Keep Me (Beggar's Choice #3)

by Lily Morton

  “You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers and I open my mouth to say I don’t know what, but all that comes out is a choked whine as he nuzzles his nose in amongst my folds and inhales deeply. “You smell even better,” he groans. “So fucking sweet.” Then he runs his tongue all the way down from my clit to my entrance and back up again until he reaches my clit where he fastens his lips around the nub and suckles it. I arch against him crying out and he groans, suckling harder until I think that I see stars, and then he settles in to really play.

  I have decried the amount of women that he’s had but right at this moment I bless them because this man is a master at giving head. He alternates between sucking and licking my clit and then forcing his tongue inside me. He points it and ruts my pussy with it as if it was his cock while I moan in utter abandonment not caring who could hear me. In fact a marching band could parade through the room and I would just force his head harder against me.

  Then he’s back to my clit while his talented fingers push into my cunt and he crooks them making a sort of come here gesture that rubs against a spot inside me that makes me warm inside and shudder and shake. “Bram,” I shout out, canting my hips forward and almost riding his face. “Oh my God.”

  He lifts his head displaying a face so far gone with lust that he looks almost violent. “Yes love come for me, let me hear you.” He bends to me again, licking me furiously and finger fucking me so hard that before I know it I’m screaming out in pleasure. I arch my body, contorting and riding his fingers and feeling the explosions inside myself go on and on.

  Finally, I calm and lay back panting, feeling the sweat cooling on my body. He raises up over me and wipes his face with his hand and then licks his hand and his fingers clean while I watch in what can only be termed a state of carnal oblivion. I try to raise my hand to him but it flops down and I groan, feeling as if all the bones in my body have disintegrated.

  He laughs settling down next to me, his eyes bright and knowing but warm as chocolate. “What about you?” I mutter looking down at his dick which is straining against his suit trousers.

  He huffs dismissively, lifting my hand and letting it flop down. “Yeah, what are you going to do about that with this hand, Ragdolly Anna?” he taunts and I laugh.

  “I’ll do something when the feeling returns to my limbs.” He grins and lies down next to me pulling me into his arms with a contented sigh. “Seriously Bram,” I mutter. “Let me do something for you.”

  “Nuh-uh that was just for you. Be patient my little apprentice. Your master is going to teach you a few things about delayed gratification and wooing.”

  “That almost sounds like a threat,” I mutter. A few minutes later I stir feeling the warmth and scent of him all around me like a warm blanket. “Bloody hell I love Madonna. I’m joining her fan club when we get back.”

  His arms tighten and then he lets go with a massive snort of laughter.

  ***

  We spend the next few days sightseeing around Paris and I couldn’t ask for a better tour guide. He’s been here loads of times and he knows all the little shops and bars and restaurants. We walk in little green parks and sit on the grass greedily eating hot croissants from a paper bag, and always we talk about anything and everything.

  Every night we sleep together in the same bed and he draws me near and cuddles me but that’s it. Apparently wooing isn’t meant to include nooky at the onset he informs me in a scholarly way, and so we carry on according to whatever convoluted plan is ticking away in that busy brain of his.

  A few days later we fly to Rome. It’s chaotic and I fall in love with it from the start, with the narrow streets and the fact that an architectural marvel is around every corner, hidden away like treasure.

  We check into our hotel first and after showering and changing we make our way out. Apparently the staff will unpack our clothes and deal with any creases - how the other half live.

  We make our way out of the hotel and it’s so bright that I pause to slide the white Ray Bans that I’d found in my case down over my eyes. Bram pauses to talk to the concierge who hands him some keys while Bram tucks some money into his pocket as the man gives him a very gratified smile.

  “Bit of dealing on the side?” I mutter and he grins at me, his teeth shining white in his tanned face. He looks utterly gorgeous dressed in beige cargo shorts and a sky blue, short sleeved shirt, but more than that he looks utterly laidback and relaxed. It’s a look that suits him but not one he wears very often. Bram has perfected easy going but to someone who knows him there’s always a lot of watchfulness underneath.

