The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

by Lisa Cach

  Hardly.

  He went to work on her thighs and buttocks, although his hands yearned to tease her until she whimpered Now. Take me, now. But as he rubbed her thigh Emma gave a soft tnmm of pleasure, and he realized that her erogenous zones weren't limited to her toes, breasts, and her sex. Her whole body wanted to be touched, caressed, made love to by his hands.

  He felt a fool for having missed that fact in all the times they'd been together. He'd been touching her the way he wanted to be touched, hands diving right for the goods, forgetting that a woman's approach to sensuality could be different entirely.

  It was going to be torture for his eager body. Each ooh and ahh and mmm she made as he massaged the backs of her legs and her buttocks went straight to his crotch. He wanted to hear her make those noises as he parted her thighs and pressed the head of his cock against her, her slit parting under him, the wet, hot slickness of her passage tight against him as he slid deep inside. He could already feel himself there, his hands on her hips as she pushed back against him, writhing and moaning with the pleasure he brought her.

  Christ. He was going to have to think of lust-killing things like tax forms to make it through this.

  But what sweet torture.

  Emma felt his hands moving on her as she had asked and tried to relax and enjoy it. She knew now that he would continue this as long as she wanted, but she sensed a hint of impatience in his touch.

  He was the one who had insisted on doing as she wished despite her embarrassment: he could suffer for it.

  The thought that she was subtly torturing him was perversely freeing. She could revel in that, in a way that she was afraid to revel in asking for what she wanted without thought of his own pleasure.

  One of his massaging hands slipped between her thighs and pressed a little too close to her sex, setting off a shiver of sensation. It was deliciously tempting, but she wasn't going to give in to it. Not yet.

  "My lower back," she ordered, and made a small mmm of pleasure when he obeyed. Her skin seemed to soak up each touch of his hands, the very act of contact changing something within her. She was aroused and relaxed at the same time, an intoxicating, shimmering pleasure moving through her blood, drugging her, making her feel that she could continue like this forever. She wanted him to touch every part of her, from back to shoulders to the tender inner bend of her arm, to the sensitive center of her palm. She gave voice to her wishes, sending him on a treasure hunt over her body, finding the places that had lain undiscovered through all their joinings.

  It was only when he'd touched every inch of her except her sex; only after he'd gently stroked her eyebrows and the shape of her ears; after he'd run the flats of his hands down the front of her torso, treating her breasts as any other part of her body, making her stretch her arms above her head and arch her back in catlike contentment; only after he'd touched the smooth space behind her ear and let his fingertips press over the faint ridges of her rib cage, that she knew she was ready to ask for something more.

  "Lie on top of me and kiss me. I want to feel trapped. Pinned."

  She felt his weight on her, his arousal a hard thickness against her loins. "Now kiss me like you're starving for it, and won't take no for an answer."

  "No problem," he murmured, and took her face between his hands. His eyes looked down into hers with dark intensity, almost animal in their naked hunger.

  She closed her eyes and let him kiss her, enjoying the sure, hungry movements of his mouth on hers and the weight of his body. She wanted to be ravished, to be taken without permission by him, if only within the confines of this game they were playing tonight.

  She wrapped her arms around his chest and one leg around the back of his. "Take me," she whispered against his ear as his mouth sucked at the edge of her jaw. "Now." She moved her hips against his erection, feeling it slide against her mound, his position changing enough that the head ran down her sex and across her slick wetness.

  "Tell me how," he growled into her ear. "Spell it out, Emma."

  She felt the head rubbing against her opening, teasing at her with its blunt hardness that refused to enter. "Don't ask. Just do it. That's what I want!"

  "Say it. Say how."

  Frustration boiled up within her and in a flurry of motion she fought out of his embrace, making him yelp in surprise and climb off her. She rolled onto all fours, looked over her shoulder at him, moved her knees apart and lowered her torso, her sex spread out in an unmistakable target. "Is this clear enough for you?"

