Tell Me More

by Janet Mullany

  “It’s okay. Nothing happened.” I sniveled against his chest. “I had—have—some unfinished business there, with the guy who got me into the Association. He’s my complicated love life. He was someone I met on the phone. We used to have phone sex when I was at the station, late at night.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Patrick said. He rubbed his face against my hair. “Please tell me it wasn’t Harry or Jake.”

  “No. It wasn’t Willis, either, though I did screw him.” I felt sick just saying that. “I think Harry will have a really horrible black eye today.”

  “Good. About the black eye, not Willis.” He continued to hold me, but reached for his coffee mug. “So what happens now?”

  “I don’t know. Are we breaking up?”

  “Maybe we should.”

  “I’ll tell you—” I wanted to say I’d tell him the whole story but I wasn’t sure I was ready for that, not so soon after last night.

  “I don’t want confessions. I can’t give you absolution. You figure it out on your own, Jo.” He looked angry now and released me, stepped away and banged his coffee mug down onto the counter.

  That riled me. I stepped forward and took his face between my hands, his stubble harsh against my palms, and we kissed and kissed. I was terrified and elated, full of desire and anger.

  We drew apart and he stared at me, shaking his head. “I don’t think we’re breaking up, are we?”

  “No.”

  “Come here.” He drew me to him and we shared a sweet, coffee-flavored kiss that sizzled all the way through me, as though now we spoke a different language with our kisses. I stroked the columns of muscle on his back and delved beneath the waistband of his jeans to clutch his butt.

  “I’m going to make you come and come.” He sucked at my neck, my collarbone, while his hands cupped my breasts. His erection pressed against my belly.

  He led me to his bed, where we stripped off each other’s clothes with fumbling urgency. This was much more like a first time, a discovery of each other’s skin and textures and sensitivities by daylight on a rumpled bed. We were clumsy and shy with each other, aware of the fragility of our truce and the damage we might have done. No fancy underwear today—both of us sported faded cotton, mine rather ragged, his boxers crumpled—and no elaborate choreography. Or not yet.

  We kissed and touched and stroked. He didn’t go down on me, and I didn’t ask. I wanted his lips and breath, the closeness of being face-to-face, the intimacy of whispering words of love into each other’s mouths. When he slipped a finger between my legs I opened to him and loved the small sound he made in his throat as he felt how wet I was. He did something magical and extraordinary with two fingers in me—I think—and his thumb on my clit. I came while he laughed softly, and as the spasms died away he put those two fingers into my mouth. I sucked his fingers, tasting myself on him.

  His eyes narrowed. “I have to fuck you right now.”

  He was inside me in one masterful rush, while I hooked one leg over his shoulder and the other around his waist. I wasn’t quite on my back, I wasn’t quite on my side, either, and I reached down to rub my clit. He whispered filthily to me that I should get myself off, because I was a wee wanking slut, and I struggled not to burst into inappropriate laughter.

  “Let me get on top,” I gasped.

  He obligingly rolled us over, still joined, and I settled on him, slowing to a smooth, careful slide. I stroked his chest and circled his nipples with my fingers.

  “Nice?” I asked.

  “Nice. Kiss me.”

  I dropped my hands to either side of his head and we kissed. I moved as I needed to, starting the slow climb to another orgasm, and directed his hands to my breasts. I drew my head back to watch his fingers pinch and tweak, and his cock slide into my mass of pubic hair. And out, gleaming slick with my juices. The tension built and stretched; now there was no return. When I came I looked into his eyes and they remained my constant, anchoring me.

  “On your hands and knees, woman.” He lifted me off him and I scrambled into position.

  His breath came harsh behind me, his cock pressed against my ass. He stroked the inside of my thighs, my clit, my ass. I wanted him back inside me. I wanted to slide and play with his cock, and he teased me, nudging and entering a little and then withdrawing.

  I moaned, my head on my folded arms. “You’re mean.”

