“Elizabeth, do you want to know more about me or not? The choice is yours. I am offering you more because against my better judgement, I want you, all of you. I have never had someone give me so much bloody grief and yet still I can’t get you out of my fucking head.” Do I? I thought I was just being honest and .. “You confound me and pinch away at something inside, and for the life of me I don’t understand why, but I apparently enjoy it and want more of it,” he says, lowering his head to the floor a little. He shoves those beautiful hands into his pockets, seemingly waiting for my response. I’m shocked, overwhelmed, elated actually and the grin that spreads lets him know exactly how he just made me feel.
“Oh… Wow! Well, that was quite a statement,” I reply as I walk forward. He lifts his head to mine with a small smile. “I will happily do anything with the man that just said that.” Gently planting my lips to his, I give him the sweetest kiss I can find and suck in his bottom lip as he wraps me up in his arms and takes in a long breath. “Although I’m still scared shitless about the bike.” He chuckles.
“I seem to remember that nerves suit you well, Miss Scott,” he says as he nips my earlobe.
“Very different type of nerves, Mr. White,” I reply as I look at the boots on the table with a frown. I’m going to die. I know it. I absolutely hate bikes.
“Right, let’s get you in this leather then. We’ve got a way to go and the thought of you wrapped around me is making me rock hard again. We’ll never leave if I have my way,” he says as he holds out the trousers and helps me into them. That would be preferable in all honesty.
~
Walking out of the building, I feel my legs trembling for all the wrong reasons. One of my friends from school was killed in a bike accident when I was younger and the thought of getting on that very fast looking thing is terrifying. When we reach the bike, he rearranges some straps on my rather uncomfortable skin-tight leathers and pushes my gloves into place. It’s even more uncomfortable now, and him pulling a helmet down over my head and flicking the visor up like he’s done it a thousand times still isn’t helping my nerves.
“Comfortable?” he asks as he slips his own helmet on.
“I suppose so. As much as I can be,” I reply uncertainly, still looking at the bike. Unfortunately, it hasn’t miraculously changed into a car.
“Just wrap that incredible body around mine and hang on tight. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. There’s just some leather in between us this time.” He smirks and flips his visor down, simultaneously knocking mine down, too.
Swinging his leg over, he kicks the stand up and indicates for me to get on. So I do, gingerly, and then grab on tight. It’s ridiculous, I know, but – scared.
“Are you okay?” he says as his disturbingly erotic voice comes through my helmet. I almost jump out of my skin at the unexpected noise.
“Wow, we can talk? Yes, I think so. Don’t go too fast though,” I reply in my best headmistress tone.
“Is there another way to go?” he asks as he chuckles and reaches backward to grasp my thigh. It’s not a question. “Christ, you look so fucking hot in those leathers. I’ve got a mind to pull over somewhere and fuck you senseless in a lay-by.” I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face, regardless of the fact that I’m shaking with fear. The thought is appealing to say the least.
“Umm, what do I do? Do I have to do anything?” He chuckles again and pulls me forward into his back. It’s really not funny. Nothing is fucking funny at all at the moment.
“You know when I’m inside you and you somehow sense where I need you to be. You move to the place that feels closest?” Random, but hey the trembling is changing to a good thing at the very thought.
“Umm, yes.”
“Do the same thing. Make yourself feel like you’re part of me. Make me feel like I’m part of you.” Oh that’s sweet. Oh god, that’s amazing. Did that actually come out of his mouth? Where did this version come from? Mr. Charmer has definitely arrived.
“That’s actually a very amazing thing to say, romantic even,” is my sighing response as I wrap around him a little more fluidly than the last grabbing technique and muse his softer side. He doesn’t say anything, just starts the engine and taps my thigh. I couldn’t care less because he said lovely things and that really is enough for me at the moment.