  Without another word he put one hand hard on her hip and the other to his cock for guidance, and she gasped as he thrust inside her with one long, deep stroke. She dropped her forehead down onto the mattress, feeling him move the length of her, stroking hard, his thickness within her body and seeming to take up half of it. She was no longer in sole possession of her body, and it was just what she wanted.

  "Your fingertip," she gasped out in near incoherence, wanting him to reach around and stroke her nub.

  "What was that?"

  "Your finger. Use your finger."

  There was a pause; then she felt his hands on her buttocks. Her eyes widened, but before she could stop him she felt the tip of one finger dip into her back door.

  Shock held her motionless.

  His thrusts resumed their former energy, his fingertip following the rhythm, pressing in and releasing along with each thrust.

  Her psyche was overwhelmed by the double penetration, the double possession. A cool liquid rush washed over her, and she lost all sense of where she ended and he began.

  With her right hand she reached down to her sex, touching the joining of their bodies, feeling the wetness and the movement of flesh against flesh. Her fingertips damp, she trailed them to her nub and stroked.

  Triple contact now, her whole consciousness existing in the trio of sensations. They blended together, amplifying each other: thrusts of his cock inside her, the pressure of his fingertip at her back opening, the tingling pleasures of her own hand at work on her desire.

  Ohh God, it felt so good…

  She felt herself rising on the tide, felt the tension in her body as she strained toward the crest of the wave.

  Yes, yes, it's coming, it's coming…

  Her body tensed, her lower legs clamping against his thighs, a high-pitched keen vibrating in her throat. She held for a moment at the crest of the wave, balanced there, precarious, and then with one more stroke of his cock she felt herself tumble down the slope. Her inner muscles clenched around him, squeezing and releasing rapidly.

  "Oh God, Emma," Russ groaned, and thrust once more deep inside her, where she felt the pulses of his own release blend with hers.

  Emma closed her eyes in the afterglow. She felt Russ rest lightly upon her with his cock still deep inside, breathing heavily.

  She carefully lay flat and then he rolled them both to their sides, spooned together. She felt him nuzzle his face into her hair.

  A smile curled on her lips and she fell into slumber, their bodies still one.

  In the bathroom a half hour later, washing up together, Russ glanced at Emma. She caught his look and smiled, a sleepy cat-contented smile. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "What wouldn't I do to please you?" he asked softly, the words a question for himself as much as her.

  "I wouldn't mind finding out," she said, and laughed.

  Russ smiled, and felt his own cowardice. He had asked her what she wanted him to do to her body, but he hadn't had the nerve to ask her the more important question: What did she want from him when it came to her heart?

  It was a question he likely would never have the chance to ask. It wouldn't be fair, when he was paying her; he wouldn't put her in the position of having to pretend to be in love with him in order to keep her "job."

  "Don't take too long," she said, patting his buttocks as she left the bathroom.

  He watched her go, then looked at himself in the m
irror. What had he become?

  He was a permanent John, buying sex in lieu of the love that every man craved, whether he admitted it or not, whether he realized it or not.

  He had become a man falling in love with the woman he had turned into a mistress. The woman he had, through his own actions, put beyond his reach for anything more than what was physical.

  "Russ?" Emma called softly. "Are you coming back to bed?"

  He turned away from the mirror and shut off the light, and returned to the soft comfort of Emma's body.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Emma cruised down the freeway, the stiff shocks of her Honda jouncing her with each rut and ripple in the road. She didn't care. Nor did she care about the red Porsche that seemed to find her car a direct challenge to its manhood, passing her with deliberate, finger-flipping speed.

  She was lost in the memories of the night with Russ. Again she felt his hands on her inner thighs from behind, parting her, his fingertips reaching to her center to stroke her gently and then delicately parting her inner opening and laying the head of his rod against her. She felt him easing himself into her in slow, shallow thrusts, angled to hit her G-spot. She felt again his fingertip going where she'd least expected.

