Going Under

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “More,” he directed, his voice growling with need, but he didn’t care. Neither did she, because she adjusted her bottom on the tub rim and spread herself open, her labia parting to reveal the slick pink tissues inside. A groan came out of him, a sound that apparently pleased her since her lips curved in a secretive smile, as pink and wet as her exposed pussy.

  He moved to her, waist-deep in the water, and put his hands on her knees, pushing them farther apart and watching her eyes. Oh yeah, she liked that all right, her pupils dilating in the gray.

  “There are condoms in my robe,” she whispered.

  “We don’t need them.” He smoothed his thumbs up her inner thighs. The skin there felt like satin. Then he kissed her when her mouth opened in an annoyed reply, taking advantage of the opportunity and nipping her argument in the bud. She softened, yielding sweetly. “Because we’re not having intercourse yet.”

  She still wanted to argue, but the impetus got lost as his thumbs reached the deep hollows where her legs met her groin, stroking deeper. A rarely known erogenous zone for many people. He pressed in, her flesh both firm and soft, gratified when her spine arched in purely physical reaction.

  “Ooh!” She moaned, the breath gasping out of her as her body convulsed and her hips rocked. Perfect. It took her a moment to recover and, while she blinked at him, fog in her gaze, he went for the surprise and slid his finger inside her to the hilt. Her eyes went wide and he curled up, pressing on her upper vaginal wall. She trembled, face pinking further. Not quite right. Keeping the pressure, he moved down a bit, curled his finger up and, at the same time, pressed the heel of his hand against her clit.

  She exploded.

  So much so that he had to let go of her thigh and put a hand behind her, to keep her from falling off the back of the tub. She didn’t seem to notice, the orgasm ripping through her, her head thrown back to release a full cry of ecstasy. Her pussy ground against his hand, her hot liquids filling his palm. Overcome, he filled his mouth with her breast, the hard nipple satisfying against his tongue, the tremors of her climax almost a flavor, filling his head with aroused woman.

  Needing more, he dropped between her spread thighs, sucking her swollen clit into his mouth in the same way, working his finger in and out of her tight passage, while the aftermath of her orgasm shuddered its way out of her. As soon as he detected returning tension to her body, her core strength repossessing her balance, he let go of her lower back—hovering a moment to make sure she had it—then took her hand and placed it on his shoulder.

  “Hold on,” he told her, looking up to see her face. She gazed down at him, face soft with release, her mind obviously fuzzy. But her fingers gripped his shoulder, if only in reflex. Using his elbows to lever open her knees, he used both hands to spread her labia wide. Her vulva, rimmed with sweet pink folds like a butterfly’s wings, glistened with deep promise. Her clit, long as the rest of her, stood out hard, demanding attention.

  Her short nails dug into his shoulder. “Fox,” she breathed, throaty and delightfully uneven. Not at all her assured self now, but needy. Maybe as desperate as he felt. “I don’t think I can...” She didn’t finish the sentence because he blew hot breath over her sensitive tissues. Her hand convulsed, both holding him off and pulling him closer.

  He loved this part. Okay, he loved it all, but this—pushing her past what she thought she could take. They’d have to discuss safewords later that night. He wanted her to be able to protest and struggle and fight against him and herself all she pleased but still be able to tell him when she truly couldn’t stand any more stimulation. For the time being, however, she was far from done.

  As evidenced by those throaty sounds of passion when he licked her. He settled himself on the bench between her feet—not ideal for a long session, but decent enough—and held her open while he explored her. Going slowly now, he laved her folds, the warm ocean taste of her a sweet brine wholly her own. Every woman tasted different and he loved Emily’s scent and flavor. No surprise as he rapidly discovered he liked every damn thing about her.

  Even her skittishness and reflexive lies made her more interesting.

  She hit every one of his buttons and he aimed to find all of hers.

