My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘If you make a joke about visiting the Batcave, I’ll throw you out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he drawls suggestively, which makes me think he means the exact opposite.

  ‘Not that I’d—I’ve never.’ I roll my lips inward as my mind screams abort! Abort! ‘You know what they say.’ More words in the air, unhindered by thought. ‘If she’s wearing matching underwear, you’re getting inside her knickers because she planned it.’

  ‘I’m not sure what that says about these circumstances.’

  ‘Maybe you’re my happy accident tonight.’ One bright light in an evening of clusterfucks—months of them, even.

  ‘You’re the best thing that’s happened to me all year.’

  I don’t have an opportunity to dwell on his sweet words as he takes my breasts in his hands, his fingers drawing my nipples into tight, aching points. My every fibre sings as he teases and kneads, my breath hitching as the long fingers of his other hand begin inching my skirt up my legs—another layer of delicious torment.

  I moan softly as he cups between my legs.

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re so warm.’ His rough whisper is all praise as he hooks a finger under the elastic of my knickers and sweeps it through my slickness. ‘So wet for me.’

  Under his hands and his attentions, I whimper a small, desperate sound as he begins to tease and pet my clit, his kisses laying claim to my neck until my whole body is trembling. Just as I think I can’t take it anymore, that I need more than teasing, he twists me sharply and pushes me down against the bed. My body bounces against the awful mattress, his eyes avid as he watches my body react. Or as two particular parts of me bounce.

  ‘Such a boy,’ I taunt, pushing myself up onto my elbows as I unhook the strands of hair from my mouth and cheeks.

  ‘Boys. Men. Infants. We’re all obsessed with the same thing.’ With a smile that’s pure wickedness, he falls on top of me, caging me in with his limbs. ‘And who could resist these?’

  My back arches from the bed as he frames my breasts with his hands, sucking my nipple into his mouth as he teases with his fingers, echoing the pull of his lips as I push my hands through his hair and press my body against him. This feels so good—the solid weight of him over me, the light in his eyes as I’d lain in nothing but my knickers on the bed. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be desired and the sole focus of another’s attention. Forgotten the desperation of how it feels to be so close yet not close enough.

  ‘Yes, hurry.’ I release his head, my demands needy as he begins to pull away, his hands reaching for his shirt. ‘Are you . . . are you humming?’ I find myself asking suddenly.

  ‘Hmm?’ On his knees above me, he loosens a couple of buttons of his shirt, then pulls it up and over his head in one liquid movement. I can’t resist running my hand over the ladder of his abdominals, delighting in the way they contract under my fingertips. ‘I might be.’

  I’d almost forgotten I’d asked him a question as mesmerised, I follow the shelf of muscle that dips beneath his waistband in a prominent V. I think this is what the muscle heads in the gym mean when they talk about being shredded. He growls as I gently rake my nails there, not quite shredding perhaps, but teasing.

  Growls and then starts humming again.

  ‘What is that noise?’ I actually giggle because the man may be beautiful, built, and very obviously well-endowed, but he couldn’t carry a tune if someone gave him a bucket to carry it in. I try to place the low, repetitive sound as he slides his wallet from his back pocket, dropping it to the mattress but not before pulling a foil square free.

  ‘Are you casting aspersions on my singing prowess?’

  ‘Oh, you are singing. I’m so sorry.’ I try to school my features. ‘It’s not nice to laugh at other people’s downfalls, is it?’

  ‘Not nice at all. In fact, it’s very, very bad.’ I shiver, though whether a result of his teasing words or the edge of the foil he traces down my body, I can’t be sure. He flicks the condom to the bed, stripping from the rest of his clothing and insinuating himself between my legs. Still humming.

  ‘Seriously.’ I push myself up onto my elbows. His eyes travel up my body as his mouth presses low on my stomach. ‘What is that noise?’

  The sharp angles of his face seem more pronounced as he shoots me a swift but wicked smile before hooking his fingers in my novelty Batman knickers, abandoning his tuneless hum in favour of words now.

  ‘Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner . . . Batman!’

