Dirty Charmer

by Chase, Emma

  There’s a rustle of fabric behind me, and I feel soft lips pressing slow kisses to the back of my neck. When I find her in the dark and pull her against me, my palms are met with heated, smooth, perfect skin.

  And nothing else.

  Because Abby is naked for me. She slipped her clothes off when I stepped inside the closet.

  Fuck me, this girl.

  She’s like a sex-toy shop—full of the best surprises.

  I groan out a laugh as my dick aches to get out of my trousers and inside Abby.

  “You’re going to be the death of me, lass.”

  And I’d go out smiling, that’s damn certain.

  After we hump fast and fantastically against the wall and our joints are languid from the kind of orgasm that just sucks all the tension clean out of you, I help Abby dress in the darkness. We kiss and nibble and accidentally bump heads one time in between slipping on articles of clothing. Then we step out of the closet and walk casually down the hall.

  I even whistle.

  Abby’s friends are at the other end, outside the lift. Henrietta leans her elbow on the nurse’s station, resting her head on her hand, bleary-eyed from an overnight shift, I’d guess. An extra-extra-large breakfast tea is beside her.

  Over the past few weeks, screwing Abby has begun to feel like an addiction. Insatiable and unrelenting. The more I do her, the more I crave her.

  And if her pussy is my heroin, my cock must be her crystal meth. After she takes it she’s always more energetic than she was before.

  “Who’s ready for a great surgery?” she asks her friends cheerfully. “It’s going to be a good one, I can feel it!” She raises her palm. “Come on, Etta, give it up high.”

  Kevin laughs and Henrietta stares at Abby through grumpy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I think I’ve changed my mind about this. I hate you right now. I honestly hate you.”

  * * *

  In my line of work, ice can be an extremely helpful entity. A balm for bruised knuckles and overtaxed muscles. But it’s a delicate dance between pleasure and pain. Ice awakens the nerve endings, shocks the surface of the skin, making everything it first touches oversensitive and ultra-responsive.

  I love ice. When it’s melting on my tongue, floating in my scotch—and especially when a smooth, glossy cube is between my fingers, like it is right now, slowly circling the delicious peaked pebble of Abby’s bare nipple.

  A reedy gasp leaks from her throat and melts into a whimpering moan when I replace the cold ice with my hot mouth. I worship her with my mouth—twirling my tongue and sucking gently, soothing her chilly flesh.

  She’s never done this before—experimented with the sensations of hot and cold—and I love that too. That I get to show her, teach her all the dark, dirty delights my deviant mind can conjure.

  We’re in my office at the S&S shop long after everyone else has gone home. I was working late and Abby got off late from the hospital, so she took a cab here so we could get off together. And now my clothes lay in a ragged heap on the floor beside the dark blue scrubs she arrived in.

  Those scrubs—they’re sexier than any lace or leather lingerie to me now. Because to the outside observer they’re shapeless and bland, but I know . . . fuck, how well I know . . . the paradise of curves and sweet flesh that hides beneath.

  Abby’s on my desk, leaning back on her hands, arching her back so her breasts push out towards me. Her knees spread wider, making room for my hips, pleading for my touch.

  And what kind of bastard would I be to deny her?

  I lift my head from her breast so I can watch the glistening trail of the ice cube as I slide it between the valley of her breasts, down her contracting stomach. I follow it with my tongue, lapping at the liquid, swallowing the taste of her.

  And despite the demanding spike of my cock straining for relief, Abby’s too delicious for me not to kneel down and pull her to the edge of my desk, and drag the ice cube between her legs. Along her slick folds and around and around her plump pink clit, not touching directly—that would be too much—but near enough to make her hips lift and incoherent needy whimpers sing from her throat.

  When the ice is almost melted and neither of us can stand a moment more, I envelop her with my mouth. Giving in, giving what she needs, and taking for myself. Her pussy is cold against my tongue, so I lick and lap at her lips to warm them. But inside—inside she’s hot as honey and tastes twice as sweet.

