by Alam, Donna
He punctuates his movements with each of those words, pushing a breath and a hissed, ‘Yes!’ right out of me. One hand anchored against my hip and the other again braced over mine against the mirror, he builds a rhythm with each snap of his hips, pushing me forward as he fucks me deep.
In my reflection, my breasts do their damnedest to sway, but my lack in that department is the furthest thing from my mind. This is so . . . I can’t even find the words, though my mouth is open as he twists my face to his, sliding his tongue across my lips. ‘Let’s hear those little come sounds. Let me eat them up.’
I gasp, my insides pulsing harder than ever, but I’ve never done that—come twice in one encounter, I mean. Not that I won’t enjoy it, but I won’t be able—
The thought is fleeting as something tightens inside me, something hotter and slicker than before. The noises I make are plaintive and raw, pleasure tearing through me like a rip current.
‘Oh, God, oh, God,’ I breathe. I try to throw my head back to ride this wave, but his hand keeps me fixed, my head twisted to the side.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ believe I’m coming again. Twice. And so quickly. I’ve never—
‘That’s . . . that’s it,’ he rasps, riding this out with me, lost to everything but movement and sensation. His mouth delivers biting kisses across my mouth and jaw, his eyes alternately flicking from my mouth to the mirror as he watches us fuck.
A moment later his movements turn jerky and I feel the ache of his sudden loss. Twisting my head further, he holds himself in his hand, his climax spurting from between his fingers, over the satin of my panties, the back of my skirt and my thighs.
‘Jesus.’ His chest rises and falls rapidly as he plants one hand back on my hip, his head bowed and resting against mine.
‘B . . . it . . .you . . .’ Frick. I can’t get the words to come out right. I tilt my head over my shoulder in an attempt to see. ‘What happened to the condom?’
‘Don’t stress.’ His hand drifts from my hip as he tucks himself away.
‘That . . . I . . . you did that on purpose?’ Did he? Why would he? Surely—
He peers at me from under the length of his hair, eyes bright and his smile wicked.
‘Aye.’ One word. As gravelly as all fuck.
‘Why would you—’ As he begins to chuckle darkly, my brain kicks in. Oh, Lord, he’s one of those men; the kind I’ve only ever encountered between the pages of a book. ‘Please,’ I say, my cheeks heating as he begins to chuckle. ‘Just. Shut. Up.’
He laughs a little harder and I start to turn away only to be confronted by the mirror. I close my eyes to the sight for a beat before attempting to pop my boobs back into their tiny cups.
‘Will you relax?’
Rory’s words catch me off guard—their soft tone and the way they whisper across my skin.
‘I—I’m fine.’ The prickly creature that I usually am seems to have crawled into my throat. ‘What’s it to you, anyway?’
‘Because.’ His hands against my waist, he lowers his mouth to my ear. ‘I’d like to do that again. Maybe even a few times more tonight.’
Oh, Lord.
Fourteen
Rory
I wake alone, and it’s probably for the best, though I wouldn’t have turned her down if she’d wanted to go again this morning. Christ knows I wake with a hard-on every morning that I’d prefer not to waste.
Still, I’m not beyond settling for the playback reel with my dick in my hand. Though maybe not this morning , I think, as I stretch my body out along the bed, relishing the familiar ache only a mammoth fucking session can bring.
She’d sniffed my jacket . How was that even a turn on? I should’ve known she’d be a great fuck right then. As I’d fought with the unfamiliar lock, jacketless, I should have been feeling the cold. I wasn’t. I burned like a furnace, the ache in my trousers making it difficult to concentrate as my fingers fumbled with the lock. It was no wonder I was on her the minute the door was closed behind us. I’d opened my mouth to offer her drink, but one glance at her lipstick smeared mouth found me pouncing instead, pushing her up against the wall. Again. Like some horny beast .
My hands moving greedily over the gossamer fabric of her blouse, I’d mapped her curves trying desperately to rein it back in, to hold back a little, to keep my touches light.
Until I’d felt her hands on my arse.
Yep, she’s definitely an arse girl, confirmed at the front door as she’d shrunk into my jacket when I’d caught her staring at it. At me? At my arse? So as her hands slid around my waist then slipped lower, it was like a red rag to my bull.
I’d wanted to slam her against the wall.
Pull her thighs around my hips.
Kiss and suck.
Bite and fuck.
Feed the burn in my gut.
But still, I held tight to my restraint. Usually, I’m all about the tease; a little spanking. Holding their wrists while making them wriggle. A little light bondage, if they seem up for it. But not last night, because as I pushed my hands under her skirt, I’d found fucking tights.
I’m not some kind of a deviant—I like garter belts as much as the next fella—but there was something hot about seeing the outline of her tiny knickers beneath the nylon. It was like her blouse all over again. Yeah, I’ll admit it. Standing at the bar, I might’ve thought I could see right through it at one point, convinced it wasn’t a trick of the lighting. I’d struggled to hide how this affected me, my fingers just millimetres away from reaching out. And even as I’d leaned in to whisper in her ear, my mind was working the angle. Could I manage a subversive brush without being caught?
And then tights. Thick and black, but not quite obscuring the pale scrap beneath. Now you see it, now you don’t; but I was definitely seeing this time. Feeling. Peeling them away from her waist to fuck her with my hand.
Fingering is so underrated.
Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes and feed one hand beneath my head, while the other reaches for my cock. So I didn’t think I’d be in the mood. Obviously, I was wrong. The whole evening isn’t so much a reel of fucking as much as it is a montage; flashes of memories and sensations. Of freckles peppering the sun kissed skin of her chest. Of how she’d panted against my mouth as I licked her pink stained lips. Of how her clit was as slippery as satin under my thumb.
