Good Girl

by Christy McKellen

  I hear her breath hitch in her throat and when I look up she’s gazing down at me with wide, startled eyes.

  ‘Relax, tesoro,’ I urge her again. ‘Trust me. Be proud of your amazing body. Let go.’

  ‘But I don’t know how.’ Her voice jangles with nerves.

  ‘Stop thinking and let yourself feel. Nothing else matters right now, just this. Just my mouth on your pussy, my breath on your skin.’

  With that assurance, I finally bend forward and run my tongue down the seam of her pussy lips and over the swell of her clitoris.

  She drags in a loud, stuttering breath and I sense her hands ball into even tighter fists by my head.

  Dropping the towel now, I use my fingers to open her up to my gaze, locating the tiny bud of nerves that’s about to give her so much pleasure. It’s already swollen with anticipation and my mouth fills with saliva. I tongue her there, pressing down gently at first, then sweeping around its circumference, finally moving on to lazily flick the tip of my tongue from the base to the top, feeling her shiver with delight.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ she breathes. ‘That feels amazing.’

  ‘And it’s only going to get better,’ I promise her, bending forward to do it again, this time with a little more pressure, flattening my tongue to make my sweeps wider and longer at first, then bringing them back into tight little circles.

  Her legs begin to shake and I put my hands on her thighs and guide her backward until she’s right in front of the bed.

  ‘Lie down,’ I tell her, giving her a gentle push of encouragement. I’m enjoying this so much I’m reluctant to take my mouth off her for long. I want so much to see her come, it’s making me tremble.

  As soon as she’s comfortably lying back on the bed, I push her thighs open wider and lower my mouth to her pussy again, using the fingers of both hands to hold her open and fully expose her clit, before restarting the sweeps of my tongue against it, beginning slowly and steadily getting faster. After a few moments I feel her begin to move with me and I smile as I realise she’s finally allowing herself to relax into the sensations and enjoy what I’m doing to her.

  Her hands grip the duvet on either side of her legs as I bring her closer and closer to the release she’s clearly desperate for now.

  ‘Oh, my God... Oh, my God...’ She pants as her back arches off the bed and she pushes herself against my mouth. I suck down, then lave my tongue over and over her, feeling her shaking, twisting and throbbing beneath me as she comes hard, a low, guttural moan piercing the quiet of the bedroom.

  And I’m in heaven. There’s nothing I love more than making a woman come apart, but for some reason it’s even more satisfying with Juno. Perhaps because I was worried it’d be hard to get her to trust me and relax. But that wasn’t the case here.

  She certainly seems very fucking relaxed right now.

  I look up to see her gazing back at me with a look of absolute wonder on her face.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, what did you do to me? I thought I was going to implode with the intensity of it.’

  I grin, delighted she’s so appreciative of my skills.

  ‘I dreamt about doing that to you all night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sì. And it was even more enjoyable than I imagined.’ I get up off my knees and crawl over her, flopping down next to her on the bed and turning to look into her deep-blue eyes.

  ‘I love the way you respond to me when you let go. It’s so natural. So visceral. A real fucking turn-on.’

  ‘Do you...want me to...do something for you?’

  With difficulty, I shake my head. ‘No. This is about you. What you want.’

  ‘What if I want to give you pleasure?’

  I wave the suggestion away, my head telling me it’s the right thing to do but my body groaning in protest. ‘You already have.’

  She starts to protest but I cut her off. If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m afraid I’ll give in and take her up on her offer. But I really can’t right now. We need to take this slowly, eke out the pleasure and anticipation of it.

  Pleasure delayer, that’s me.

  ‘Get dressed. We’re going out for breakfast,’ I mutter roughly, turning away before she can see the war raging behind my eyes.

  Juno

  My body is still humming as we stroll slowly through the bright morning sunshine to a pavement café in the Piazza della Repubblica, where we can watch the bustle of the farmers’ market going on around us. The place is alive with colours, smells and lively chatter and I sink gratefully into my chair and order a double espresso and a rich, buttery pastry for my breakfast, very much enjoying the feeling of being a part of this wonderful scene.

  I’m absolutely famished and when the food arrives I can’t get it into my mouth fast enough.

  It’s strange, but after my experiences with Sandro last night and this morning I feel as though something’s changing inside me. It’s as though I’ve woken up from a deep sleep to find everything feels about a hundred times more intense and, somehow, real. Life’s brighter, sharper, louder and has more depth. Perhaps it’s just the dopamine rushing through my veins, but something instinctively tells me that it’s not just that. It’s something else that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  Every time I glance over at him my whole body heats with the memory of what he did to it and I have to squeeze my thighs together to try and dull the greedy ache for more. I can’t stop thinking about the way his dark head looked, moving between my legs earlier. My body gives another throb of longing and I shuffle impatiently in my chair.

  What the hell is happening to me? I’ve never felt wired like this before—as if every nerve in my body is humming with electricity.

  ‘So, what do you do with your time when you’re not house-sitting for your father’s mistress or teaching naive young women how to have a good time in bed?’ I ask in an attempt to put the thought of sex out of my mind for at least a few minutes. I suspect it’s going to become increasingly difficult to do that when I’m around him. He’s sex personified.

