by J. D. Chase
Dean was taken aback by her words. He sat motionless, his mind reeling. He’d never been to bed with a woman with such a demanding, dirty mouth before. He wasn’t completely sure he liked it. Before he could make up his mind, she grasped his head and threw herself backwards, pulling his head down between her thighs. Her dress had ridden up so there was no barrier to her spreading her legs. No barrier at all, he realised as she pushed his face against her scented skin. Even as his mind processed that she was sans knickers, she began to slide her pussy against his face, keeping a firm hold of his head.
His mind reeled faster until he registered the taste of her on his lips . . . then it unravelled completely. He stuck out his tongue and prepared to lap at her gently but she was having none of it. Her hips bucked and writhed as she ground herself against his face. He felt almost powerless, so out of his sexual comfort zone. Then she began to chide him for his passive role. ‘What’s wrong with you? That’s not going to make me squirt, now is it? What’s the matter, not man enough to make me squirt?’
That’s when Dean thought he must be dreaming; that he’d curled up next to Isla and was having some weird, horny dream. He’d not been with a woman in weeks so he thought it was just his sexual frustration seeping into his dreams. But surely that heavenly taste couldn’t be his imagination and nor could his throbbing cock . . . frankly, he didn’t know which reality he preferred. He wanted to be in bed with Isla, of course he did, but he wanted to be making love to her reverently like she deserved, not fantasising about some sex-crazed, slutty version of her in his sleep. He told himself to wake up, to end this ridiculousness.
But when a frustrated Isla pushed him off, on to his back and then squatted over him before lowering her pussy on to his face, he was jolted back into reality. He hadn’t seen it coming; the darkened room had seen to that. Then she began to slide her wet slit up and down his face, shouting, ‘Make me come, you filthy fucker.’ Dean was stunned by her vulgarity and, at first, he just lay there until the sweet taste of her began to wind its way into his consciousness. He began to lick her but she was writhing around like something possessed, making any attempt to slide his tongue inside her, as she’d instructed, impossible. He tried valiantly to tongue her clit but she wouldn’t keep still.
Shock and indignation railed inside him when she tilted her hips forward and slid her anus over his tongue. It felt wrong, it felt beyond dirty, but the appreciative moans she gave called to him and helped him to overcome his reluctance. ‘Fuck my ass with your tongue,’ she instructed fiercely as she began to bounce up and down. His tongue shot back inside his mouth and she seemed to get the message. She pushed her hips back and began to slide her pussy over his mouth once more. He began to lick and lap as best he could, given her animalistic thrusting. As she did so, she pulled her dress up and over her head, abandoning it on the floor and then unfastened her bra.
Within a minute or so, he could barely breathe so when she paused, huffing in disappointment and told him to stick out his tongue for her pussy, he was relieved. She proceeded to impale herself on it and began to thrust up and down until he could no longer feel his tongue. Then she grasped his hands and clasped them over her soft, swaying breasts. When she released his hands, he fondled her gently until she shrieked, ‘What’s the matter with you, for fuck’s sake?’ Dean froze as she continued in an aggressive tone, ‘Pinch my nipples, squeeze my tits, slap them . . . mark them . . . I don’t care, just make me fucking feel something.’
His mind was stunned by her words and the realisation that he was actually touching her naked breasts. It had taken him several seconds to realise that somehow she’d got naked. His head told him to ignore her demands but his jerking cock urged him on. He tentatively began to roll and pinch her nipples gently but she grasped his hands and tried to put pressure on his fingers to squeeze them harder. Much harder. He was reluctant; he didn’t want to hurt her. Little did he know that’s exactly what she desired.
Suddenly she gave a throaty laugh. ‘I know what you’re doing . . . you’re deliberately teasing me. You’re going to try to make me beg you to unleash your magic and make me come over and over and harder and harder. You should know better than that. And think of your cock . . . how much does it want to be inside me? I’ll bet it’s like a rod of iron by now . . . throbbing with the need to fuck me and feel me climaxing around it . . . don’t bother to deny it.’