  “I’ll be meaner yet.” He reached across me to his bedside table. “Have I mentioned recently what a great ass you have?” He smacked me lightly. “It’s small but it’s plump and…” He drew a finger between my butt cheeks. “Yes, you want it like this, don’t you?”

  Something cold dripped onto me and I shrieked.

  “Lube,” he said. “It’ll warm up.” I felt a painful press at the entrance of my butt. “Relax, it’s only a finger.”

  “Only a finger? It feels like the fucking Eiffel Tower.”

  “Keep breathing. You’ll be fine. Didn’t Kimberly tell you how good I am at this?”

  “You never got up Kimberly’s ass!”

  He laughed and continued his gentle invasion. And after a while it seemed less of an invasion and more of a welcome visit.

  “Now, this lube is much more comfortable,” he said. “I applied it to my special lube warmer.”

  “Ouch! Would that special lube warmer be your dick?”

  He pushed, gentle but insistent. I concentrated on breathing, relaxing, opening to him. I knew how big he was and yes, it hurt, and I whimpered a little while he whispered that we could take as long as we liked, but I was going to get fucked up the ass. Well fucked. And that I’d like it, although maybe I should play with myself to help things along.

  “You want me to be a wee wanking slut?” I gasped.

  “Absolutely.” He groaned. “And you’d better hurry.”

  He barely moved, not then. But I moved, taking him into that most private of places, slowing when I needed to, going beyond the pain and the shame. Patrick shuddered and gripped my hips with his hands.

  We separated and Patrick handed me a towel, grinning at me with great pride, and absolutely matter-of-fact that we both needed to clean up. “Now I’m not big on simultaneous orgasms. I like to know what’s going on. But that was pretty damn good.”

  “It was,” I said, wondering whether I’d remember this event in the wrong place at the wrong time, riding my bike, for instance. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk for a time.”

  “You don’t have to walk anywhere. You’re staying right here in my bed and I’m going to bring you a nice cup of tea.”

  “Irish sex is a strange and wonderful thing,” I commented as he jumped out of bed. “Anal followed by a nice cup of tea.”

  “The church allows anal on Sunday, so long as you go to confession after.” He looked at me as he held the teakettle under the faucet. “I know I said I wouldn’t take your confession, but if you want to talk I’ll listen.”

  “Not now.”

  He nodded.

  I couldn’t tell him everything about Mr. D. Not yet. Not until it was finished.

  Despite the tea and coffee we napped together for a few hours, turning in each other’s arms to kiss or caress. In mid-afternoon I slid out of bed.

  “What’s up?” Patrick muttered.

  “I’d better go into the station.”

  He blinked awake and reached for his glasses. “It’s Sunday. Do you have an air shift?”

  “No. Things to catch up on.”

  “Okay. I’ll fix dinner.”

  I kissed him and returned to my part of the house to shower and change into winter biking clothes. Outside it was bitterly cold again, the sky gray and a small chill wind blowing. I knew it was too cold for snow but the air had a damp tinge, quite unlike Colorado’s usual winter weather.

  At the radio station I stopped in at the studio and chatted with the weekend announcer, then made my way to my desk. As I passed the office of our manager, Bill, I heard a sound from inside. Bill in on t
he weekend? That was unusual. I tapped at the door.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said. “I just heard a…” My voice died away as I looked at his bare office, the boxes stacked on the floor. “Bill, what happened?”

  He shook his head. “I wanted to keep it quiet. I’m retiring. Don’t look so stricken, Jo. It’s time, don’t you think? I’ve been here for—well, for decades. Too long.” He picked up a framed photograph of the station staff in the early seventies. Bill, recognizable by his height and bulk, held up two fingers in the peace sign, long hair flowing around his shoulders.

  “Back then we had round black plastic things with holes in the middle for music. We went on air stoned. Those were the days. Ancient history,” he said and laid the photograph carefully into the box. “And when you start thinking like that, it’s time to go.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Kimberly and I decided to keep things discreet.” He grinned. “And we can be less careful now.”