  ‘At the moment I’m trying to set up an affordable artists’ co-operative in London with a friend of mine, but we’re constantly being outbid by the big property development companies for the sort of premises we need. Ideally we want to find a big, airy building with large windows to let in lots of light, but of course those types of properties are also ideal for loft-style apartments.’

  I frown in sympathy. ‘Sorry to hear that. It must be frustrating to keep being outbid.’

  ‘Yeah.’ His expression darkens as he appears to reflect on exactly how frustrating he finds it. ‘I have the money—my favourite great-aunt left a decent chunk to me—but I don’t have much experience in buying property and there’s no way I’m asking my father or brothers for help. They’d laugh me out of the room if I told them what I was doing. None of them think I’ve got the skills to pull something like that off.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I think you absolutely do have the skills. You’re obviously dedicated to the idea and it sounds like you’re trying your hardest to make it work against fierce competition. You probably just need a bit more time for the right place to come along, and a bit of luck so you can get in there first.’

  He lets out a grunt that could either be a gruff acknowledgement or a dismissal of my optimism.

  ‘So why an artists’ co-operative?’ I ask, in an attempt to flip the mood back to a less stressful subject.

  He pauses for a moment before answering, his gaze on the empty espresso cup he’s rolling between his hands. ‘Because artists get a raw deal and I wanted to help others get a foot in the door. It’ll provide a support network as well as a space to create.’

  ‘Do you make art yourself?’ I ask, still not able to make the connection with him and artists in my head.

  ‘Yeah. I sculpt.’ The expressi
on in his eyes is wary, as if I might not find this a fitting activity for a man like him.

  ‘Really?’ I’m surprised by this admission. It really wasn’t what I was expecting him to say. Not that I know exactly what I was expecting. I guess I thought he just drifted around, partying and giving women pleasure, and perhaps that he believed being philanthropic towards a bunch of cool artists would make him look good. How very shallow of me.

  ‘Yeah. It’s something I’ve loved to do since I was a kid, but my father discouraged it as a career. He doesn’t think it’s a masculine enough pursuit for a Ricci.’ He shakes his head as if this has been a bone of contention for years. ‘He wanted me to go into the family business like my older brothers but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit at a desk all day in a stuffy office. It drove me crazy. I need to have space and be able to move about and breathe.’

  ‘So you’re actually an artist?’

  He lets out a disparaging snort. ‘Nah. I’ve never sold a piece and that’s what counts, right? There’s a lot of competition out there and I’m not great at the whole marketing side of things. It takes smarts I don’t have. That’s why I’m so keen to make this co-operative successful, so I can work with other people that can help me with that side of things, and I can concentrate on the stuff I’m actually good at.’

  I frown at that. ‘You know, you come across as a pretty smart guy to me.’

  He gives another snort. ‘Well, I can read and write, but I struggle with staying focussed on stuff that doesn’t interest me. I’d never be able to run my own business like my brothers are going to. Not that I’d want that.’ I can tell how much this affects his pride by the way his hands grip the coffee cup.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he puts the cup down and sits back, waving a hand to show me he doesn’t really care. ‘I wasn’t exactly a model student at school. I hated sitting still at a desk there, so my grades were awful. The only reason I passed the most basic of exams is because I was fucking my maths teacher at the time.’

  He flashes me a wry grin but all I can do is stare back at him, shocked by this piece of information.

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘And how old was she?’

  ‘In her mid-twenties.’

  ‘And she asked you to have sex with her in exchange for giving you a good grade? That’s such an abuse of power!’

  He shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence. ‘I was getting really close to being kicked out, which would not have pleased my father. It would have reflected badly on the whole family. Though it wasn’t exactly a chore—she was a beautiful woman... I liked her a lot.’ He picks up the coffee cup again and examines it as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. ‘At the time, anyway. Not so much after I found out I wasn’t the only one she was fucking.’

  More horror slides through me. ‘She was sleeping with other pupils too?’

  Again he shrugs, his focus still on the cup. ‘Yeah. One of the other guys that got into trouble a lot walked in on us kissing one day. He caught up with me later and told me she was a whore and that she’d been sleeping with him too. At first I thought he was just jealous and I got angry and lashed out. It turned into a pretty serious fight—I broke his nose—which got me hauled into the headmaster’s office. I refused to talk about what the fight was about, as did the guy whose nose I’d broken, even though I was threatened with expulsion. After my father had been summoned and convinced the headmaster keep me there—I suspect with the promise of a large cash donation—I confronted her about it. She acted as if she thought I’d known that’s what she did and it wasn’t a big deal. But I hadn’t known. I thought I was special.’

  He shakes his head and finally looks up at me, his eyes hooded. ‘She was the woman I lost my virginity to. I’d thought that was special too, but it turned out I was just one in a long line of guys she’d “made into a man”.’

  My whole body feels hot with anger at the way this despicable woman treated him. ‘Sandro, that’s awful!’