  Abby writhes above me and my own hips rotate, fucking air in the same tempo as my tongue. And then she’s mindlessly gripping my hair and shamelessly pressing against my mouth, all stiff and tight and too lost to the sensations to make a single sound.

  When she shivers one last time and her fingers loosen and her limbs go boneless, I stand, running the back of my hand across my mouth and cradling her in my arms. She pecks grateful, worshiping kisses across my chest, and I reach into the glass of scotch beside her on my desk and scoop out another ice cube. I tilt Abby’s head back and trace her lips with it.

  “Open for me, love.” My voice is ragged and rough, and every muscle in my body is strung tight with wanting her.

  When her lips part, I slip the cube inside.

  “Suck on it.”

  Does she know what I’m thinking? Does she know what’s coming next?

  Her eyes are adoring and come-drunk, and her lips are puffy from my kisses. She holds on to my hips with the soundless plea for more—because by now I know Abby relishes my pleasure every bit as much as her own.

  I lift her chin. “Now give it back.”

  She holds the ice cube between her lips like a good girl, and I pluck it with my fingers and slip it into my own mouth, so I can taste her again.

  Because I can’t kiss her—not yet.

  Then I turn Abby around and lower her gently, so her back is flat on the desk and her neck rests along the very edge, and her head is angled just off the end.

  And her mouth is right there—perfect and waiting.

  She can’t stay in this position long and she won’t have to—just seeing her laid out like this for me has me close to bursting.

  And then Abby looks up into my eyes . . . and she opens her mouth.

  Because she’s brilliant and beautiful and for the moment—all fucking mine.

  I grip my cock and press it between her lips, just the head at first. I hiss out a groan and my eyes roll closed as the cool cavern of her mouth closes around me. And it’s like my blood is on fire—the need and want to take her and ride her, fuck her and come for her is this scorching, monstrous, miraculous thing.

  Abby sucks as I push in deeper, her tongue still cool but the back of her mouth and throat warmer, hotter against my cock.

  And Christ Almighty the feel of it—that she’s letting me have her this way is more stark white bliss than I ever dreamed or deserved in my life.

  I’m stripped bare and helpless . . . utterly mad for her.

  With harsh breaths and a pounding heart, I brace my hands on the desk and pull out slowly . . . then steadily slide back in. I glide back and forth, fucking her perfect mouth—the raw, carnal gratification ratcheting higher with every thrust.

  Abby moans rapturously around me and my vision goes hazy and it’s as if ecstasy detonates in my cells. I pump into her mouth and groan her name as I come hard and long down her throat.

  * * *

  Later, we need food. Abby slips into my dress shirt and I step into my boxers, and like two starving savage animals we raid the break room. The pickings are slim—a carton of juice, two apples and a bag of nuts—but they’ll do. Out in the workout area, I lean against the wall and pop a handful of almonds in my mouth, watching Abby drift curiously around the room.

  I can’t take my eyes off her.

  She stops beside the sparring ring and takes a bite of her apple.

  “So this is where you work? This is where the magic happens?”

  I tilt my head towards my office door.

  “The magic happened in there. This is
where we train.”

  Abby wanders to one of the weighted bags and I walk over to join her.

  “And that’s how you relieve your stress?” she asks. “Sparring? Fighting?”

  “One of the ways, yeah.”

  I lift my fists and lay a hard punch to the bag, rocking it back on its base. Showing off for her just because I can.

  Abby smiles. “Could you teach me to fight?”

  She lifts her small fist and moves to punch the bag—but I catch her wrist before she can make contact and wrap my arm around her waist, lifting her up and turning her against me.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Not ever.”

  She seems indignant.

  “Why not?”

  I take her hand in mine, grinning. And I kiss the back of it, then her palm, then each of her pretty knuckles—punctuating my words with the press of my lips.

  “Because these hands—these talented, beautiful hands—are too important for fighting. Too precious. They must be protected at all costs.”

