My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Sweetheart, if you want to be treated like a bad girl, just carry on because you’re giving me all kinds of ideas. Bad, dirty ideas but I’d like to at least get through the door first.’

  As though bringing her attention to our surroundings, her spine snaps straight, and she moves the hair from her face with the back of one hand.

  ‘Lead on, Macduff.’ I chuckle at her Macbeth reference, and to my absolute surprise and delight, she doesn’t shy away as I reach for her hand.

  ‘Shall we play civilised?’ As I close the door, the space dims. There’s a light at the end of the hallway from a lamp left on farther inside the house somewhere. Stairs to the right, living spaces ahead, the kitchen behind. Where to go first? I take her hand in mine and move along the hallway, deeper into the house, pausing to kiss her at the base of the stairs.

  ‘Civilised,’ she repeats, stepping from my arms. She drops her bag onto the console table before turning to face me. Her expression is difficult to read. ‘What are my options?’

  ‘Would you like me to offer you a drink?’ Amused, I fold my arms and lean my shoulder against the wall.

  ‘Do we need that kind of pretext?’ she retorts. ‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough?’

  ‘I know you’re stone cold sober. I don’t fuck drunk girls.’

  ‘So I ask again.’ She steps closer, her head almost level with my chin. ‘My options are civilised and . . . ?’ This is verbal foreplay, the thrust and the parry, but a surprising theme running through it. ‘Something tells me you were holding back last time.’

  ‘Really?’ The word is all threat and drawl. ‘Am I to take from that my performance was lacking?’

  ‘No.’ She laughs, but she’s not looking at me, rather staring at the back of her hand as she places it against my chest. ‘You were more than enough. But things have changed since then.’

  ‘How so?’ I whisper, my lips just a breath from hers.

  ‘Please don’t ask me to explain.’ She shakes her head like a thoroughbred shaking off flies. ‘I just want to forget my life for tonight. I want you to make me.’

  ‘Make you?’ My brow pinches, and as I tighten my arms across my chest, her gaze falls to my bicep, shortly followed by her trailing fingertips. ‘I think you might need to explain that to me.’ Far be it from me to question anyone’s kink, but this kind of fantasy is one that needs prior discussion and concrete boundaries.

  ‘Make me feel like someone else. Someone whose life doesn’t feel like it’s unravelling at the seams.’ Her eyes suddenly fill with tears, but I sense she wouldn’t thank me for taking her in my arms. She’s lost and needs a distraction. A way to forget whatever is going on in her life right now.

  And she wants me to give it to her.

  I let my gaze travel over her in such a way she inhales a sharp breath. Knowing I can affect her so without a single touch? It’s a heady kind of power, one I challenge any man to ignore.

  ‘Take off your underwear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. Take them off. I’m not taking you to bed, sweet girl.’ At least, not yet.

  The last time, it was her skirt. This time, I’ll ask for something a little more. Push her a little more. Unbalance her. Her hands slip under the hem of her dress, thumbs hooking into the sides before she slides the tiny garment down. Pale blue lace, not cartoon adorned cotton, falls to the floor, and as she steps from the pool, she rests her hand on my forearm.

  ‘Give them to me.’ She bends, picking them up from the floor before handing them over, the spark of anticipation apparent as our fingers touch. ‘You know what I’m wondering? I’m wondering if your bra matches. And if it does, who you intended to fuck tonight.’

  ‘Sometimes a girl likes to wear matching underwear,’ she replies, her head held high.

  ‘So you didn’t go out tonight with the intention of fucking someone?’

  ‘I was working,’ she answers softly. ‘Besides, speed doesn’t do it for me.’

  I bark out a laugh.

  ‘Also, you never know when that ambulance might get called.’

  ‘Or when you’ll get stuck in a dog door?’ Her smile freezes, her eyes darkening as I twirl the blue lace around my index finger, then bring the fabric to my nose. ‘You’re fucking intoxicating.’

  Stuffing her underwear in my pocket, I pull her to my chest, the change of pace catching her off guard as I press her against the wall, my lips capturing hers in a slow, teasing kiss.