  “Better than that,” he smirks, taking my arm and steering me gently over to where a gleaming navy blue Aston Martin is sitting. He presses the keys and deactivates the locks and I slide a glance at him only to find him grinning, his tongue caught between his teeth. “Alys my puritan love you have to admit that sometimes having money is awesome.”

  I shake my head at him not quite managing to hide a smile and go to open the door, but he stops me quickly. “No, stay there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you look utterly beautiful love. I need a photo.” I look down at myself. I’m wearing a short white cotton, belted dress with little lace inserts which shows off the length of my tanned legs, and I’ve teamed it with a pair of Gucci, burnt orange, ballet flats and coiled my hair back in a very sixties style. “Smile,” he hollers and I make a Halloween grimace at him. “Darling that’s beautiful,” he shouts. “But if the wind changes you’ll stay that way.”

  He clicks away happily, something that he does all the time. As soon as we go anywhere out comes his phone and the clicking begins. It’s quite endearing but also a little alarming to someone that isn’t used to her picture being taken. I’d asked him the other night if he was putting the photos on Facebook but he’d demurred, saying that they were going on a private account that only friends could see. I’d been slightly worried because at the time he’d been taking a few pictures of me naked on the bed with my legs spread and I’ve never been that friendly with anyone. However, he’d smirked and said that those pictures were only for his eyes.

  An old couple descend the steps of the hotel carefully and Bram calls out to them, “Excuse me but could you take a picture of us.” I roll my eyes at him and he grins before handing the man his phone and showing him where to press before loping back and throwing his arms around me. “Smile,” he says grinning slightly maniacally and I can’t help but laugh.

  “Beautiful,” the older woman calls in fluid, Italian accented English. “You are a beautiful couple. You take care of your wife signore.”

  “Oh, we’re not married,” I smile, coming forward as Bram takes his phone back with thanks to the man.

  She smiles knowingly at Bram who grins back and I’m sure that he murmurs ‘not yet’ but he’s facing away so I can’t be sure.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t broken out into hives,” I say cheerily as we get into the car and settle into the soft, white leather seats.

  “Why?” He darts a confused look at me as he starts the motor with a throaty purr. He caresses the steering wheel. “Fuck that’s the best sound.” He pauses, staring into space. “Well, apart from the noise that you make when I stick my tongue in your pussy.”

  “Bram!” I protest, giggling.

  He smirks. “That is the best noise ever. Anyway, why would I break out into hives?”

  “That lady thinking that we were married. I thought you’d have an allergic reaction.”

  He stares at me hard, all humour gone and what looks very much like hurt in his eyes. “Alys I believe in marriage, surely you know that,” he says in a steady voice. “I believe in true love and forever love. Of course I do. How could I not?”

  I’m horrified at the thought of hurting him. “Oh Bram, I was only joking, but you must admit that you just don’t look like a marrying man. You’re so blatantly single.”

  He stares hard at me. “I haven’t been that man for a
very long time,” he says finally, making sure that I can see his lips and I can hear a hard edge to his voice. “It’s because I believe in true love and marriage that I’ve never done it. I’d just never found what I needed until …”

  He pauses and I shift almost unconsciously forward. “Until?”

  He jerks as if he’s said too much and smiles slowly. “Do you really want to have that discussion now?” I sit back almost relieved because he’s right. I’m enjoying this time too much to clutter it with doubts and worries and second guessing him. “Thought so,” he murmurs and puts his foot down moving the car smoothly off the forecourt.

  “Pick some music,” he commands, handing me his phone and I flick through the encyclopaedic list of songs on his iTunes before finally selecting the ‘By the Way’ album by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. ‘Warm Tape’ flows out of the speakers and he gives me an approving glance. “Nice choice. This is my favourite album of theirs.”