Dean paused; she was so bold and it wasn’t something he was altogether comfortable with. Before he could do anything, she reached out and thrust her hand inside his boxers, grasping his cock firmly. He moaned into her pussy, making her laugh again. He knew she was mocking him but that deep, seductive sound almost drove him wild. And he was a man. And men don’t like their sexual prowess to be mocked. Indignation bristled up inside him.
He pushed her off, gasping for breath as he sat up and reached out for her in the darkness. He managed to grasp her around her waist and pulled her up on to all fours. He then knelt behind her, tugged down his boxers and thrust his rigid cock into her. Despite her wetness, he felt resistance. She was so tight. So warm. So fucking incredible.
She squealed and protested against his dry cock being driven into her so forcefully, but he got the distinct impression that she actually loved it. In fact, when she immediately began to thrust back her arse to meet him, he knew that he was finally getting something right.
Able to relax at last, Dean began to pound into her. He’d give her a thorough, hard fucking; the fucking of her life. He could feel Isla clamping down hard on his cock and he began to feel his balls tightening. He breathed deeply and tried to think of anything other than the fact that he was fucking the one woman he’d been longing to bed for months. He thought of the drinks order he needed to place the following day . . . that didn’t work. He thought of his narrow escape with Xander earlier and how Isla could be in danger, but the sensation of Isla’s wet pussy squeezing down on his determined cock dominated his mind. In sheer desperation, he pictured his mother and how weak she was after a recent operation and how he’d winced when he’d seen her ugly, jagged scar. He summoned the image of it into his mind in all its garish glory.
But no, it seemed that nothing was going to stop his balls from releasing. He panicked, suddenly realising that he didn’t know about Isla’s birth control arrangements, pulled out and spurted semen all over her back. He felt her tense under his hands, heard her mutter something unintelligible but from the tone, Dean knew it wasn’t complimentary. She flopped on to her front, leaving him kneeling there as his hypersensitive cock began to soften.
‘Fucking useless,’ she muttered into the mattress. Then her muffled voice sounded like it said, ‘Couldn’t satisfy . . . woman . . . life depended on it.’
Her face is in the mattress and she’s completely pissed. And she’s not been herself all night. Even if that’s what she said, it’s because she’s bladdered. She’s probably lost all feeling in her pussy. She can barely function. Yeah, she’s talking complete bollocks.
He refused to acknowledge the little voice in his head that told him she might not be.
He stayed there for a couple of minutes, unsure of how to proceed but then he heard her begin to snore softly so he tiptoed into the living area and flicked on the light.
He located a box of tissues and grabbed a few before creeping back into the bedroom where he gently cleaned Isla up. A quick visit to the bathroom followed and then he slid silently into bed next to her and, when she didn’t stir, pulled the duvet over them. He lay awake for ages, discombobulated by how he’d come only moments before, yet he felt none of the usual euphoria or sleepiness that followed release. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like an imposter. An imposter who’d taken advantage of an inebriated female. Yes, he’d desired her for months and yes, he’d now fucked her but, with some irritation, he began to wish he hadn’t.
He didn’t even have the satisfaction of feeling that he’d performed well. Isla had been wild with need and ver
y vocal about it but all the signs were that he’d disappointed and frustrated her. He hadn’t felt or heard her come. He didn’t like to admit it, but he wasn’t sure that Isla knew who she’d had sex with. It had been pitch dark, he hadn’t spoken at all and she hadn’t called out his or any other name. Those muffled words skirted around the edge of his conscious mind.
Increasingly, Dean felt that he should creep out of the suite and go home. There was a real chance that, when she awoke, things could go downhill fast. At best, there would be embarrassment. At worst . . . well, that didn’t bear thinking about. She was his boss and this was bound to put a strain on their working relationship. He hoped fervently that he hadn’t just erased any chance of something more than a professional relationship with her.