  ‘This okay?’ I ask as I lift her hands, pressing them against the wall. She nods, her inhalation jagged as my fingers dip under her hem, trailing up the inside of her thigh. Her tension unfurls in a long sigh as I slide them along her bare pussy.

  ‘Open for me, Miranda,’ I whisper, teasing her still. As she parts her legs, I slide two fingers deep inside. She’s so ready for this. She jolts at the sudden invasion, her gaze hooded and dark. ‘You’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I’ve barely touched you, and you’re making such a mess of my fingers.’ The evidence in my touch and the sounds as I work my fingers deeper, twisting my hand at the wrist.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whimpers as I brush that sweet bundle of nerves deep inside, my thumb alternately petting the soft rise of her clit. ‘You shouldn’t say such things.’

  ‘Why, when you know you like it.’ My tone is a touch cruel. ‘Do you know how you taste?’ She thrashes against the wall as I slip my fingers from inside, painting a wet stripe against her lips. ‘Like heaven,’ I whisper, following the motion with my mouth in a kiss. ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you? You know your own taste.’ As an encore, I push those wet fingers between her luscious lips. ‘Suck on them, sweetheart. Get them nice and wet.’ So they leave a tantalising cool trail as I slip them between her legs once again.

  ‘You’re so sweet, so rosy and pink. I want to lick every part of you from head to toe.’ Between my promises, I ghost my lips over hers. ‘I’ll drink you all in, every drop of you. Swallow an ocean of you and come back for more.’

  ‘Oh, God, please.’

  ‘I thought we had this conversation. God won’t be responsible for your trip to heaven tonight.’

  I kiss her then, my fingers deep, my thumb pressed against her clit. It’s a kiss of such heat and need, a kiss of tongues and teeth. A kiss of ownership, the intensity all her doing as her insides flutter and clench around those digits. But, like a bastard, as her orgasm begins to climb, I pull my fingers from between her legs.

  ‘That’s—that was evil,’ she pants. Her brow is creased, her hands still above her head.

  ‘But it’ll be worth it in the end.’ My fingers glisten in the light as I tug on the concealed zipper of her dress. ‘My God, you are beautiful.’ I feel her smile more than see it as I kiss the corner of her mouth.

  ‘And you’re a sweet talker,’ she whispers as I press my lips to the skin where her neck and shoulder meets. Her breath hitches as I flick my tongue across that elegant arc, her exhalation a beautiful, faltering thing.

  ‘A man either becomes a poet or an idiot when he basks in the light of a beautiful woman.’ I don’t give her time to respond as I turn her in my arms and lift her dress over her head. It scarcely has time to drop to the floor before I’m loosening her bra and placing wet, sucking kisses along her spine.

  And the scrape of teeth on the way back again.

  ‘I want your thighs trembling around me.’ I draw her earlobe into my mouth, testing it with my teeth and causing her to shudder a little more. ‘I want you squirming all over my face again, and your hands pulling at my hair like you’re not sure if you want me closer or if you want to push me away. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Her answer is a breath of air. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  I wonder if she remembers as acutely as I have. As I do.

  ‘I want to be inside you, darling. I can’t wait any longer.’

  She makes no protest as I push her forward, her palms connecting with the top of the console table with a slap
.

  And then this is happening.

  Pale, pale skin.

  The dips and sacred valleys of her.

  The shake in my hand as I gather her hair, twisting her head to meet mine in a kiss.

  ‘James.’ Her voice is a rasp and her mouth a temptation. ‘Please, please just fuck me.’

  I slide my wallet from my back pocket, slapping it down on the walnut tabletop and using one hand to pull a condom free. I notice she’s watching, all avid expression, so I take her chin in my fingers and twist her head to meet mine. The small kiss turns instantly savage—teeth and tongue and passion—before I pull away, fumbling with my belt.

  She whimpers, rolling her lips in as though to mute the sound caught between desperation and need as I reach for the condom and tear it open. Like the biggest fucking tease, she watches from under her lashes, her head turned over her shoulder, her dark eyes glued to the sight of my cock in my hand.