  He puts down the cup and waves a dismissive hand, but I’m sure I see a flicker of something dark in his eyes. ‘It wasn’t so bad. It taught me that I loved sex and that I was good at it. Seducing and pleasing women gave me a focus for all my pent-up energy.’ His smile is full of humour now and I wonder if I’ve imagined the pain I’d seen. ‘It turns out I’m very good with my hands.’

  He winks at me and slides one hand across the table to link his fingers with mine, but I can’t bring myself to smile at his joke.

  Because it’s not funny.

  In fact, none of what he’s just told me is okay.

  No wonder he hides behind this mask of non-committing playboy and doubts his intelligence.

  ‘Hey, no need to look so serious,’ he says, his smile dropping away. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes. But even so. It must have really knocked your sense of self-worth. And I’m guessing that’s probably had repercussions ever since.’

  He shrugs and looks away across the piazza, as though it’s not a big deal.

  ‘Sandro,’ I say quietly, and wait for him to look at me again. ‘What she did to you was awful. Wrong. Criminal, almost. You know that, right?’

  He just raises an eyebrow at me. ‘I guess it wasn’t a great way to behave.’

  ‘Have you talked to anyone else about it?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only my father at the time, and he brushed it off like it meant nothing, so I’ve not told anyone else since. What’s the point anyway? It was years ago.’

  ‘So I’m the only other person that knows?’

  I feel privileged that he’s trusted me with something so personal, but also keenly aware I should try to help him recognise the effect it might have had on the choices he’s made in his life ever since.

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not something I’m particularly proud of so I don’t go shouting about it to everyone I meet.’

  ‘You have no need to feel guilty about it.’ I stare into his eyes, trying to express how serious I am about that. ‘You were young and she took advantage of you in the worst way possible. It wasn’t your fault, or a case of you not being smart enough.’

  He just gazes at me for a moment and I think I see something shift in his eyes. ‘Well, thanks. I appreciate you saying that. But let’s not talk about it any more. It’s done with. I’m fine.’

  I want to argue, but I can see from the closed expression on his face now that he really wants to change the subject.

  So instead I reach across and gently stroke my thumb over his cheek to let him know I’m on his side.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of light, as if the sun just caught on something reflective, and I turn to look towards where it came from. There’s a group of people milling around a couple of stalls there, but I can’t see what would have caught the light.

  ‘You know, it’s weird, but I keep feeling like we’re being watched,’ I say, shaking my head at how ludicrous that sounds.

  ‘Really?’ Sandro says, glancing over to where I was just looking. ‘Perhaps you’ve had too much coffee and sugar and it’s making you twitchy.’ He turns back to face me, his eyes gleaming with seductive mischief. ‘Perhaps we should think of a way to burn off that energy. They have large bathroom stalls in this place, big enough for two.’

  I can’t shake the discomforting knowledge that he’s using sex to distract me from something he doesn’t want to face.

  ‘Not right now,’ I say, giving him an awkward smile.

  ‘Okay, then, perhaps we should just go for a walk,’ he suggests, looking a little miffed that I’m failing to respond to his flirting.

  Tamping down on the feeling of unease that’s swirling through my stomach, I give a nod of agreement. ‘Sure, that sounds like a good idea.’

  Sandro stands up and tosses some money onto the table
for our breakfast. Is it my imagination or are his movements more jerky than usual?

  We take a stroll down to the grand Piazza Duomo and once we’re in front of the magnificent cathedral Sandro tells me from memory the fascinating history of the artwork as we walk around it. I soak it all in, aware that only a small part of everything he’s telling me will stick in my brain.

  His voice is so wonderfully animated and warm, I feel myself sinking into the pleasure of listening to him speaking. He has a seemingly encyclopaedic knowledge of the works of art and architecture of the buildings, and his interest in and respect for the artists is glaringly apparent. A warm glow of admiration builds in my stomach as he becomes more and more animated, his eyes shining with excitement. He’s such an engaging person to listen to when he’s on his subject.

  And I thought it wasn’t possible for him to be more attractive than he already was.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I ask, gazing into his eyes, which are sparkling with exhilaration.

  He shrugs. ‘I guess I remember it because it interests me. Maria, my father’s mistress, is an art historian and she talks to me a lot about it. We’ve toured the city a few times together when I’ve made trips here.’

  Looking at the pleasure in his eyes, I have a sudden mad urge to reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him. And then, just as suddenly, it occurs to me that we haven’t done that yet—kiss on the mouth, that is. He’s had his mouth pretty much everywhere else on my body, just not my lips.

  A slow roll of heat makes my skin tingle, and I feel myself flush, so I turn away and pretend to study the statue we’re standing next to. ‘And what about this one?’ I ask.

  He launches into its provenance but, despite my interest in the history of it, I can’t stop my mind from wandering back to the story he told me about his experience at school—how the teacher had used him and has probably made him feel as if the only worth he has is in taking women to bed. My heart squeezes in distress at the thought of this and I’m aware of a disconcerting swirl of shame growing in the pit of my stomach. Am I not reinforcing this belief for him by appearing only to be interested in him in a sexual way? The idea of that fills me with horror.