by Olivia Fox
"Em, stop! Wait!" Harry's yelling, and I almost pause because I don’t think I’ve ever heard him raise his voice before, but my I'm already twisting the latch, and there's nothing going to stop me.
Except perhaps Deanne mumbling, "But Harry, you said you didn't have a girlfriend!?” Because once she's said it, I flounder.
I'm being unreasonable. I know it. And I owe it to Harry to set Deanne straight. "He doesn't," I say. And at that moment it's me I hate more than anyone else in this pokey hallway. But I'm not going to think about that. I'm going through this door and I'm going to keep on walking. I’m going to walk and walk and when I'm far enough away that he can't possibly tell how much of an idiot I'm being, I'm going to run.
3.
I've been home about five minutes when Harry shows up. Unfortunately, I can't really complain that he lets himself in, not when I just did the same to him. But I want to. Because, again, I’ve just gotta say it: Harry doesn't do this kind of thing. He knocks. He gives me space. Hell, he's only got my key in case of emergencies. Sod the double standard, he's out of line.
"What?!" I snap. "Normally, when a girl storms out it's coz she doesn't want to talk to you."
And I expect Harry to say something like, 'Simmer down and stick the kettle on,' or 'Untwist your knickers, Em,' or at the very least he could roll his eyes and tell me I'm being a div. But he doesn't do any of those things. He does something I'd never expect him to do in a trillion leap-years.
He picks me up, pushing me against my living room wall, cupping my arse as my legs instinctively cling to him. My laid back, gentle, fuck-buddy boss, who usually takes all his sex cues from me, is suddenly - wordlessly - initiating sex. My eyes still haven't stopped leaking and I must look like such a mess, but he's looking at me like he's just realized something amazing, and he can't wait to tell me.
But he's not going to tell me in words. He's going to tell me with his gloriously solid dick. The one I told him was his only positive attribute, or something like that. The one that's dry humping me through his canvas shorts and through my little denim hot-pants. Which sounds a bit teenagery and desperate, but God I love that he's being teenagery and desperate. I love that he can't hold back. And I love the way his golden hair is mussing with my golden hair as he leans down, resting his forehead against mine. Oh Christ, I love him. In a platonic, fuck-buddy kind of way.
And when his lips stroke over the seam of my lips, forcing me to open for him - well - by then I'm so wet down below that I think I might come just from the slow lush push of his tongue in my mouth.
He laughs as he kisses me. Whatever this amazing thing is - his eureka - his epiphany - well apparently it's funny, though I'm clearly not in on the joke.
But when I roll my hips against him he stops laughing. He actually kind of growls. And then we're on the move. He's carrying me like I'm no weight at all, which isn't a million miles from the truth as far as he's concerned. I mean we're ridiculous together. I'm a teeny weeny pixie of a person and he's just this big excess of maleness. Six foot three, broad as anything, and thick set. You'd peg him as mid-twenties to look at him, though he's nearly thirty-five, but he's just so full of energy and humour and warmth that he looks years younger. Boyish somehow. Even though he's hairy and buff and stubbly in a scruffy not-at-all-designer way.
And as he carries me into my bedroom, I so want to forget about naked Deanne and her slinky stockings. But I can't. Oh fuck. I'm going to ruin this savagely sexy moment by talking, even though my cunt is screaming at me to shut the hell up.
"Harry - whoa! Wait! Can we just talk first?!" I stammer, as he throws me onto the bed and kneels between my legs.
"No talking. Not ‘til I've fucked you." His eyes glimmer as he watches my breasts which are so comically over-sized for my body that there's no disguising how turned on I am when they heave up and down like this.
"But your... friend. Deanne..." I say because I need to know he's not screwing her too. Even though I’ve no right to care.
"...is pretty fucking hot, don't you think?" he finishes my sentence for me, and I swear I almost push him away. "But I'm not interested. Never was. She got it wrong is all. Now shut up and get your knickers off."