  Avoiding her clit, he used his lips and tongue to arouse her again, not a difficult task as she’d only come down partway from the last one. She moved under his mouth, fine trembles growing into stronger tremors until she nearly vibrated with restrained tension. Her hands—clinging to him—moved into his hair, holding his head and trying to direct him to her erect clit. He resisted, not letting her use her hip movements to direct him there either. Her thighs strained against his forearms, clamping him tighter. The little cries, the urgent pleading of her body, grew increasingly frantic until she at last emitted a high wail of frustration.

  “Fox, please!”

  He took his mouth away and looked up at her ferocious, demanding expression, trying to look innocent for her. “What?”

  “Dammit. You know what.”

  “Do you want to come again, Miss Emily?”

  Holding her gaze, he turned his head and placed a sweet kiss on the silky curve of her inner thigh. She groaned at him.

  “You’re the devil.”

  “Why thank you.” He waited, loving the play of emotions over her face.

  “Are you going to finish me or not?” she finally gritted out.

  He cocked his head, then deliberately studied her pussy, which he still held spread open, despite her slickness and wriggling. Not easy, but he was dedicated.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t.”

  “Then what the hell have you been doing?”

  He smiled at her, feeling wicked. Loving every minute of it. She teased so well. “Keeping you warm.”

  Making himself go as slow as he could, he ran his tongue along the inner rim of her vulva, enjoying even the pain of her pulling his hair as he tormented her.

  “Please, Fox,” she urged. “I can. Just do it. I can’t stand any more of this.”

  She could, if he tied her down and wouldn’t let her move. Filed away for the future.

  “Maybe I should make you wait until tonight,” he taunted, but licked slowly up to the area around her clit. “Or do what you did to me and make you finish yourself while I watch. Paybacks are hell.”

  She made a sobbing sound, truly unraveling now, and he took mercy on her. With one last swirl of his tongue around the thick hood over her clit, he pulled it into his mouth, and flicked the most sensitive bit with his tongue.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her brain burst, sending shrapnel through her skull.

  At least that was how it felt. Like she was losing her mind, her body out of control, with Fox’s coppery head buried between her thighs, his magical mouth clamped on her most intimate tissues. Her vision pulsed red with a black lace overlay. She gave up fighting it—as if she’d had a choice—not resisting the way it clawed through her, too intense to be withstood.

  Gradually the climax loosened its grip, as if an alien life force relinquished her body, leaving behind an empty envelope. Dimly aware of Fox helping her down in the water, she floated—mentally, physically, emotionally—the white lights above twinkling in the steam. The hot water prickled her cooled skin and her pussy felt as if it pulsed with heat. If he touched her again, she might come immediately. Or go into some state of suspension where orgasms surged through her, greater and smaller, until she shredded even more than she already had.

  Gradually the lights came into focus and she felt as if she might have a nervous connection to her body again. Her thoughts clarified, too, a less welcome transition, with niggling worries asking her to analyze how she felt about what just happened. Sheer, ecstatic pleasure, yes—but also a kind of shattering that left her feeling lost, unanchored.

  “Do you always come so h
ard?” Fox’s voice asked.

  She peered at him. She’d known he was there, of course, but she’d still kind of forgotten in the vast sense of losing herself. The steam formed a cloud around them, making his face a blur.

  “I don’t know.” She wanted to sound sarcastic, but her voice came out throaty, a little anxious. “No one’s ever given me head for hours before.”

  He chuckled, a sound of pure male satisfaction. “It wasn’t hours. It wasn’t even one.”

  “Tell that to the EMTs.”

  “I think you’ll survive. Here.” He nudged the thermos cup into her hand. The long-forgotten Irish coffee, no longer as hot. How long had he tormented her? Had she looked at the clock when she was inside? The rain drummed on the gazebo roof, false darkness from the heavy overcast. It couldn’t be later than early afternoon. Still, she could sleep. A nap to avoid thinking and feeling for a while longer. She’d slept a lot when she first came to Lyra. Making up for months of lost sleep, she’d justified. And the rain and gloom encouraged it. She let her head fall back, that same sense of sadness welling up from some buried place.