  We’re silent for a while but it’s comfortable as it always is with him. For such a lively person he’s remarkably at ease with saying or doing nothing, his only prerequisite he told me yesterday was that it was with me. However, I’m still concerned by that flash of hurt I saw earlier but I don’t know how to ease it. “Where are we going?” I settle for asking, and then grip both hands on my seat and try unsuccessfully to muffle a scream as we pull onto a section of road with four lanes, all of which seem to be occupied by drivers who seem suicidally inclined to force their way into the lane furthest away from them.

  “Oh my God,” I shout, braking impotently with my foot, and he laughs hard, all traces of seriousness gone.

  “It’s not a dual controlled car you know?”

  “I know,” I snap and then screech and brake again as a man in a blue Fiat pulls sharply in front of us about an inch away from our bonnet. “I can’t help it.”

  “Well relax, I know what I’m doing. Close your eyes if you want. Driving in Italy is a bit of an acquired taste.” I relax slightly as I watch him. He’s so confident in whatever he does as if he simply expects his body to do as it’s told and it will. So different from my slightly colt like awkwardness. I’d shot up in my teens and the sudden increase in my height seemed to throw me a bit off balance.

  I look out of the window as he points out various monuments, amazed again at their juxtaposition to chaotic modern life.

  I don’t know how much time passes until we drive up a steep incline and he parallel parks smoothly in a small village square dozing in the sunshine. “Where are we?” I ask.

  “We’re on one of Rome’s seven hills, the Aventine.” He gets out of the car coming round to open my door for me. He’s strangely old fashioned like this in that he opens doors and even walks on the road side of the pavement when next to me.

  “And what’s here?” The square is empty apart from some waiters setting up tables in a restaurant and a cat sleeping in the sun on a car roof.

  “Not here. We’re going up the hill.” He takes my hand and pulls me up the steep slope until we come into a square. Behind old walls are a series of sun baked buildings lying sleepily in the early morning sunshine.

  “This is one of Rome’s best kept secrets. This is the Priory of the Knights of Malta.” Instead of going towards the building however he pulls me towards two very high wooden doors with ornate silver handles that are set into crumbling marble walls. I try one of the doors.

  “Oh it’s locked,” I say in disappointment and then glance quickly at him not wanting to hurt his feelings. “Oh well never mind. It’s such a beautiful square.”

  He grabs my head gently under the coil of hair and pulls me forward to kiss me on the forehead and I can feel his lips curve into a smile as he does this. “The gates are nearly always locked darling, that’s the point. Now do you see the keyhole? That is The Aventine Keyhole.” I nod. “Press your eye to it and tell me what you see.”

  Looking at him slightly doubtfully I do as he asks and then gasp in amazement because through the keyhole, framed by a natural archway of green trees, is the most picture postcard view of the dome of St Peter’s Basilica sitting in the distance like a fat honeypot. It’s a perfect view not just because of the subject, but because it’s almost like a secret, coming as it does by looking through a keyhole. I’m unbelievably charmed and turn to him smiling widely. His eyes seem caught on my smile for a second until I laugh and then bend down again. “It’s so clandestine,” I say softly. “Like we’re spies and it’s our secret.”

  I look up at him as he leans against the door still holding my hands firmly. “Do you want to look? You can’t leave without seeing it. It’s the most beautiful, surprising thing that I’ve ever seen.”

  “I know,” he says enigmatically, staring at me and making no move to the keyhole. It takes me a second to get his meaning and then I blush, overcome by the moment and being with him. More and more often lately an almost intense happiness rushes through me, sometimes when he does nothing more than smile at me, and I have to keep reminding myself not to get used to it. However, this voice which was so strident a few weeks ago, is now faint and almost unheard.

  He straightens as if he catches my thoughts and reaches our hands which are still clasped together up to my hair where he tangles our fingers in a loose curl. Then he curves both of our hands around my face. His hands rest on top of mine and there’s something so protective in their positioning and their touch is so gentle that when he moves my hands to cup my own cheekbones it feels like they’re his and he’s touching something valuable to him.

  “Alys,” he breathes. “A chroi,” and then bending forward he kisses me softly. There’s no heat in it. It’s just a simple almost childlike kiss but there’s a lot of feeling in it, and standing in that sunlit old square listening to the distant chimes of the church bells I know that I’ll remember it forever.