As we pull away, I lay my head down on his back and tighten my thighs around him. I can only imagine his devilish smile as he weaves his way through the traffic. His movements are so smooth that I find it easy to stay with him as we corner and he gently accelerates and decelerates. Obviously he’s taking his time, letting me get used to the sensations, and thankfully, I can feel myself slowly relaxing around his body, that stupidly hard body that’s still shouting “eat me” every other second to my groin. At one point, I feel him grab onto my hands and pull them tighter together, which for a moment I think is yet another sweet thing. Then I realise he must have taken both hands off to do it so I scream at him. He simply laughs at me. It’s not funny in the slightest so I bump my helmet on his in frustration. This seems only to make him laugh more and speed up. That only intensifies the rather uncomfortable feeling I have that when we do reach some open road, we won’t be going slow at all and then I notice the sign. It’s the M1 sign, the sodding motorway. My heart rate increases tenfold.
“You’ll love it, baby. Just relax. You’re doing fine. I could always find a lay-by instead?” he says as if magically sensing my hesitation at the thought of going faster than this and trying to calm me.
“That’s alright for you to say. You’re the one in control of this death machine,” I reply nervously, increasing my grip again. He chuckles and squeezes my thigh. It’s still not funny.
“Have you ever not enjoyed something I’ve been in control of before?”
“Arsehole.” It’s all I’ve got. He seems to find that hilarious because his bark of laughter actually seems to make the bike swerve a bit. Okay, no laughing on board.
He hits the roundabout and then accelerates slowly for the ramp onto the motorway, heading north to God knows where. The bike begins to roar underneath us as I feel him shift gears and adjust his position a little. If I wasn’t so scared, I’d be incredibly turned on because I expect the man looks like a god, although that’s hardly anything different, is it?
“You ready?” His voice is slightly pitchy like an excited schoolboy as he starts to lower his frame.
“Yes, I think so. God, I hope you’re good at this,” I reply with some trepidation, adjusting myself behind him and clamping my thighs down hard as I try to get comfortable.
“Yes, I think you are too. Hang on,” he says. I can feel the smirk he’s giving me. He’ll pay. I have no idea how, but I’ll find a way.
He leans forward and picks up the speed as we head down towards the motorway. Luckily, clear open road greets us and clearly Alex uses it to his advantage at his earliest convenience. The moment the wheels of the bike come off the entry and hit the road, he hits the accelerator and the bike almost flies. I swear if it had wings, it would take off. My first thought is utter panic as I squeeze my eyes shut and bear hug him to the point where I’m sure he can’t breathe. I don’t even dare ask or look at how fast we’re going so I just continue to hold on, hoping to hell that I can stay on. But slowly I start to relax into the motion and open my eyes, trying to focus on the sights around me that are whizzing past. The bike still roars beneath my legs and I began to realise that I’m smiling. I can’t help it. The exhilaration of going so fast on such a ludicrously dangerous piece of equipment is ridiculously exciting and once I’ve gotten past the fact that I’m not going to fall off in a hurry, I find myself almost laughing. The feelings that hit my emotions are indescribable, yet another thing Mr. White has given me.
“Something funny?” Alex questions, obviously sensing my inner chuckle.
“No nothing, it’s just bloody brilliant back here,” I reply, giggling with delight as I wrap myself against hi
m and smile stupidly.
“Want to go faster?” he asks, the apparent devil appearing once more. I can’t believe it goes any faster if I’m honest.
“Oh god, does it go...” Before I finish, he opens it up and the bike finds more speed, stupid amounts of speed. I cling on for dear life and scream into his back as the growl beneath me intensifies.
I have no words. It’s just, well... I still have no words.
We ride on for what seems like hours but probably isn’t and then head off the motorway toward a town I don’t know, so I ease my grip off slightly as the bike slows. Suddenly feeling remarkably confident in my abilities as a passenger, I let go of him and stretch my arms out to the side while twisting my neck around. The wind rushes against my leathers so I sit up slightly to ease my back, not realising I’m hurting until I move. The cramped position and my death grip on Alex have obviously taken their toll on my rather unfit body. It’s ridiculous. I can take being whipped but not a few hours on a bike. I need to get fit.