  “By you?” she asks, like a dare.

  And she looks good enough to eat right now.

  All over again.

  “Absolutely. And besides—we already have a way to relieve your stress that’s so much better than fighting.” I brace my hands against the bag behind her, caging her in with my arms. “Want to work on that some more in the middle of the sparring ring?”

  My desk is already ruined—I’ll never be able to sit at it again without getting hard. Might as well go all in with the rest of the place.

  A bolt of heat flares in Abby’s eyes. She lifts up on her toes and scrapes my chin with her teeth.

  “Yeah, Tommy. I really do.”

  * * *

  And that’s how it goes—smooth as silk and piercingly pleasurable and effortless in its simplicity. We meet up, we fuck, we dress, we leave.

  Rinse and repeat.

  Abby’s heart isn’t invested, but her pussy certainly is—and that keeps things interesting. Keeps the challenge and the chase invigorating.

  Though she’s eased up on the scheduling aspect, she sticks firm to the other walls and parameters she proposed the first night of our arrangement—no emotions allowed. And that suits me fine.

  At least . . . I thought it did.

  Because while Abby and I spent all that time fucking each other blind, I’d forgotten that stunning, secret gardens have walls too. And only magnificent treasures get locked away behind brick and steel. And the greatest prizes are never easily won—they require seeking and searching and the scaling of obstacles. But Christ, it’s worth it in the end.

  These are the truths that punch me in the face a week later . . . on the night sweet Abby’s walls come tumbling down.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tommy

  I WALK THROUGH THE DOOR of my flat after having dinner at my parents’ house. Since I moved out, I try and get over there once a week to keep from being buried beneath the weight of the mother-guilt my mum rains down if I don’t. And because my family is a hell of a lot more entertaining now that I can take them in small doses.

  I’m only just through the door when my mobile pings with a text.

  Apple Blossom: I need to see you.

  I smile—it’s like she read my mind.

  Me: I’m at my place. I can come to you.

  Apple Blossom: No. Stay there. I’ll take a cab.

  Hmm . . . Abby’s feeling a mite bossy tonight. This will be fun.

  In no time at all, there’s a rapid knock on my door. But when I open it, there’s no time to flirt or tease—no time to even say hello—before Abby has her mouth fused to mine.

  Her hands are on my shoulders, tugging me down, and she’s up on her toes and her tongue strokes mine in a demanding, tantalizing rhythm.

  It’s rough and unexpected and glorious.

  I kick the door shut behind her and she’s clawing her coat off and tearing the top of her scrubs off like it burns. And then her mouth is back to mine and she’s knocking me back against the wall like she wants to suck out my soul.

  I drag my lips to her ear, her neck.

  “Easy, sweets. Slow down.”

  I feel her shake her head, but she doesn’t say a word.

  Abby takes my hand and presses it to her breast, squeezing her hand over mine, digging my fingers into her tender flesh harder than I ever would. She shoves my other hand into her hair, tangling it there and pulling—yanking. Her mouth presses harder, her lips against my teeth . . . until I’m tasting the copper tang of blood that’s not my own.

  Abby wants it rough and hard—and while I’m always up for that, this doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t feel right.

  There’s a desperation all about her. A frantic urgency that doesn’t come from passion.

  It comes from someplace else.

  I slip my hands from the death grip of hers and rest them on her shoulders, lifting my head.

  “Hey.” I brush back her hair. “Are you all right, Abby?”

  I want to see her eyes, but they’re closed. Her nod is quick, jerky, and her face is so pale it practically glows in the dim light. Then she’s climbing me, scratching at me, shoving my hand into her bra, scraping my fingernails across that soft, tender skin.

  “I want you to fuck me, Tommy,” she whispers in my ear. “Hard. Make me feel it. All of it.”

  She cups my cock over my jeans, rubbing and stroking with the perfect amount of pressure. And I want to go with it. My dick really wants to go with it—spin her around and tear at her clothes and fuck her rough against the wall just like she’s begging for.