  “No you don’t,” Fox scolded. “I’m not done with you by a long shot. Drink your coffee like a good girl.”

  On one level, her hackles went up at that. Much better than that dragging depression. If she had a dollar for every time that attitude had crossed her desk, she’d have—oh wait, not nearly as much as she’d already raked in as Phoenix. Being him had saved her from the anger, fear and sorrow. Instead of sleeping all the time, she’d worked. Finally free to design exactly how she wanted to. She didn’t have to wonder who she was. She’d chosen to be Phoenix, her true self, even if her body seemed to belong to someone else.

  Fox didn’t need to know any of that. The sex rocked her world—okay, great. Emily could have all the sex she wanted while Phoenix worked in secret. The one would fuel the other. She could be both people.

  She sipped the coffee, to all appearances going along with Fox’s program.

  It tasted delicious. Perfect.

  “What the hell is in this?” Fox sounded kind of horrified, which pleased her.

  “Almond milk, Stevia and Jameson—why?”

  “You’re insane to call this Irish coffee.”

  “It’s healthy.”

  “Some things should not be healthy.”

  “Hey—you’re the one who ripped the whipped cream out of my hands this morning.”

  “That was chemical foam and you didn’t want it anyway.”

  “How do you know?” This was the fly in her ointment. For the separation to work, she needed him to learn about only Emily, as he seemed so determined to do. She needed a personal, intimate firewall. “You’ve barely met me.”

  He didn’t reply right away. Then offered, “It must be the writer in me. Students of human nature. Besides, you have an expressive face.”

  “I do?” No one had ever said something like that to her before.

  “Oh yeah. You have an expressive everything, really.”

  She had to ponder that, decide what that meant. Perhaps she could work it. The face in the mirror didn’t have to be her own. She’d express what she wanted him to see.

  “So.” He stretched. “Time to take a shower and move on to Act II?”

  “Just so you can tease me more?”

  “You’re very fun to tease, it’s true. But you’re always welcome to take revenge.”

  His words recalled that first fantasy after meeting him, of sucking him off in her kitchen. Not that it would ever happen. Keeping him out of her house would continue to be an important boundary to maintain, part of the firewall to keep him out of her head. You have an expressive everything. It bothered her that he somehow he might see through her. Being someone else through the lens of the internet went far more smoothly. Even the brief interactions with the people around town let her play act convincingly.

  How the hell had he known she didn’t want the waffles? Of course, she hadn’t. She’d ordered them on her first visit to the café because she’d never ordered Belgian waffles in her life. That had been her strategy, to follow none of her recognizable patterns. Easy to do for a few weeks or months, but after years she felt like Kipling’s rhinoceros, with her ill-fitting and itchy hide. And the crankiness to match.

  Time to take control of this affair.

  “You’ll have to take a shower at your place, I’m afraid.” She forced herself to move, to climb out of the tub and grab one of the huge fluffy towels. “I’ll go throw your clothes in the dryer and bring them out to you.”

  “I’ll come with you, wait inside.”

  “No. Not negotiable.”

  “Why not? What’s inside that I can’t see?” He sprang the question on her, the same way he’d taken her by surprise, sliding his finger inside her with no warning and finding her G-spot almost immediately. A technique of his, she suspected, to do and ask the unexpected, to catch people off guard. It worked, she could vouch, giving him the opportunity to sneak past her shields before she guessed he’d found a crack in them. The obvious solution? Seal up all cracks. She’d already accomplished far more by escaping the trolls, disappearing and reemerging like a phoenix from the ashes of her destroyed career.

  It had all given her strength. The kind a guy like Fox could never hope to breach. Deliberately, she cast the towel aside and stood naked for a moment before she reached for her robe. His gazed roved over her body with desire and hunger. She let it feed her, make her feel powerful. Then she put on the robe and smiled at him, taunting.