“Don’t worry. We’re nearly there then you can stretch,” he says in a terse tone, pulling my arms back around him. I frown at his double hand removing but it seems I’m not so nervous anymore. I’m more bothered by his voice. It seems a little distant. Jovial Alex has left the bike and has been replaced by another version it seems.
Ten minutes later, having driven through a few estates, he pulls up in the drive of a three storey, Victorian, semi-detached house in a quiet suburban area. He puts his legs to the floor and just sits there for a while with the bike idling beneath us, looking straight at the house. The lights are all off and it seems that no one’s in. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do but the thought of getting off is far too appealing so I move to climb off. His shoulders instantly tense and his hand comes back to grab my thigh and hold me in place.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly. “If you’ve changed your mind it’s okay. We can leave if you want.”
Silence. What the hell is going on?
“Alex, I’m going to get off the bike now.” Still nothing. I slowly lean my weight on him and swing my leg over to hit the ground. They buckle slightly but the bliss that follows is truly orgasm worthy. I really could get used to this pleasure, pain, pleasure thing.
Pulling my helmet off, I stretch my body and wait for him to move. Still nothing. Okay, this is a bit weird now, so I walk in front of the bike, pull my hair out of the plait and shake it out, hoping that it might get his attention. It clearly doesn’t because he’s still sitting there, motionless, staring at the house. Right, so I haven’t got a clue what to do. Should I go for the softly-softly approach or something? I can’t even see his eyes to know what I’m dealing with here.
Reaching over the handlebars, I turn the key in the ignition and the bike cuts off. If I can at least get him off the bike it might help.
“Alex, get off the bike,” I say as firmly as I dare. “You brought me here and said you had something to show me. So show me.”
I watch as he slowly kicks the stand into place, pulls his helmet off and hangs it on the handlebars. When his eyes eventually meet mine, he’s heaving in a breath and I can see him trying to contain his emotions. I don’t know whether they’re good ones or bad ones but I’m getting an odd sense of dread as I look at slightly cloudy eyes and a deathly still Alex. It’s the kind of deathly still that makes you think something very bad is about to happen, or just did.
He leans the bike into the stand, unfurls his long body from it and steps off, and then unzipping his jacket, he pulls off his gloves and reaches into his pocket, pulling out some keys. Grabbing my hand, he moves us towards the door and unlocks it. I follow, not daring to say a word in case it stops him or makes him change his mind. What on earth am I about to see?
He walks in and switches the lights on. I find myself inside a very elegantly presented family home. It’s full of the general niceties that a home should offer. A pleasant lilac colour adorns the walls, strangely similar to the roses he sent me, but the house feels cold and smells a little musty as if no one’s been here for a while. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the hallway towards the stairs. When he reaches the bottom, he stops and kicks the first step a few times, then gripping onto the handrail, I notice his hand whitening under the strain he puts on it and watch his continued stare at the bottom step, which seems never ending.
“Are you okay?” I ask again, trying to look into his eyes. He looks strange and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was fear or trepidation, two traits I’ve never imagined he could even think of let alone portray or feel. The silence continues as he picks at a piece of wallpaper that’s beginning to peel and rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. All I can do is hold on and wait, so that’s what I do in the hope that speech might eventually arrive.
“I grew up here,” he says coldly, taking a step up the stairs, his hand releasing mine as he moves away. “My father was... is a solicitor. He doesn’t live here anymore.” Okay. I’m not sure it’s time to talk, so I don’t. I just let him continue.