  “You and Kimberly?”

  “Sure. We thought you knew.”

  “I didn’t. Congratulations. I’m…well, I’m happy for you both, but I wish you weren’t leaving. Who else knows you’re going?”

  “Ah.” He propped himself up on his desk. “When was the last time Neil told you anything substantial?”

  “I don’t know. Two, three months ago, maybe. I can’t even remember getting email from him recently.”

  “You know what it means if you’re kept in the dark.” He reached for the last photo from his bookcase, one of his grandchildren. “Neil is taking over my job on an interim basis. Although there will be the usual careful selection process, you know the board will select him, and you know what he thinks of classical music. Get your resume in shape, Jo. Use me as a reference, anytime.”

  “You mean he’s going to make a format change?”

  “I think it’s more than likely. He’s right, in a way. This town needs a serious local news station.” He taped the box shut. “Hell with this. I’m done. I’m going home. Kimberly’s making her famous chili. Peace and love, Jo.”

  “Peace and love.” We hugged each other. “Give Kimberly my love and tell her I expect to hear the dirt on your illicit relationship.”

  I continued on to my cubicle, my mind reeling. Bill leaving, the end of an era; and in a relationship with Kimberly. She’d told me it was someone I knew but I would never have guessed it was Bill.

  I checked my email and viewed the mail on my desk, my appetite for paperwork entirely gone. Neil had sent an email, reminding me it was time for my annual assessment and suggesting several times when he was available, all of them before ten in the morning, an unworkable time of day for me anyway. With Bill’s warning in mind, I decided I’d put off such a meeting for as long as possible, so I didn’t bother to send any sort of reply.

  I retreated into the dark quiet of a studio and put together a prerecorded show for Tuesday night. If I were smart, I wouldn’t need it for Tuesday—my common sense told me I shouldn’t meet up with Mr. D. But as a precaution, it couldn’t hurt. It was a generic selection; if I didn’t use it for Tuesday I could use it another time. I arranged for one of my temp announcers to come in and run the board, just in case. And then I put my bike gear on again and rode back through the cold windy night to the warmth of Patrick and my home.

  24

  “I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU A TREAT TONIGHT,” I said to Patrick over dinner.

  “What sort of treat would that be?” He stood to collect our plates.

  I gazed lovingly at his sweats, trying to determine whether he was wearing underpants or not. “I liked being tied up. I thought you might enjoy it, too. Have you ever been tied up?”

  Then I blushed because I really didn’t want to remind him of his rage and humiliation at the Association, but he answered with his usual good humor.

  “Not since I was eight, by my sisters, and I can’t say it did a lot for me. But I’m willing to give it a try. So, am I dessert or would you like some ice cream?”

  “Ice cream first. What did you do this afternoon?”

  He looked up from spooning ice cream into dishes. “Worked out. Caught up on bills. What would you like on your ice cream? Nuts, chocolate sauce, raspberries, whipped cream? Or were you intending to use those on me?”

  “Everything, please, but on the ice cream. I just changed the sheets.”

  “Fair enough.” He placed a bowl of dessert in front of me. “So what’s on your mind?”

  “How do you know there’s something on my mind?”

  “You’re fiddling with things.”

  I snatched my hands away from the paper napkin I was shred ding.

  In between mouthfuls of ice cream I told him about what was going on at the station and how sad I was that Bill was leaving. I didn’t tell him about Mr. D. and that I had challenged him to meet me on Tuesday afternoon. I didn’t know how to broach the subject, and besides I wasn’t even sure he’d turn up, let alone whether I would.

  Patrick listened, not saying anything until I’d finished. “It doesn’t sound good. What’s your strategy?”

  I blinked. “I don’t think I have one. Be evasive, I guess.”

  “Be evasive and get your resume out.”

  “That’s what Bill said.” I pushed my bowl aside.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well. This is embarrassing. I have a problem.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I sighed and pushed my index finger around the bowl to capture the last of the ice cream. I raised my finger to my mouth and licked it slowly. “I have these…silk scarves upstairs. They’re all tangled up. I need some help with them.”