  But her voice is raw. And choked. Like invisible hands are strangling her.

  And I won’t pretend not to hear it.

  I break her kiss, but I don’t push her away. This time, I pull Abby in, wrapping my arms tight around her and holding her still.

  “What’s going on with you, Abby?”

  Her head thrashes side to side. “Nothing. I just need you. Please, please just do it.”

  Wetness glistens on her closed lashes, liquid silver in the moonlight from the window. And she shakes harder in my arms. And my ribs tighten and compress—a heavy, squeezing pressure around my heart.

  Because she’s hurting. Badly.

  I pet her hair and press my lips to the soft strands at her temple.

  “If you want me to fuck you, Abby, I will. I’ll happily fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. But first I need you to talk to me . . . tell me what this is about.”

  Abby opens her eyes and they’re swimming with tears, drowning in pain. Her lips tremble and she shakes her head, and I hold her tighter because her voice is broken.

  “We lost her.”

  “Lost who?”

  “Maisy Adams. Today was her final surgery. She was done. And I promised . . . I promised her she’d be all better.”

  Abby’s breath shudders in her chest and she steps back from me, moves away into the center of my front parlor. She looks down, her eyes darting between her empty hands, staring horrified at things I can’t see.

  “She coded on the table and we tried . . . we tried for so long . . . but we couldn’t get her back. I’ve gone over it in my head—every dosage, ever step—we did everything right . . .”

  Abby looks up into my eyes—begging for forgiveness. For absolution. For a reprieve from the pain that’s crushing her.

  And it’s a shock to realize I’d cut off my fucking arm to be able to give her that.

  To take this from her if I could. To make it all better.

  “But we lost her.”

  Her shoulders shake and she slips down to the floor. And I go down with her, holding her close and rubbing her arms and letting her get it all out.

  “I’m a surgeon,” she sobs. “This is why I do what I do. I’m supposed to be able to save them . . . but I couldn’t.”

  “You do, Abby. But you can’t save them all.”

  Her mouth twists angrily at that and her eyes
go sharp.

  “You don’t understand. I have to—I need to know that I can. Because if I can’t, what the fuck am I doing this for?”

  I brush her hair back from her face, forcing her to look at me.

  “You’re doing this because no one will give them a better chance than you. They’re in the best hands, because they’re your hands. But sometimes . . . death is going to win. And it’s not because you did anything wrong, and it’s not because you’re not capable—it’s because that’s how it works, Abby. It’s part of the package. And you have to be able to know that and keep going in spite of it.”

  She shakes her head. “But what am I supposed to do with this? I don’t know what to do with all this . . . hurt. It’s so hard.”

  I nod and kiss her forehead. Then I stand.

  “Do you have to go in to the hospital tomorrow?”

  She swipes at her cheeks, even while her tears continue to trickle down.

  “No. Dr. Dickmaster said I’m not allowed near the hospital for forty-eight hours.”

  “Smart man.”

  I walk over to my cabinet and take out the bottle of good scotch. Then I uncork it and come back and sink down beside her on the floor.

  “Then we’re going to sit here and talk, and you’re going to let yourself feel it. If you don’t, if you block it all up, it’ll just build and build and one day it’ll shatter you. So you’re going to feel it and we’re going to get fucking drunk because it’s going to hurt like a bitch . . . and I’m going to be here with you the whole time.”

  I take a swig from the bottle and pass it to her. She gazes at it for just a moment, and then she relents—putting it to her lips and pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as she chokes the amber liquid down.

  She turns to me and her face crumples, pitiful and pleading.

  “She was just a little girl, Tommy. A tiny, beautiful little girl. It’s not fair.”

  I draw her into my arms, rocking her gently.

  “I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m so sorry.”

  Abby clasps herself to me, soaking my shirt with her sobs. And eventually, we finish that bottle together. And she stays the night. There in my bed—in my arms—her head on my chest, her hair loose and lovely, her soft breaths tickling my neck.