  ‘I’m sure that isn’t the theme tune to Batman.’

  But it might be the key to my knickers as I find myself bouncing against the bed again, my giggles to blame this time. But I’m not amused for long, not as my comic underwear is slid down my legs. Not as he slides his tongue through my wetness, stealing my breath and my sense as he presses a long, rumbling hum right there.

  ‘I’m sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘Yes, like that. Please don’t stop.’

  ‘You’re a bossy little thing.’ I squirm as he places a teasing bite to my inner thigh, then licks the sting. But I am bossy, and a little desperate as I writhe under him. My orgasms for the past few months have been by my own hand, and I realise while inevitable the way I feel, the timing of this really isn’t up to me.

  I want this so badly.

  But then his big hands spread my thighs, his gaze is pure liquid heat before he draws his tongue the length of my pussy with a velvety groan.

  Oh my God, yes . . .

  I cry out as he slides two fingers deep inside, the intrusion so slick and sublime, and such a relief. My hands fist the sheets as though to hang on to the sensation, to the moment, as his lips envelop my clit. His tongue, and his lips, and his fingers drive me to the brink of ecstasy as he whispers the filthiest of things.

  ‘You’re so pink and so . . . wet . . . and so fucking perfect.’

  ‘I’m so hard for you. Can you feel it?’

  I’m not sure if one-night stands are supposed to be this intense, or how his dirty whispers and guttural moans are as unravelling and as necessary as his touch, but one thing I do know is that he was right. I’m drunk on the experience as he licks and tastes and absolutely savours me.

  Until he stops, moving the magic slide of his tongue and the tantalising bristle of his stubble from between my legs. I’m close—so close—and I almost sob as he pulls back. His lips and chin shine with my wetness, his fingers no longer deep inside me, but trailing wetly down my leg.

  ‘Nobody likes a tease,’ I counter, rewarded by his dark chuckle.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want you to like me. Maybe I just want you to beg.’ His words are delivered with a deliciously dark edge.

  ‘Maybe I want you to beg.’ His body bows forward as I wrap my hand around the thick length of him. His groan is the sexiest sound. With his head buried against my neck, I explore his silken head with my fingertips. The thick ridge of his crown, his weight and girth, the satin feel of him. Satin over steel.

  ‘I need to be inside you.’ I taste myself in his kisses as, in the dim light, I press my hand on his shoulder; an invitation for him to roll onto his back.

  What man would say no to that?

  ‘Fuck.’ The muscles in his thighs tighten as I take his shaft in my hand and swipe my tongue across the head. Then I press my lips together at the tip in a kiss before enveloping his crown.

  ‘That’s good. That’s so fucking good.’ His hands gather my hair to the side, his gaze hooded as he watches me work him farther into my mouth.

  This—this act—it’s never been my favourite. But his taut breaths and tight moans, and the way he reacts to the slightest brush makes me want to torture him a little. Makes me want to drive him to the edge, to the point he’s unable to take anymore.

  ‘Jesus.’ I begin to work him in earnest now, my moaning around the length of him as I bob my head, fingers gripping and twisting at the root. His head falls back, and for a moment, I think I win. But if I win, maybe I a
lso lose?

  I don’t have time to process the thought as he hooks his hand under my arm, my mouth moving off him with a wet sucking sound.

  ‘Get up here.’

  In an instant, I’m flat on my back with my heels digging into the creaky mattress, positioned so by James. I’ve never felt so exposed or been spread so shamelessly, but I don’t have a moment to protest or process as his tongue swipes between my legs.

  ‘My turn,’ he growls against my flesh as he begins to flick my clit with the very end of his tongue, honed to a point. ‘Your pussy tastes so good.’

  The contrast of his accent against the coarseness of his words is like a layer of pleasure too much, a layer resulting in my arching against his mouth.

  ‘That’s right, darling, feed me your pussy. Cover me in your cream.’

  ‘Don’t tease,’ I whimper, arching under him.

  ‘I’m just returning the favour.’

  ‘Please, I need—’ Need something. Need it all.