The cowardly optimist in him wanted to go home and hope that she either didn’t remember anything, or if she did, she wouldn’t know her partner’s identity. But the gentlemanly pessimist in him felt shameful for even considering that option and he knew that if she remembered anything, it would be very disrespectful to have left in the middle of the night. He decided to play safe and find a compromise. He slid out of bed, dressed and then crashed on the sofa in the living room. If she remembered, he would be around and would face up to any consequences. If she didn’t, he could give the impression that he’d carried her up to bed and then done the gentlemanly thing and slept on the sofa. He wouldn’t lie about it; he’d just omit certain details. Then he’d deal with his self-righteous conscience quietly.
But those muffled words would not stay out of his mind. No matter how much he told himself that he’d misheard her or that she was so drunk that she didn’t know what she was saying, they kept creeping back in. It was several hours later before he finally managed to sleep.
Chapter Six
The sound of a door closing forcefully in the hallway outside stirred Isla into consciousness.
Argh. Oh fuck.
Before she even attempted to open her eyes, she knew she had a splitting headache. And, from the fact that her mouth felt like it was lined with velvet, she knew it was a headache born of alcohol consumption. She attempted to turn over to squint at the alarm clock on her bedside table but any effort to move sent shooting pains through her head.
What day is it? Please let it be the weekend. It must be the weekend; I wouldn’t be this stupid on a school night. Oh hell, I need to pee. But I can’t move. Oh bladder please help me out . . . I don’t want to piss myself.
She reached out to the side and found the edge of the mattress before sliding herself gingerly towards it.
Must. Open. Eyes. This is going to fucking hurt! Please don’t hurt . . . I promise I’ll never drink alcohol again.
Frowning, she forced one eye open a millimetre.
Ouch. Ooh that’s actually not too bad.
Forcing it open a little more so that she could actually focus her vision in the dim light made her mind whirl.
Where the fuck am I?
Reflexively, both eyes sprang open.
Argh! Holy fuck. Why do I do this to myself? Why?
Her eyes clamped shut although the pain in her head was caused by the rapid eye-opening and not the dim light seeping around the heavy curtains. As the pain receded, her brain began to filter what her eyes had seen.
I’m in a room at the hotel. A superior room or a junior suite . . . what the fuck am I doing here? Oh God, tell me it’s not a work day . . . please, don’t let it be a work day. Fuck. I wonder what time it is . . . please don’t let housekeeping find me here. I’ve got to get up. I hate my life. I fucking hate alcohol.
Tentatively, she opened one eye slightly. Then, finding it was bearable, she slowly turned her head to the side to look at the alarm clock. It hurt but it wasn’t too bad. Opening her eye fully, she read the screen. 9:30.
Nine-thirty!
Pain shot through her head again as she panicked, forcing her to squeeze her eye shut. When it subsided, she tried to remember what she’d done the night before to result in her sleeping at the hotel and why she’d been drinking wine. She knew from the banging in her head and the nauseous feeling in her stomach that wine was responsible. Then she remembered.
Or at least she partially remembered.
Xander . . . he’s married. Oh God, I got pissed because Jamie told me he’s married. Way to go, Isla.
She lay and tried to recall the events of the day before. The daytime events all came flooding back, as did most of the evening’s. The last thing she could remember was drinking wine in the bar with Dean after Jamie had brought her belongings from her flat.
Christ, Isla. Shouldn’t you have learned this lesson by now? Wine doesn’t like you. Wine gets you pissed way too easily and gives you the most minging hangovers. Wine is definitely not your friend. In fact, wine is your nemesis.
She groaned aloud when she remembered that the day before had been a Monday.
Of course it’s a work day; what else would it be? It’s obviously way too much to ask for Jamie to inform me that Xander’s married on a Friday. Well, it’s your own fault; you didn’t have to seek solace at the bottom of a wine glass. And it’s no use lying here bemoaning something that’s of your own making. It’s time to get your big arse out of bed and into the shower. You’ve got work to do.