Jesus. If anyone else said something like that to me I’d most likely knee them in the goolies. But God, Harry said it. Harry who never assumes I’m up for anything until I spell it out for him. And that’s just so - well - wow…
I can’t resist it. Harry dominant… that’s just too mouthwatering for words. So I stop talking and I do what he says. At least I try to. But these hot-pants don’t exactly slide off easily, and in the end Harry yanks them down for me with a force that burns a little, though I can’t say I mind, and my legs somehow end up resting on his shoulders while he eases my silky white knickers past my knees.
I can’t breath. He’s looking right between my legs, his eyes hooded and his mouth hanging open, like my wet swollen cunt is the most delicious thing he’s ever seen. He’s going to eat me, I think, and the second I think it he does. Fast and hungry. He’s dipping his tongue inside me hard and fierce and desperate, like he’s never tasted me before. Like he’s been holding back. In all our three years of fooling around, it’s never - never - been like this. My back’s arching wildly and I’m fisting my hands in the bed sheets, and I can’t help the words I seem to be yelling.
“Oh Christ! Harry… Yeah - oh God - fuck me, Harry. Oh Jesus… fuck me. Yeah, just like that… Harry your tongue… you’re making me… you’re making me…” and I rake my fingers into his hair in an attempt to slow him down. I don’t want to come yet, and I’m so so close. “Stop, Harry… stop. I want you inside me!” I gasp, and he slowly raises his head, to see me all flushed and needy.
He licks his lips as he looks at me with wicked, wicked eyes, and tells me with amused authority, “When I say so.”
Oh God… My body’s not my own any more. It’s writhing against the gentle stroke of his fingers before they plunge, less gently, deep inside my greedy passage.
“So wet for me, Em,” he growls. “I’m going to fuck you like this. Like you need it,” he says as he spears me again with two long, thick fingers, his knuckles ratcheting against my slick opening again and again.
“Harry!” I cry. My body’s already tightening, shuddering with my approaching orgasm, gripping his fingers inside me. And as his devilish lips find my clit and suck… I’m completely undone. My release roars through my muscles, my thighs clasping tight around Harry’s head as he laughs, victorious and delicious against my sex.
I’m boneless, flopped in a lazy heap as he detaches my legs from his shoulders and takes off his clothes. And if I needed a reminder we’re not yet done, this is it. His dick is beautiful. Thick, long smooth, and hard enough to bang nails. He’s widest at the root, where lush curls trail down toward his heavy sac. His cock bends a little toward his belly - just perfect for reaching that good spot inside me. I can’t help staring. I’m mesmerized by that dewy drop of pre-come as it rolls across his slit. I don’t care that I’m a floppy, post-coital, puppet-woman right now. I want that thing inside me.
“Stay,” I pant, as I roll inelegantly from the bed and grab a condom from my top drawer.
Harry cocks an eyebrow and holds out his hand for the johnny. He’s still in charge, he’s telling me, which is a good thing too, because after the orgasm he’s just given me I’m damned if I can think straight.
I’m on autopilot, rolling onto my front, raising my butt in the air, doggy style, ready to be taken the way Harry always takes me. It’s what works for us. No mucking about. No mushy face-on nonsense. Good solid fucking.
“Missionary,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. He just flips me onto my back and looks me straight in the eye as he strokes the head of his dick through my slick folds.
“You old romantic,” I try to joke, but he’s already plunging into me, and my words come out gasped and breathy.
He draws one of his fingers into his mouth. “I taste of yo
u,” he says, before pushing that same hand round under my butt and trailing his wet fingertip against my other entrance. “I want to watch your face while I fill fuck your pussy and finger your arse.”
OK, so maybe romantic was the wrong word. This is something else entirely. This is Harry wanting me like he’s never wanted me before. Or like he’s never let himself want me before. This is Harry owning me. And he does. Right now, I’m his entirely. His to stretch and fill and thrust into. His to slam his dick inside as his sac slaps firm against my butt. And his to finger, smooth and slow, then as hard as he likes until I’m close to screaming.
It’s too much. Too much sensation. Pleasure bordering on the most exquisite torture as he fills every part of me, his tongue now in my mouth, fucking me there too.
