face wash, moisturiser and God knows what else. It’s all brand new, distinctly expensive and definitely female. And all part of the dastardly plan to move me in. Grinning to myself, I survey the bathroom: the marbled floor, the vanity unit that stretches along the length of one wall, the sleek mirrors hanging above it and the huge walk-in shower that I’ve already experienced, Dan style. But no bath, and that will never do. Making a mental note to add it to my list of requirements, I wander back into the bedroom and take a look out of the window, watching as a cruiser makes its way downriver, an oasis of light against the black glass of the water. The Houses of Parliament are glowing now against the darkness and according to Big Ben’s illuminated face, it’s just after eleven. A strange time for dinner … but never mind, I’m ravenous.
I find him in the living area. With his back to me and his shoulders hunched, he’s looking out over the river, talking quietly. For a split second, I wonder if he’s talking to himself, and then I quickly come to my senses. That’s a mobile clasped to his ear. A bloody mobile. I’d love to ambush him, grab the mobile out of his hand and demand to know why he lied to me, but he’s listening intently to someone at the other end of the line, and I want to hear what he says next.
‘So, where is he now?’ He pauses. ‘You don’t know?’ Another pause. ‘Bank accounts. Withdrawals. Come on, you can get access to all that.’ He listens again. ‘How can I be patient?’ Finally, he turns and spots me. ‘Dig some more,’ he says coldly. ‘Everything. I need to go.’ He hangs up and throws the mobile onto a sofa.
‘So, I see you’ve got your phone.’
‘Oh, that.’ He prowls towards me. The closer he gets, the more my body seems to sparkle. ‘Yes, I forgot. It wasn’t in my car after all.’ He reaches out and skims a finger down my arm, sending a rush of adrenalin right through me. Fight it, my brain calls out. He’s bloody well distracting you.
‘You lied to me.’
‘It got the job done.’ Slipping a hand round my waist, he guides me into his chest and holds me firm. Shit, he’s smelling good. Clearly, while I was in the land of nod, he managed to fit in a quick shower.
‘And who were you talking to?’
‘A private investigator. The best in the business.’
‘But why?’
‘Why do you think?’ He watches me for a moment, his face impassive. ‘I need to know about Boyd. After Friday night, I want to know everything about him.’
‘You scared him off.’
‘And I want to make sure he doesn’t come back.’
‘He won’t come back.’
I’m pretty sure of that. Boyd might have more than just a slight touch of the psychopath about him, but he doesn’t have a death wish. He’d be a complete idiot to come anywhere near me after his spat with Dan. Placing my palms flat against his chest, I push away with all the strength I can muster, but I don’t get far. I’m held tight in his grip.
‘Just leave it with me. No arguments,’ he warns. ‘It’s going to happen whether you like it or not.’
The determination etched across his face tells me everything. I’d better change the subject.
‘So, where’s my phone?’ I ask.
‘In the cupboard.’
Nuzzling his mouth against my neck, he kisses a spot just below my ear lobe.
‘Which cupboard?’ I gasp, fighting off an attack of quivers.
‘That one.’ He nods towards a cupboard next to the fridge. ‘Just behind the muesli.’ He grins. ‘I figured toast woman would never go anywhere near a healthy breakfast cereal.’
After a second fruitless attempt to prise myself free, I give up on the struggle.
‘You don’t need it.’ He lowers his face to mine, studying my lips.
‘You’re a complete ….’ I get nowhere near the end of my complaint. Before I know it, his mouth is on mine and I’m absent without leave. A hand comes to the back of my head, holding me tight while he kisses me, pressing his hard-on against my crotch.
At last, he pulls away.
‘Fucking hell. You turn me on constantly.’
I’m about to tell him that he has exactly the same effect on me when a loud growling sound interrupts us. Releasing me, he takes a step back and glances down at my stomach.
‘Somebody’s hungry. I think we’d better get some food into you.’
‘Food can wait.’
‘No, it can’t. Once I get started again, I won’t be able to stop. And besides, the pasta’s ready.’ He holds up his hands, as if in surrender. ‘I’m not touching you again until we’ve eaten.’
Leaving me disappointed, he saunters off to the hob and lifts the lid on a pan. Whatever it is, it smells divine.
‘Five minutes,’ he calls, lifting the lid on a second pa
n.
More than enough time to check my mobile. I head straight for the cupboard, push aside the muesli, and there it is. Grabbing my phone and leaving the cupboard door open, I settle onto a stool and check for messages. Three from my mum, along with a handful of missed calls. And a text from Sara. I open it up.
Are you OK? x
With a sigh, I look up, catching a momentary glimpse of life with Daniel Foster. Quietly humming to himself, he’s busy stirring the contents of a pan. Places have already been set at the granite bar: plates, cutlery, two empty glasses and a bottle of red wine, uncorked and breathing. Another plate sits at the centre of the counter, complete with a focaccia loaf. I’m smiling now because I really could get used to this. Tearing myself out of idiot mode, I text back.
I’m fine. Back with Dan. Tell Mum for me. See you soon. x
‘Anything interesting?’ he asks.
‘Just my sister.’
He still has his back to me, but there’s an instant change in his stance: his shoulders tighten and his back stiffens, just a little. I watch in silence as he takes the first pan and drains it over the sink, releasing a cloud of steam. When he’s finished, he transfers the contents to a bowl.
‘You two are going to have to talk at some point.’ I slide my mobile onto the counter.
I’m pretty sure he shakes his head at that. Moving to one side, he takes the second pan, adds the contents to the bowl and then he sets about stirring it all up with a huge wooden spoon. I’m half tempted to just enjoy the sight of a sex god making me dinner, but I’ve got work to do.
‘I know it’s not easy for you.’
He turns, bowl in hands.
‘Puttanesca.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Spaghetti alla Puttanesca.’ Joining me at the counter, he slides the bowl onto the top and kisses the end of his fingers, Italian style. ‘Just for you.’
‘You’re not going to distract me with food.’
‘If I wanted to distract you, I wouldn’t use food.’ He takes a seat on a stool opposite me.