  Her inner muscles clenched in memory of the orgasm that followed.

  Even better had been the wash of relief that had flooded through her, as if she had set down an immense burden. No more holding back, no more putting her own desires secondary, no more keeping her wishes secret from him, as if asking him to touch her here or there was too big a demand. She had opened herself completely to him. She had surrendered to her own desires, confessing wishes she hadn't even known she had.

  And it was glorious.

  Euphoria shimmered through her body, the whole world golden and filled with possibility this morning. Her mind floated free, random images of Russ and the landscape around her filling her head.

  As if from a source beyond herself, an image began to form in her mind, composed of the streaming sunlight and tall dark firs around her. Planes and angles appeared, mimicking where sky met water and water met the upward thrust of a rocky, fir-covered island. Graceful curves swirled through it, like the cupped sail of a boat, the beat of a bird's wing. They became ramps easy to drive upon, easy to walk upon. And at the bottom edge of this growing vision were the multiple hatched lines of sandpiper tracks on the sand, becoming train tracks cutting through the station.

  Excitement coursed through her and she traced over the building that was forming shape in her mind, solidifying it in her memory, adding details to cement it into place. She captured it wall by ramp by window, ensuring that it would still be with her later.

  This was it! This was finally it! A vision of pure imagination that would be the train station she would want to visit, that she would want to welcome people to her city, that would be her vision of Seattle and the region.

  It would unquestionably be too expensive to build; probably impossible from a structural standpoint. It was completely impractical.

  And she didn't care. It was what she wanted. She, Emma Mayson.

  Ahead, the Porsche had zipped into the right-hand lane and been trapped behind a semitruck, a poky RV on its left locking it in fume-sucking position. Coming up behind the RV, Emma moved into the passing lane to get by. As she moved past the RV, a space opened up between the RV and the semi and the Porsche shot in front of the RV with barely a foot to spare, causing the RV to rock on its shocks as the driver overreacted in surprise.

  What type of asshole was driving that penis car?

  The red Porsche gave a single flash of the turn signal and pulled forward, barely enough to get ahead of Emma. The jerkwad was going to cut her off!

  Before she knew it, Emma's hand found the red button to the nitrous system of the street-racing Honda and her rebellious thumb hit the button. A moment later she was on the space shuttle, rocketing forward in a roaring burst of speed that knocked her head back against the headrest. Her wild scream of glee echoed in her head, drowning out the motor.

  The Porsche disappeared in her rearview mirror, and she screamed all the way to her exit, a mile later. She drifted up the exit ramp to the light, the car now surprisingly docile in her control, as if it finally understood who was boss. A cool flush of receding adrenaline loosened her muscles.

  She was still sitting in dreamy contentment at the light when something red moved up beside her. She turned her head and saw the Porsche in the lane on her left, waiting to go the opposite direction. Still buoyed by confidence, Emma rolled down her tinted window, letting the bastard who was driving see the girl who'd just whupped his ass.

  As her window lowered, the driver of the penis car lowered his. With a smirk of satisfaction, Emma looked into the Porsche.

  And saw a ponytailed blonde, not much older than her, who was looking at Emma with the same surprised embarrassment that Emma felt. They were women, behaving like asshole guys. In unison they turned away from each other, windows going back up to hide their shame.

  Emma looked up at the light and willed it to turn green, fingers clenched on the steering wheel. When it finally did, the Honda and Porsche made their turns with ladylike decorum and headed off in opposite directions, well under the speed limit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  How many cloves of garlic?" Russ asked. "Three."

  "They're worse to peel than onions. The skins keep sticking to my fingers." He held up hands covered in white shreds.

  Emma laughed and took the clove from him. "I'll show you a trick." They'd started cooking together a month ago, after her creative breakthrough about the train station. She'd had only two weeks to put her idea on a foam poster board before the deadline. When Russ had seen how frantically she was working to get it done, he'd volunteered to do the cooking.