My boobs are aching as his chest rasps soft as a whisper over my oversensitive nipples. And then I’m coming again, clenching around him, spasming tight around his finger, and holding his cock inside me in a fist-tight grip.
My fierce contractions have him groaning with need, and he doesn’t hold back. As my climax subsides, he eases his finger free, then gives me the full force of his desire, ramming his great hard cock into me relentlessly. It verges on pain, but not quite. And I like the roughness of his onslaught. I need it I think. His savage claiming of me.
He curses and I know he’s close, withdrawing near entirely before each deep intrusion. I’m wet with sweat - his and mine - and I tilt my chin up to lick the salty skin of his neck.
“Em -” he growls, and then he’s coming, throbbing inside me for what seems like eternity.
His body sinks a little too heavily onto mine, and I don’t mind one bit. And when he lifts up onto his shoulders and looks down at me like that, all sated and adorable, I really don’t mind that either.
“I think I could do that forever and never get bored,” he says with a lopsided smile which melts me inside.
And that’s what scares me. How easily the thought just drifts into my brain. Me too, boss. Me too.
*****
He's as wasted as I am now. Drunk on pheromones. Blissfully sated, sprawled across my bed, our limbs a tangled mess. This is more familiar, this post-sex meshing of bodies. My cheek nestled against Harry's shoulder, his soft armpit hair tickling my neck. I know this position, know the brainless warm fuzz of our aftermath. Though even this is off-kilter now. He's not chatting like he usually would, joking about how squeezable my butt is, or faffing with my hair. He's too quiet. Not nervous - at least I don't think so - more thoughtful.
"What's up?
Harry squeezes me a little in response. "Shower time," he says, but he doesn't mean it as an answer. He's not ready to say whatever it is yet, and something inside me relaxes. Perhaps I'm not ready to hear it either.
We shower together. We've done this before too. Too many times to count. It's hardly new ground we're covering. But it's different knowing he's waiting. Picking his moment to say something. He holds me close and washes us both. I can’t see his face, and I think that’s deliberate. I’ve got to be patient. Wait until he’s ready.
Though as he pulls his clothes on in my room I realize I got it wrong. He’s not planning on telling me anything, Whatever this thing is, he’s not going to share. Not unless I push. Which - of course - I do.
“So…” I say, hoping maybe that’ll be enough to get the ball rolling.
“So…?”
I sigh. He knows too bloody well what I’m getting at. “So, we were going to talk? After the fucking?”
“Oh that. Well - OK - what do you want to talk about?”
What do I want to talk about?! Are you kidding me?! Well, for starters we could talk about how Deanne got the wrong idea, and then - oh, I dunno - perhaps we could talk about what’s happened to turn you into this great hulking sex god! But I don’t say any of that, of course.
“Well,” I say, “You seem… a little different.” I’m aiming for cool, calm indifference.
“Do I?”
“For fuck sake, Harry, you know you do!” I think my coolness may be slipping.
"There's nothing to talk about, Em. I realized something, that's all. We don't need to discuss it."
Oh, but I really think we do. And what’s more, we’re going to. "Spill the beans, boss. I'm all ears. What’s the damn secret!"
"You want me."
"I... What?!" Is he joking? It’s the kind of thing he’d joke about for sure. But somehow I don’t think he is joking. For one thing he’s not laughing. He can’t even seem to look at me. Like he can’t bear to see my reaction to his words.
"You want me," he says again, this time with a sigh.
"Harry, I... I don't..."
"See," he laughs, still looking away, "I said we shouldn't discuss it."
"What are you saying, Harry? I want you to be my boyfriend?!" I don't want to hurt him, but I'm not going to be told what I want. It's crazy. It's insulting is what it is.
Harry answers my question with a shrug. Apparently that’s all I’m getting.
"Don't you think I'd know? Harry!” I snap, and when he shrugs again, I hear myself getting louder. “For God's sake just answer the fricking question. If I wanted us to be boyfriend and girlfriend - to have some kind of exclusive arrangement - don't you think I'd know?" And then, finally he looks at me, and I know from the way his jaw tightens that I’ve hurt him.