  ‘All you need to do is ask,’ he responds in a quiet growl, his gaze crawling up my body from where he lies between my legs. ‘Ask like a good girl, and I’ll make it so good for you.’ His accent, the way he looks at me. I want to keep it—bottle it like a genie to experience it again and again. I close my eyes as I drop my head back against the hard bed.

  ‘Please,’ I whisper, my eyes on the ceiling, my fingers clenched and my toes curled. ‘Please make me come with your mouth.’

  ‘Such a good girl.’ His groan is pure masculinity. ‘Such beautiful manners.’ His fingers spread me open as his tongue works me like I wouldn’t have thought possible. The man should teach a class to share his gift with the world. Who knew it could be like this? And then I’m coming, coming hard, pushing myself into his face, my hands on his head, my orgasm crawls upwards from my thighs, exploding like a grenade with a pulled pin.

  I don’t have the wherewithal to protest as he moves, his body slick against mine. In fact, I’m not sure I’ll ever move again as he rises above me, tearing open the condom wrapper with his teeth before sheathing himself rather expertly in latex.

  Another sight I want to capture for replay.

  ‘You’re staring.’

  ‘You’re not complaining,’ I counter, causing his mouth to quirk before his gaze falls to where I’m wet and spread. His fingers reach out to swipe through my wetness, but the sensation is too much, causing me to hiss—a hiss that counters his masculine grunt as he falls forward, catching himself on his palm next to my head. In his other hand, he holds his hard cock, deliberately pressing himself against my wet flesh.

  ‘That feels . . . so good.’ The muscle in his bicep trembles above my head before he dips down, pressing his forehead against mine. Maybe this tease is taking a toll on him, too?

  I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing my mouth to his ear. ‘I said you had sadistic leanings.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ His mouth hitches in a sinful, wicked half smile, a dark pulse beginning to beat deep inside me. ‘But you could find out.’

  ‘And just how do I get you to corrupt me?’

  ‘You could start by saying my name.’ And as though to prompt me, he nudges my clit with his fat crown.

  ‘James,’ I almost purr, wrapping my hands around his neck as I pull him down for a kiss. ‘Stop torturing me. Please, just fuck me.’ Because I don’t think I can beg.

  His cocky grin falters, his eyes turning dark as he glides the head of his cock against me once more. Then we both watch as he breaches my wetness.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. That is a sight to behold.’ He grunts, watching my body accept his as my back bows in a silent urge for him to thrust.

  But I don’t answer, can’t, unless you count my cry as, with one long drive, he fills me to his hilt. I tighten my hands on his biceps as though I could keep him there, keep him still. To hold the sensation of being so very full.

  ‘I don’t—’ The penises I’ve known are few, but none of them has made me feel like this. Like if I hiccup, I’ll do myself an injury. ‘You’re so big.’

  ‘But not too big.’ His response is accompanied by a wicked smile. And as though to prove the point, he begins to move, slowly at first, but as my whimpers turn to cries, and those cries become louder and a little more desperate, he picks up the pace. With a masculine grunt, he slides from base to tip, switching to shallow movements; small jabs and punches of his hips.

  And I love it. Love it all. And though I’ve no experience with dirty talk, I’m so very turned on by his hungered words.

  ‘You’re so tight. You feel like velvet. Every inch of you.’ His eyes are so dark, and his expression fierce as he pulls back to flick the tip of his tongue across both nipples in turn. Then, sliding his hands under me, he lifts me from the bed for better positioning, bringing me onto his lap. And ohhh.

  Oh. My. God.

  His arms wrapped around me, our mouths meet on the up thrust, all jagged breath and sliding tongue.

  ‘You’re so fucking delicious,’ he whispers, burying his face in my neck. ‘I want to bury myself inside you.’

  My orgasm springs to life at his powerful thrusts. Everything inside me draws tight, my spine an impossible arch as I throw my head back. I want to watch, want to see the thick slide of him, but content myself with his movements, his possession of me. He fucks like he kisses—with command and assurance—and I’m just along for the ride. Quite literally. It’s all so much, almost too much, as I give in to him—give in to the needs of my body.

