I can still see the way his thighs and his cock looked, with his jeans roughly shoved down. Hand still over my mouth, getting everything done so rudely. He had been angry with me, I think – impatient. He didn’t like things not being in the right order, the key not in the right place, me making him climb up and break in, and now me screaming.
But he made me scream, and he made me moan, and he made me suck his cock with a leather-clad hand in my hair.
He was wound tighter than a clock, too, my Russian spy. He could last for hours, unable to let go. After the hand over my mouth and the sucking he made me give him, he fucked me – my clothes off first, of course. He liked me naked while he remained in darkness, hidden, and I remember that time in particular because he spread me out completely: legs as wide as I could get them, arms pinned to the bed.
Like a butterfly.
I didn’t need to understand Russian to know what he husked at me as he pressed his cock to the split lips of my sex. The river between my legs needed no translation. It was one of the few times in my life that I came within moments of a good hard fucking, and purely because of that fact.
Later, though, later he loved me all over. He knew everything inside and out as though he’d read a manual or been on some sort of fantastic course. It was an elective in spy school. How to lick and lick and lick a woman until she’s delirious.
He always stayed until he got the job done, and by job done I mean all areas of the experience. He liked fucking and he liked thrilling passionate feelings that people generally try not to feel in case they’re caught out with everything on the line, but then I think he already had everything on the line.
I honestly do. I mean, I could say he was probably a melodramatic idiot who really worked for FedEx or something like it, but in my true heart I don’t believe it. Sometimes he’d look as if he’d seen the world end.
And one day, he just never came back.
I guess you know that there was J.
I’ve saved him until last, because he was the one – yes, I know – the one who looked most like you. He’s a toughie, J. I loved him deeply – more deeply than any of the others – and it was this love and his resemblance to you that made me give in with him.
Of course, others who looked like you have come and gone. Sometimes I feel more than other times, or am willing to do more or stranger things. Sometimes not. With J I led a nice suburban life and I suppose that suggests we were boring together. No passion, no sex.
But God, that’s not true. If anything we were worse. It’s hard to bend every which way with someone you don’t know that well. Give me five years with someone and I could map his anatomy blindfolded.
I trusted him, that’s the thing. I trusted and desired him at the same time, even when he started to look old – he was much older than me – and he wasn’t quite as sprightly as he once was.
But we still made love more often than any other person in the neighbourhood. Those sad wives who didn’t even seem to like their husbands used to chitter-chat about how often they could get away with not screwing them, and I would sit there feeling something keenly wrong with me.
I did want to screw J. I wanted to so much that I wore him out. Our curtains would be closed at three o’clock in the afternoon, because he was making love to me on the bedroom floor, or in that sauna-like cupboard at the ass end of the house, or in the shower, or, once or twice, in the garden while the neighbours barbecued.
I guess I was disturbed by being so different from everyone else, but I also know I liked it. I liked wanting J.
But mainly because I hated wanting someone who looked just like him.
And so finally I come to you. There is no giving in with you. You just are: the alpha and the omega. I begin and end with you, and, even though I’m sure I should have left you by now to the dust of memory and silly fantastical youth, I never quite have.
I still think of your name every day, and wonder. I wonder mainly because I would never have written this without you. Or, at least, part of me would never have been the way it is, if it were not for you. You started the fire for delicious dark men, so to speak.
But really, I know better than that. I know that it’s not they who make me give in. It’s not even you.
It’s just me. I’m the one who makes me give in. It always and ever shall be: just me.
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Epub ISBN: 9780753521496
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This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe, sane and consensual sex.
First Published by Black Lace 2009
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Copyright © Charlotte Stein 2009
Charlotte Stein has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2009 by
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ISBN 9780352345424
The Things That Make Me Give In Page 24