  The muscles in my abs tense with raw need as I sheath myself and move to position, changing my mind instead. I drop to my heels like a devotee, sliding my tongue against her glistening pussy, that sweet temptation, that slick ribbon of pink flesh. With a cry, Miranda falls forward onto her forearms, the space suddenly echoing with the sound of her desperate cries.

  And my God, the taste of her. The way she rocks back against me, the sound of my name on her lips. It all drives me wild, my hands tight on her pale flesh, my tongue coated in her slickness, I’m neither able to taste enough or touch enough—feel enough. The knot in my belly tightens, a tremble in hers as I splay my hand there. The wetness coats her thighs as I lick her again and again, and they begin to tremble. But this isn’t enough for me, helpless to the chemicals rushing through my bloodstream.

  ‘Don’t come.’ I sound as if I’ve been running, my voice husky as I wipe the back of my hand across my face. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Please.’ One whispered word. A plea as I wrap my hands around her hips and stand. ‘Please, not again.’

  ‘I want to see you when you come. Watch you. Turn around, darling.’

  She whimpers as I turn her, depositing her on the tabletop. A copper bowl spins and clatters on the parquet floor, though it barely registers, other detritus scattering as I wrap my hand around her shoulder to push her back.

  ‘You were so close.’ My lips ghost from her navel to her lips, my tongue paying tribute to the pebble of her nipples on the way. ‘I could feel it.’ Desired it almost as much as she did, perhaps.

  ‘You’re so cruel,’ she whimpers, confliction playing across her face.

  ‘And you’re so lovely, even when you’re pouting.’

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ she whispers, her pout a little more exaggerated as she arches into my touch.

  ‘Do you think you’re ready?’

  ‘God, yes.’ Her answer is pure carnality.

  ‘You’re ready to accept you don’t need to be anyone else?’ Her body stills under my fingertips, but she doesn’t speak. ‘Because a goddess never relinquishes her power. She revels in it.’

  ‘I don’t feel very powerful sometimes.’ Her voice is little more than a whisper as she tips her head back, her eyes no longer on mine.

  ‘Look at me,’ I command, her gaze meeting me once again. ‘Look at the power you have over me.’ My words drain away as I run my hand down over my abs to where my cock stands swollen and proud. At this not so subtle hint, she spreads her legs. Like a magnet, my thumb slips between her folds, drawn to touch the soft rise of her clit. ‘Tell me what you want, Miranda. What you need.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whimpers, arching into my touch. ‘I need you inside me.’

  Were more beautiful words ever said?

  She sighs softly as, holding my cock, I swipe it though her wetness, a soft sigh that counters my grunt as she replaces my hand with her own, continuing the torture.

  But who is the torturer, and who is the tortured?

  I drop my forehead against her shoulder, my words barely a puff of air in her ear.

  ‘So you want to kill me. I see how it is.’

  ‘I need this, James,’ she murmurs, running her fingers over my crown. ‘I need you inside me.’ Her words are like a shot of pure adrenaline through my veins. Hardly a trace of her makeup remains, her hair chaotic from my fingers, yet she is the most beautifully exquisite mess. Real. Genuine. And a picture of wantonness as I bury myself between her legs.

  ‘Put me inside, Miranda.’

  I take her hand and bring it to the base of my cock before swiping the head through her slick skin. My hand over hers, we both shiver as she presses me against her entrance. Heads lowered, we both watch as I breach her, as she accepts me, so slippery and offering no resistance as I take my hips in her hands and bury myself between her legs.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whimpers as I withdraw. At the snap of my hips, her hands grasp my biceps as though to keep me there, to hold onto the sensation of being full.

  That’s so . . . Jesus Christ! My jaw flexes, my movements tight as her muscles tremble around me. The sound of her sharp gasps and breathy moans driving me fucking wild. Driving me to rut and fuck. She catches her weight on her palms, her breasts a temptation too great. My thumbs brush her hard nipples before I take the round fullness into my hands, gripping them as I deliver a series of short, punishing thrusts.

  ‘I can feel your heart beating against my hand—beating in time with the pulse of your pussy.’