  ‘God. Oh, God. I’m-I’m—’

  I’m unable to process the waves of pleasure pulsing through me, the rush of sensation and heat overwhelming. I see stars. Whole universes created. The Big Bang? Again, quite literally.

  ‘I can feel you,’ he grunts. ‘I can feel you coming around my cock.’

  And with those dirty sentiments, he follows me.

  5

  James

  I dream that I’m burning, that my skin is literally on fire. Which is odd but not for the fact that I’m dreaming, but for the fact that I’d fallen asleep at all. I know as I stir, I’m not at home. The air is different. And it smells like perfume. And though I’m not on fire, I’m sweating, and I soon discover why.

  A swathe of blonde hair is plastered to my chest and neck, a hand rests across my waist, and a thigh is drawn high across my legs. The woman is like a limpet and burning at a thousand degrees. I’m not sure which part of her I should move in order to keep from cooking internally. I settle initially for gathering her hair and pushing it away from my face.

  There.

  Apart from feeling like Satan’s about to poke me in the arse with his fork, the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s been some time since I woke to a woman in my bed. Or woke in a woman’s bed, as the case may be. Or woke in my childhood friend’s grandmother’s bed, long since deceased. I yawn and rub a hand across my jaw as I decide that’s probably where I am right now.

  I lift my head from the pillow and examine the space, deciding this room once belonged to Eamon’s grandmother’s, and that it probably hasn’t been redecorated since then. Not that I’ve ever been in here before, but I did spend almost as much time in this house as I did my parents’ house next door while growing up. Flowery wallpaper and a vintage wardrobe and dresser, a fireside chair in a Liberty print, and a three-quarter sized bed with a terribly squeaky mattress furnish this room.

  I wonder if she died in this bed?

  Whether she did or not is immaterial because I guarantee this bed has never had a workout like it did last night. I’m surprised it’s still on four legs given the noises of protest it made as the springs groaned and the headboard banged against the wall.

  I stifle another yawn which twists into a smile, not because the thought of fucking in a bed someone died in appeals to any morbid side of me but because I’m surprised. Surprised to be waking up in this room. Surprised about last night.

  I hadn’t expected anything but a
n inconvenience when my elderly father asked me to look after his beloved and equally elderly Labrador while he took a short holiday. Rufus is too old for a stay in kennels, and Dad wouldn’t countenance someone, other than me, staying in the house. “It might be suitable for Marjorie next door and her awful hairless cats, but not for an old soldier like Rufus,” he’d said, and regardless of the fact that I have more work right now than my company can comfortably cope with, I said yes. He’s my dad and the only relative I have left, so I’d wear the fucking dog like a scarf while I work if I needed to. But as it is, he spends twenty-three hours a day sleeping in his basket and is as deaf as a post these days.

  So I’d expected inconvenience, not the delightful interlude lying next to me. I push the blond strands from her forehead and stroke my finger down the elegant slope of her nose. After last night, she might sleep for a week. I might’ve myself, but for the fact that I’m still on Japanese time after having just returned from Tokyo a few days ago.

  I consider waking her to keep me company—okay, to fuck—but decide not everyone likes to be awake at first light. She might be more amenable to morning sex if it’s definitively morning.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.

  Not that gifts or horses, or whatever is meant to represent women in that analogy are strangers to me. I’m just not very spontaneous, and the female company I keep is usually one of a couple of types and almost always in the business. An artist looking to gain representation; a situation I’m never sure who is using whom, or else one of a number of women who seem to move in the same circles. Socialites and minor celebrities, those wishing to see and be seen. And then the newly divorced seeking investment opportunities for their settlements, sometimes along with a little sexual validation.

  I can’t say I’ve ever found a woman stuck in a dog door, mores the pity. If I’d known what treats were in store, I might have looked after Rufus before.

  Come to think of it, it’s rather odd that both my eighty-year-old widower father and Eamon’s sixty-something widowed mother are on holiday at the same time.