“You use that word a lot, you know. Arrangement,” he says, and I try to hold my tongue. I’ve knocked him back, and he’s bound to be a bit sore about it. But he doesn’t stop. “That's how we started isn't it? We got drunk. I hit on you. You laid out the terms of our arrangement," he says, and I just can’t help it…
"Well fuck you too! I don't remember you complaining." Oh God, what’s happening. What am I doing? How did I get from the most heavenly screw of my life to this?
And then Harry takes me completely by surprise. He wraps his arms around me. Even though I’m mad at him. Even though I’m rejecting him. I need him like this. Love him like this. Holding me together while my temper simmers. "I didn't, babe,” he tells me. “I'm not complaining now."
"What then?!" My words are muffled by a great wall of chest, though his sigh tells me he’s heard.
He releases me from the hug, but still his hands are on my arms, comforting me like I deserve it. “I'm saying I want you to be with me. Just me. And you want the same thing."
I can’t bear it. Why is he doing this, making me spell it out for him so cruelly? "I - I'm sorry, but I don’t. I just don't.” It’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to say to anyone, and I’m saying it to Harry. My gorgeous Harry. “You're... You're my boss. It'd be too messy," I say, trying to somehow make this less my choice - more just the way things are. It’s a cheap shot and he calls me on it.
"So if I wasn't your boss? Then what?" he asks, and the way he says it - all thick with tension - I can’t help wondering if there’s something else he’s not been telling me.
I don’t respond at first. I can’t. There’s no good way to put this. But he’s staring at me so intently that there’s nothing for it… “I still wouldn’t want that, Harry," I say, and then I have to pull away. I can’t let him comfort me while I hurt him. "I want a relationship. I've tried. Too many times. I just get bored and bitter."
"OK," he says, and he doesn't sound patronizing or pissed off. It's worse than that. He just sounds - I don't know - resigned. Then he leans in close and kisses my forehead so tenderly I think I might cry again, but I won’t. I absolutely won’t.
Except, I do. Because just as he’s about to leave my room he turns back to face me. “Do me a favour, Em. Stay away from me. I’ll see you at work, but that’s it from now on. I don’t want to see you any more than I have to.”
Harry’s brow is a knot of tension as he walks out of my bedroom, and I so desperately want to chase after him. I want to scream at him to be reasonable - but that’s the thing. He is being reasonable. It’s me who wants to have my boss-shaped cake and eat
him too.
I can’t change who I am. Even for Harry.
But I almost think I might try. My legs are itching to follow him and my hands long to clutch hold of his thick wrists and yank him back to me. But I stop myself. Lily’s key turns in the front door just as Harry’s about to leave, and it’s enough to shake me back to reality.
We want different things. I have to let him go.
4.
Lunch with Celia goes better than I expect. I don’t think about Harry. I’ve got him out of my system. I cried and agonized over him all night long, and now I’ve stored him in a little box marked ‘keep closed’.
I hold Celia’s hand as we head down my road. She’s nervous about facing Lily. It's been a long time since I've seen her so sober, in every sense of the word, and for her sake I really hope she’s strong enough to go through with this apology.
Lily knows Celia's coming by. I warned/asked her. And she's OK with it. She's way past caring about Tom. If anything, she thinks Celia did her a favour, and in a way I’ve got to agree. Tom was a supreme waste of space, and Lily wasn’t going to realize that without a push. Not that she'd let Celia off the hook without at least some remorse. Hell, it wouldn’t help Celia if she did.
As I search for my keys I feel my phone vibrating, still silenced from our lunchtime chin wag. It's Lily calling, but no matter, we're home now. And I'm just putting my key in the lock when something catches my eye... a bright orange Beetle parked twenty yards or so down the road. An orange Beetle that looks uncomfortably familiar. But I don't make anything of it. Not at first. Not until I push open my front door into what can only be described as my worst fricking nightmare.
*****
For a moment I can’t move, can’t even breath.
Lily surges toward me, frantic. "I tried to stop her! I've been calling you!" she says, shooting daggers over her shoulder at Cayley, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of herself. "They just started showing up and I... oh God..."