  “Absolutely.” Patrick snatched our dessert bowls and spoons and dropped them into the dishwasher. “I’m your man, honey. Untangling is my specialty. Lead the way.”

  I led the way upstairs, excited and a little afraid of the power Patrick was about to grant me.

  We arrived in my bedroom and I turned on the bedside lamp and flung a scarf over it to mute the light.

  Brady ran past us, jumped onto the bed and kneaded the quilt, purring loudly.

  “Must the cat stay, or is that part of the scenario?” Patrick asked.

  I giggled and put Brady outside. I turned to Patrick. I cleared my throat.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said quietly.

  I took another glance at the front of his sweats. Oh, my. “I’d like you to…to undress.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Oh, shit. Let me try that again. Patrick, undress. Please.” I sat on the bench at the foot of the bed. “Slowly.”

  He bowed his head in acquiescence and pulled off the T-shirt he wore. I wondered briefly if I should send him to put more clothes on, since he was wearing—one sock came off, and then the next—only his sweatpants.

  He hooked a finger in the waistband and inched the pants down, looking at me with a wicked grin. Down another inch.

  I leaped to my feet and knocked him onto the bed, where he landed with a grunt of surprise, with me on top of him, holding his wrists. “You tease!”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted.” He blinked innocently at me. “Now, what about these things you wanted untangled?”

  He still hadn’t shaved though he’d showered after his workout—I could smell the peppermint shampoo he liked—and I rubbed my face against the tender roughness of his stubble.

  “That might feel nice on your nipples. Just a suggestion.” He hooked his calves around mine and strained up, giving me the full benefit of his erection.

  “You’re getting ahead. We’re doing this on my time.” I put my mouth to his and I controlled the kiss, the pressure, the intensity. I was the one who led and encouraged him to open, touching my tongue to his, teasing and withdrawing. He made a sound in his throat of appreciation, encouragement.

  I released him, but not for long, to fetch a handful of silk scarves
from the basket on my dresser, and when I turned around he’d removed his sweatpants. He was stretched out naked on my bed, on my sheets, waiting for me, willing for me to take charge. I was touched by his trust, his sinewy beauty. His cock was fully erect, dark against his belly.

  I stood and looked at him. I didn’t think I could simulate the cool, stern demeanor he had assumed when he tied me up; simply, it made me happy to look at him and know he was mine, and I think that showed on my face, for he smiled at me.

  Affection. There it was again. And desire, too. Oh, yes, desire was very much present.

  Anticipating my request, he spread his legs so I could tie his ankles to the hinges of the chest at the end of the bed—I hoped he wouldn’t rip it apart.

  “Do you need a safe word?” I asked.

  “Do I?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” The uncertainty had the quality of a mystery, a sailor setting off on a voyage with only stars as his guide. “So, I think, yes, you should have one.”

  “Ellington. Like Duke Ellington.”

  “Okay.” I knelt between his legs and reached to secure his wrists to the headboard. I loved the trusting gravity with which he offered his wrists, his smile, the way he ducked his head to kiss my clothed breasts as I knotted the scarves.

  He gave an experimental tug with his arms and attempted to flex his legs.

  I pushed another pillow under his head so he wouldn’t strain his neck, because I wanted him to see what I was about to do. My imagination was afire with all sorts of possibilities.

  “You’re mine,” I said, hardly registering that I said it aloud.

  “I am,” he said.

  I was still in my bike clothes, the turtleneck and spandex pants and a pair of woolen socks. I took the socks off, then the turtleneck and the sports bra I wore underneath. My body was tight enough that I looked good in just the pants. I touched my nipples lightly and smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  I took one of my favorite toys from the box—an expensive, whimsical vibrator that featured a specific attachment for the clitoris as well as an undulating, rotating head. I touched it to my nipples and then knelt between his thighs.