  Miranda throws her head back as though the sight is a sensation too much, and I bend to flick the tip of my tongue over both nipples in turn. Then, sliding my hands under her, I lift her from the table to bring her closer, her arms feeding around my neck.

  The change of depth is immediate.

  ‘God, yes. Yes!’ Our mouths meet on the up thrust, all jagged breath and questing tongue.

  ‘You’re so tight,’ I whisper as I bury my face in her neck. ‘So snug. You feel so fucking good.’

  ‘God. Oh, God. I’m . . . I’m . . . ’

  I tighten my grip on her arse and lick her neck, committing her cries to memory as she begins to rock against me, her movements frantic as she chases her high. Her body stiffens suddenly in a rictus of pleasure, her insides milking me for all I’m worth.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ I tighten my grip as I begin to flex and pump, grinding against her as she goes rigid, then falls apart in my arms. My own climax begins to build, white hot and intense. Like fucking wildfire rushing through my veins, and almost taking my legs from under me.

  13

  Miranda

  I think this is what it must feel like to wake in the hands of God.

  I woke a few moments ago, but I haven’t yet dared to move. I’m curled on my side, my prayer-like hands nestled between me and the pillow, but as the moments have passed, I’ve come to realise that this is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. Not that I’ve slept a great deal. Maybe two or three hours at most? Bouts of dozing mainly, between other things.

  His arms around me, his warm breathy whispers in the dark. Neck kisses and nibbling teeth, and the wonderfully, torturous brush of his stubble on oversensitive skin. Groping and grinding and those achingly beautiful masculine groans as I’d taken him into my mouth. My hair in his fist and his delivery of long, languid kisses. My hands pressed to the mattress, our fingers linked. The slide of his body against mine. The sensation of being full of him.

  Other things, as I said.

  Mind-blowing things.

  I swallow thickly. The title one-night stand could never cover what one night with him is. The experience is too sensual, too intimate, and just. Too. Much.

  And too tempting to leave feeling that I’d be happy never to see him again.

  I push the thought to the back of my mind. It was just one night, twice. An opportunity to step out from my shitshow of a life. For two nights, he made me forget it all, made me check my troubles at the door, but I know as I step out onto the street again, it’ll all be waiting there to greet me. />
  God, this mattress. It literally is like sleeping on a cloud.

  I wonder if it sees much action. I silently berate myself for my ridiculousness because, of course, it does.

  Do you know how you taste?

  Like heaven.

  Stop, just stop! Stop thinking and stop asking yourself questions and stop replaying last night in your head because that’s not one-night stand territory. It’s not what one-night stands do.

  Probably.

  How could they experience a night like this and not want a second helping? A third? That’s why they must shut that shit down, showing no interest in what came before and what will come after.

  Because his talents and stamina are too much to dedicate to one girl.

  Don’t think about that either. That’s a sure-fire way to drive a girl mad.

  I always thought the older a man gets, the harder, pardon the pun, it becomes after the first time to, well, you know. I can thank my mother for this little bit of intel, not that she told me exactly. I just happened to overhear her say so to one of her cackling friends over a bottle of wine a few years ago.

  That sort of thing stays in your head, whether it’s true or not.

  I don’t have sufficient empirical evidence. And no interest in gathering a larger sample.

  Slowly pulling my hands from under me, I twist my head over my shoulder with a whispered prayer for him still to be asleep. Why? Because I can barely face him. My behaviour last night was . . . Well, it wasn’t like me. And the things we did in the hallway and this bed were not the behaviour of a girl who ordinarily wears Batman underwear.

  Not satisfied with just a glance, I turn fully, but carefully, determined not to wake him. He lies on his front with his hands pushed under the pillow, and I wonder if watching him like this would be considered creepy. Probably. But this is too good an opportunity because the man is a feast to the eyes. There’s something almost leonine about him. His skin is lightly golden, possibly from alfresco yoga, or maybe he’s recently had a holiday. A life he leads that has nothing to do with me. His thick hair is wild and unruly—truly, it looks like what Heather might call freshly fucked—and his sharp jaw is covered in a sandy stubble much more pronounced than last night.