  He held my hand in Rome.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alys

  We stop for lunch at an old restaurant and then drive further out into the countryside taking roads seemingly randomly, driving down winding lanes towered over by flat top pine trees like forest green umbrellas. ‘Gravity’ by Embrace is playing on the stereo and I’m stuffed full of mushroom risotto and a gorgeous Tiramisu so I drift for a while.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” I finally murmur, and he looks startled as if he’d been deep in thought.

  “I know where we are roughly but I’m taking the scenic route.”

  I look up at the sky which while I’ve been drifting has filled with broiling dark clouds. “Looks like we might be in for a storm.”

  He nods, looking suddenly gleeful. “It’s a summer storm a mhuirnín. Rome’s famous for them - lots of heat and spectacle and then gone leaving everything steaming.”

  “Bit like you over the last year,” I can’t resist saying and he glares at me. “What? Bram it was funny.” I pause. “Too soon?”

  He nods fiercely and then his expression breaks and he grins widely as rain suddenly comes down hard making a huge racket on the car roof. He clicks the indicator and pulls the car over, tucking it safely well into the side of the road under a low hanging tree and out of sight of any passing drivers.

  He turns the engine off and turns to me, and suddenly the sound of the rain seems to amplify the silence between us making the car seem to hum. He smiles widely but it’s got a wicked cast to it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask nervously. “Is there something wrong with the car?”

  He smirks. “No of course not. You seem to have forgotten the point of our visit to Rome, Alys.”

  I sit up straight. “I haven’t. You ticked one off today Bram. You held my hand.”

  His gaze softens and then turns almost carnal. “Well I’m about to tick another box.”

  “What box? You held my hand in Rome, it’s done.” He stares at me expectantly as I run through the lyrics in my head. To be honest I could recite them in my sleep now, and then the sound of the rain grabs my
attention and I stare at him open mouthed. “You wouldn’t?” I say shocked. “I thought we were going to ignore that bit.”

  “Come on O’Neill,” he says briskly. “No welshing on a bet.”

  “We didn’t bet!”

  He seesaws his hand. “You say potato I say potarto, now get naked. We’ve got a rainstorm to run naked in.”

  “What here?” I squeak as he exits the car and runs round opening my door. Reaching in he tugs my sunglasses off my head. “You won’t need those,” he says throwing them onto the dashboard and then pulling me out. “Come on or the storm will be over.”

  “Well we can’t have that,” I shout as he climbs over an old wooden stile and then lifts me over, but I’m starting to laugh and he knows that he’s got me.

  We’re standing in a large meadow filled with waist high wildflowers in brilliant shades of red and purple. “Strip,” he orders, putting his hands behind his head and pulling his shirt straight over his head in that uncomplicated way that men strip. I gulp as the rain instantly slides down his tanned, muscular chest, slipping down the funnels of his six pack and catching on the sharp edges of his hipbones. I come to myself when he gestures bossily at me. “Come on darling, you’re falling behind,” he hisses, and then kicks his shoes off and drops his shorts followed quickly by his boxer briefs.

  “Oh my God,” I squeal as my gaze is caught and held by his cock, but when I try to grab the tab on my zipper it’s a struggle and he tsks and comes behind me to help me. I feel the wet, hard warmth of his body and then he slips his hands inside my dress, sliding them up my back and then over my collarbone, catching the edges of the dress and pushing it down, the slowness of this negating his expressed need for speed. He stills when the dress catches on my hips and then drops to the ground and he catches sight of my underwear.

  “Fuck Alys. I’ve never seen a woman look as good as you in underwear.” He twirls me round to face him and then just stands there staring at the La Perla set of bra and panties that I’m wearing. They’re the skimpiest things that I’ve ever worn, being constructed of a few wires and blush coloured see through lace, and I know that my nipples and pussy are almost lewdly presented. Judging by the way that his cock has filled and is now visibly throbbing against his belly button I know that he approves.