He stops halfway up and lets his fingers trace the wall around some scuffmarks. Frowning, he lets his hand drag up the rest of the wall as we keep climbing, then when we reach the top, he turns the corner and heads to the next set of stairs. I notice the wall colour change to a pale grey as he fills the landing in front of me and the ceiling height seems to have lowered, creating a more cramped feeling around him. The next set of stairs he climbs more slowly. In fact, he very nearly stalls at each step as if not wanting to go another footfall further. That sense of unease hits me again as we reach the top and he stands and stares down the corridor in front of us to a small, dark, wooden doorway.
I reach a hand forward to touch him but he immediately flinches at the contact and turns his eyes to me. I can’t begin to process the emotion that’s lying in them. They look empty somehow, lost even. I smile, hoping to get him back but he just turns back to the door and stands still again. Eventually, he sucks in a short breath and hesitantly walks towards it as I follow, wondering what the hell I’m about to see behind that door. Pushing his back flush against the wall by the door, he slumps down to the floor and pulls me down with him. I’m completely baffled so we just sit there in silence as he stares at the door over his right shoulder and I sit quietly on his left. I just hold his hand tight and lean into him. What else can I do? I have absolutely no idea what’s going on or why we’re sitting on the floor but clearly something is very wrong with that door, or at least the meaning of it.
“Do you want to tell me more or is this as much as you want to give? If it is, it's fine really,” I say quietly, stroking his arm. There’s still no response.
Another five minutes go by and we say nothing. He just stares and frowns. There’s no tension in him anymore. He’s just sitting and staring at the door, looking lost in his thoughts without a single movement from his body.
“He wasn’t a good father. He hurt me,” he says gently, still transfixed on the door. “He was forever hurting me.”
My mind is confused for a second or two and then what he’s saying hits me. He’s saying his father was abusive, that he physically hurt him. My mouth drops open in utter amazement and then my heart launches out of my chest with such force I struggle for breath.
Shit. What the hell do I say to that?
I haven’t got a clue what is that I’m supposed to do or say, so I wrap his arm around my neck and snuggle into him, hoping he will grab on. He doesn’t. He just loosely drapes his arm across my shoulder and continues to stare as I listen to his chest hammering.
“He would drag me up here and then beat me until I bled. After that, he would put me in there and lock the door,” he says calmly, pointing at the door. “I don’t really know why he did it. He just kept saying I was useless and worthless. I don’t think I’m useless, do you?” he continues, looking toward me for the first time with absolute truth pouring from his eyes.
Suddenly a small boy with a blood-splattered fa
ce sits in front of me and my heart tears in two. I instantly change position and straddle him to get closer. Running my hands through his hair and cupping his face in my hands, I move my mouth towards his and let my lips linger gently as I kiss him. It’s all can do. I can’t even think about what he’s telling me so I sure as hell don’t want him to. He doesn’t really respond so I push my body flush against him and squeeze my thighs around him again, getting closer still and hoping that it’s enough for him. Pulling back to see his glazed eyes, a flash of the picture in his apartment hits me square in the gut so I try to find the words to say that can make this better for him, or take it away somehow. There aren’t any of any consequence, but I try anyway.
“Oh god, Alex, you are so much more than that. You are everything that’s wonderful in my life. I can’t believe you’re telling me that you lived through this, with this. You didn’t deserve it, any of it. You still don’t. No one should have to go through that sort of stuff,” I say, gazing into his blue eyes and trying to gauge whether I’m having any effect whatsoever. “He’s an arsehole and you’re a stronger man than he’ll ever be. Look at what you’ve achieved. Look at what you’ve become.”
He just gazes back with no emotion at all while his hands rest on my thighs and his mouth remains in that flat line. But I can see the emotion hiding in there now. It’s the first time I’ve really noticed it so regardless of the fact that he’s trying to keep it from me, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him towards me. I grip on for dear life and squeeze him into me, pushing my body weight into him and encouraging him to hold on tight, to let it out if he wants to, and slowly his arms begin to tighten around me. The strength of his hold becomes so fierce that tears of sorrow start to bubble in my eyes for him as I continue clawing at him, hoping that I’m soothing something.
Seeing White Page 40