  “I’m a terrible housekeeper.” She didn’t care if he knew it for a lie. Which he did, apparently, because he made a wry grimace with his mouth, as if she’d cracked a bad joke. Letting it stand between them, her line in the sand, one element in her firewall, she went in the house and locked the door behind her.

  Just in case.

  * * *

  Fox knew good and well that she wouldn’t come out until his clothes had dried. A strategic retreat on her part—yet again. It would be helpful if he didn’t find her so fascinating. Most women—even many men—after an orgasm that shattering would come back to earth softer, more open, wanting to cuddle and share affection.

  Not Emily.

  No, she’d almost immediately secured her personal space. Even before she consciously decided to. Oh, she’d done that as well, but she’d withdrawn behind her walls within moments of him easing her into the water, the sweet softness of post-orgasm vanishing behind a returning natural defensiveness, as if her very skin developed a static charge that discouraged him from touching her. Instinct had told him not to push, for once, to instead keep it light and her amused as he observed the way she established distance and rolled out her rules for engagement.

  He didn’t have to worry about her bailing on the sexual affair anymore. For the moment she liked that part too much to miss out. More, she enjoyed his hunger for her. But she’d blatantly lied about why he couldn’t come inside her house and—far worse—hadn’t cared that he’d known it.

  She’d made it clear that she’d taken control, that he’d only know what she wanted him to know about her. And most of that would be false. Almost as if she intended to create a sexual avatar for herself. He looked forward to seeing who she decided to be for him, as much as it frustrated him that she planned to keep him from knowing her more intimately than the physical. He’d never needed an emotional connection with his lovers and nothing had changed that. It certainly shouldn’t hurt his feelings that she’d determined not to let him know her and to simply use him for sex.

  He’d been used plenty of times and had been fine with it. Made it much easier to use in return.

  Not that he’d give up. If he’d wanted uncomplicated, he wouldn’t be here. Who was he kidding? He thrived on mystery.

  And at digging out an
d exposing the truth.

  If Miss Emily wanted to up the stakes, she’d find out what kind of opponent she’d gotten. Two were playing this game.

  When she emerged from the house a good twenty minutes later, she’d clearly taken a shower—likely just to rub his face in it—and had her wet hair scraped into the typical tight ponytail. She’d dressed in jeans and a sweater, both figure-hugging, and wore a smile likely meant to be sultry, though it didn’t quite make it there. Not practiced enough. How much could he shape this lover she was constructing for him?

  “When you come over tonight—” he took the offensive, toweling off briskly, “—I want you to wear only a coat and your highest heels. Nothing on underneath. And leave your hair down.”

  The almost-sultry smile faded at the edges and he dropped a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth as he took his neatly folded clothes. Orange blossoms and the lingering scent of aroused woman. Still worked up then, despite the façade she’d created. And unsettled by his request.

  “Why do you get to decide?” she asked with a hint of irritation.

  “Because I asked first.” He grinned at her, watching her color rise. “You had your turn of having your way. Now I want mine.”

  She folded her arms and tapped her bare foot. Pretty pink toenails. That detail had not been crafted, he’d give good odds on that. Maybe a princess-loving girl lurked inside her armored heart. It would be interesting to dig her out.

  “I’m not doing everything you tell me to do, however.”

  “No?” Dressed, he put the cover back on the hot tub, then circled behind her and drew her against him, sliding his hands under her sweater to her warm, satiny skin beneath. She held herself rigid, then melted slightly when he kissed that spot on her neck. The ponytail had its advantages, as did that sensitive point. A doorway into her, whether she realized it or not.

  “No.” She sounded breathier now, unlocking her arms to let him cup her breasts, encased in an underwire bra. With his thumbs, he pushed the lace down and stroked her nipples to points. “I’m not...comfortable with that.”