It took ten minutes for her to be able to force herself out of bed and twice she was convinced she was going to vomit but eventually she shuffled into the en suite. She cursed vehemently when she turned on the halogen lights and thought she was going to die when the jets of water in the shower struck her head like mini-torpedoes. She couldn’t force herself to wash her hair properly; a rinse under the sadistic showerhead would have to do. Her head was way too sore to cope with a good shampooing.
She wrapped a towel around her and another one gingerly around her head then made her way back to the bed. She perched on the edge and attempted to dab the worst of the wetness from her hair; there was no way she could face using a hairdryer. With every movement, the drumbeat in her head strengthened her resolve to never drink again.
Looking around for her hairbrush, she wondered where she’d put her belongings. She remembered taking her suitcase up to the master suite so where was everything?
This isn’t the master suite.
What the . . .?
This is a junior suite.
But why . . . oh God, I really, really hope I’m never stupid enough to drink wine ever again. I’ve slept in the wrong suite and now I don’t have my things.
Confuckinggratulations, Isla. This is a new level of drunken stupidity. Now I’ll have to explain to Bobbi why this room needs servicing. Oh and what’s the betting that I bump into her or one of her team when I’m sneaking down the hallway in my towel? The way today’s going . . . I may as well get back into bed and call in sick.
She looked longingly at the mussed up duvet and the plump pillows, still warm from her body.
Ooh bed. How tempting you are on such a shitty day. But there’d be nobody to run the hotel. Sorry bed, I’ll have to give that a miss. Although if this day gets any worse, I’ll be right back. Oh God, I must have been sooooo pissed last night. I can’t remember a thing. Thank fuck I woke up alone. The day could have started off much worse.
She gave an involuntary shiver.
Thank heaven for small mercies as Mum would say. Come on woman, get your arse into gear.
Realising that she’d begun to feel a bit better – just a miniscule amount – she decided not to take the risk of tiptoeing the short distance along the hallway. Leaving the curtains closed, she found her bra and dress on the floor but couldn’t find her knickers. She hunted everywhere until she remembered that she hadn’t worn any. When she’d dressed the day before, she’d been blissfully unaware that Xander was married and had decided to go commando in the hope that he might pop into the hotel at some point.
Shaking her head at her naivety, she remembered that he’d been staking out the hotel. And that she’d employed security guards to k
eep him out.
I wonder if he’s still there . . . I’ll have a look . . .
She parted the curtains slightly but the sliver of light made her head spin.
Maybe later. Or I’ll summon Jones for a progress report . . . once I’m feeling human. After a coffee . . . I need coffee.
Heading through to the living area, she flicked on a wall light and went straight to the cupboard that housed the coffee and such like, giving thanks to Xander for his advice on fitting instant hot water taps on that floor. No noisy kettle and no wait time. As she stirred her coffee (containing three emergency sugar lumps) she paused.
What’s that? It sounds like someone snoring.
She froze. The hairs on the back of her neck raised.
It is. That is definitely someone storing.
It’ll be next door. Bloody hell, these walls are thin. It sounds like it’s someone’s right here in this room.
Picking up her cup, she turned and promptly dropped the cup, sending scalding coffee flying everywhere.
There’s someone on the sofa. It’s a man! Oh my God.
The sleeping figure was facing away from her, not affording her a view of his face but she could tell from the clothing that it was male. His soft snores indicated that he was fast asleep. Knowing that she should be heading towards the door for her own safety, she tiptoed a little closer. There was something familiar about him.
Oh God. Please don’t tell me that I did something stupid with Jamie. I remember him saying he missed me . . .
Her stomach churned at the thought, making her want to retch. She blew out a long breath to fight it.
That’s not Jamie. The hair colour’s wrong . . .
Oh my God, it’s Dean. Oh thank fuck for that.
She relaxed and smiled fondly down upon his sleeping form.
Oh bless him. He probably had to escort me to my room at stupid o’clock this morning and then crashed on the sofa. That’ll teach him to let me have wine. No, that’s not fair. This is all my fault, not his. I probably didn’t give him any choice – he can hardly argue with his boss, can he?