  One awful meal was enough to persuade Emma that a better solution was to e-mail him a grocery list; then, when he arrived at the apartment with the food, to prepare the meal with him as her sous-chef. It would have been simpler to buy takeout, but she enjoyed working side by side with him.

  Over the past month an easy familiarity had grown between them; a comfort that hadn't been there before that night at the hockey rink. It felt as if a few of the walls between them had been removed. They cuddled up on the futon couch to watch The Daily Show or Letterman together some nights, and on Fridays he stayed until dawn, his arm over her as they slept spooned together.

  But they hadn't again gone out together in public.

  Emma set the clove of garlic on the cutting board, put the flat of her chef's knife over it, and gave the blade a solid whack with the heel of her hand.

  "Careful!" Russ warned.

  "Look." She held up the clove, now fissured and easily rid of its skin.

  Her cell phone started ringing before Russ could respond to her culinary feat. She looked over at the phone, her heart tripping.

  Russ raised a brow, understanding in his eyes. "Are you going to answer?"

  Emma wiped her hands on a dish towel and went to the phone. It was now two weeks since she'd turned in her design, and today was the day that the finalists in the train station contest were to be notified. She'd been waiting for a call all day, pacing her apartment and staring out the window.

  She picked up the phone with a shaking hand and looked at the display.

  "Is it them?" Russ asked.

  "I don't know. I don't recognize the name or number." She flipped open the phone and put it to her ear. "Hello?" she croaked.

  "Hello! This is Mavis Hunter from the City of Seattle 's Planning and Development Office. I'm trying to reach Emma Mayson."

  "This is she." Emma met Russ's eyes and nodded, her own eyes wide and her heart kerthumping in her chest.

  "Ms. Mayson, I'm pleased to tell you that you are one of the ten finalists in the King Street Station design competition. Congratulations!"

  An "eep" escaped Emma's throat and the phone slid out of her hand, landing on the floor. Emma fol
lowed it down, sinking gracelessly into a sprawled sitting position.

  "Ms. Mayson? Ms. Mayson?" the voice called tinnily from the phone.

  Emma looked up at Russ and blinked. "Meeep!"

  "Emma?" Russ said.

  "Ms. Mayson?" the phone queried.

  She managed a tight, fractional nod of her head.

  "You got it?" Russ asked.

  She nodded.

  Russ scooped up the phone as he sat beside Emma and pulled her close. "Hi. Emma is too happy to speak at the moment, I'm afraid."

  Emma heard the woman laugh and start talking again.

  She reached for the phone and Russ gave it back. "I'm here!" she squeaked out. "I'm okay, I'm here!"

  Mavis explained what would happen next and what Emma would need to do. Afraid that she wouldn't remember a word of it the moment she hung up the phone, Emma walked on her knees to her desk, reaching for a notepad and pen.

  "Okay, so that was what time again?" Emma asked, writing down the information. When the call ended she closed the phone and looked up at Russ.

  "You're a finalist?"

  She smiled with her lips closed, the expression of happiness tentative, as if she couldn't quite believe it. She was still too stunned to take it in and react with the joy she had expected.

  Russ did it for her. "Emma, that's wonderful! Congratulations!" He pulled her up off the floor and embraced her in a bear hug, lifting her off her feet and spinning in a circle.

  She laughed, his enthusiasm taking her by surprise.

  He planted a big kiss on her cheek. "I'm so proud of you, honey."

  The "honey" took her by surprise, too. He'd never used a pet name with her before. She met his eyes, wondering what it meant, but he didn't seem to know he'd said anything of significance. If it was significant.

  "You're on your way, Emma! Someone has finally noticed your brilliance!"

  "Hardly! I'm just a finalist," she said, self-doubt snaking into her nascent joy. "There were probably only ten entries."

  "Don't discount your achievement. This means something, Emma. Be proud of it! We need to celebrate: I should go get a bottle of champagne."