We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. At least, not the first time, the reflection of her hungry eyes eliminating all thoughts of a bed. I needed to be inside her. To see the need on her face as I slid between her legs. To see the reflection of this, too. I fucked her soundly, and I got to watch. See all of her. See her taking all of me, her raspy breath misting the mirror as she’d exhaled those unintelligible sounds.
She’d already half collapsed by the time I shot my load, whipping the rubber off and lashing her arse in hot jets of come. God, her face as she’d turned her head over her shoulder. I don’t know whether she’d been impressed or horrified. Though I reckon it had turned her on, if her eyes were any indication, her mouth falling open in a soft o.
A first for her, it seemed, and definitely for me. Not sure what exactly possessed me, except to say that in that moment, I’d wanted to own her. Leave my mark. I wanted in—truly in—and the next best thing was painting her in the stuff.
My fingers tighten around the head of my cock and I suck in a deep mouthful of air. If it’s possible, I’m harder now, need drawing my balls tight, every inch of me hot and prickling. My body jerks against the bed, hips rising and rolling into my hand. I stroke firmly—once, twice—as I remember how, later, we’d stumbled to the forgotten bed. Of how she’d gasped as I’d slid once more between her legs, her back arching and chasing my touch. Of how I’d fucked her mouth with my tongue, swallowing her eager sounds. Of how I’d rammed myself into her tight pussy again and again.
My hand works harder now, no longer satisfied by light touches except where my thumb strokes my sensitive, leaking cock-head. My heart is
pounding as I imagine what it would feel like to have more than my tongue in her mouth . . . those lips wrapped around my base . . . her head moving . . . her hand twisting . . . her tongue flicking . . . In my mind, I have her hair tight in my fingers, directing the movements of her hot, wet mouth. I buck up into her, listening to her desperate sounds as I—
‘Fuck!’ Heat shoots up my shaft, jets of come spraying my abs and chest.
My breathing is heavy, my skin taut, my eyes are on the ceiling and I’m smiling to myself. Then chuckling.
So much for not feeling it this morning.
I wonder if that hair salon is open on Sunday? And more to the point, I wonder if she’d be up for another round?
Fifteen
Fin
‘Somebody hasn’t been sleeping in their bed.’ Natasha’s voice greets me as I open the door to the flat. ‘What happened to your tights?’
I glance down at my bare, cold legs, quickly looking back up again to where Ivy is curled on the sofa like a cat. Okay, a cartoon cat seeing as how she’s almost as green as the pillow supporting her head.
‘I—they had a bit of an accident.’
‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ Nat teases, her smile beaming from ear to ear. She sits in the old wingback chair looking, for all intents and purposes, like a father awaiting his errant daughter’s return. Though I suppose he wouldn’t necessarily be grinning, but what do I know. I’ve never had a father figure wait up for me. ‘I can’t wait for the opportunity to remind the pair of you about this,’ she crows. ‘How was your walk of shame? See anyone we know?’
Maybe I should be annoyed? Ashamed? I can’t find either sentiment, strangely.
‘Don’t gloat so loudly,’ groans Ivy. ‘You’re making my stomach ache.’
‘Hair of the dog that bit you. I keep saying that’s what you need.’
‘Only the dog didn’t just bite me, did it? It chomped, and then vomited me back up. I think it might’ve also infected me with rabies.’
‘Drama llama. You need to drink more often,’ replies Nat. ‘Build up resilience.’
‘I don’t want resilience. I’m supposed to know my limits. I’m a—a grown-up, for flips sakes.’
‘What sort of a grown-up can’t handle her drink?’ scoffs Nat.
‘Well, come in,’ Ivy says, stretching out one pale arm and waving it weakly.
I realise I have the door handle in my hand. I wasn’t expecting them to be awake—it’s still dark out. No sane person should be awake this early on a Sunday morning, but I suppose neither of this pair is strictly sane. God, I’m so tired . I feel like I haven’t slept a wink. As well as being screwed to the point of insensibility most of last night, while I’d lain awake waiting for Rory to fall asleep, I’d been sure of three things.
One: I’d be leaving before he woke to avoid the inevitable nature of a daylight meeting, having already established he’d be in the village for only a few days.
Two: That I’d be off the village streets before the kirk bells rang for the early Sunday service. There’s no way I was doing the walk of shame past anyone on their way to converse with the Almighty.
Three: I’d be tucked up in bed before Ivy woke, thus avoiding necessary explanation of my bare legs, along with the suspect staining on my four-hundred-dollar skirt. From then on in, I was expecting her to be too annoyed to speak to me for the rest of the day.
Instead, I’ve got the how-good-was-the-de-briefing debrief committee.
I can’t catch a break.
‘Is that actual . . . fuck-muck you have on the back of your skirt?’
I didn’t think it would be possible for Natasha to sound as gloaty as she does right now.
‘Eww ,’ groans Ivy. ‘That’s so gross. You,’ she adds, pointing at Nat, ‘are so wrong. It’s not . . .’ The question hangs in the air, unfinished, her face a picture of disgust.
‘Of course it’s not,’ I reply, turning once the door is closed. I sat on a yoghurt carton? No, say nothing—nothing at all. I wasn’t myself last night, so I don’t need an excuse. The choice of seating is limited, so I perch my butt on the opposite end of the sofa to Ivy. Please forgive me for exposing the sofa’s upholstery to hook-up sperm. But better on my clothes than in, you know . . . ‘You’re looking all chipper this morning.’
Natasha gives a short shrug. ‘I never get a hangover. I can handle my drink. It’s true,’ she adds, taking in my eyebrow-less expression. They’re there, just hiding in my hairline. ‘The pair of you just assume I’m some kind of raging party animal. I’m not. And I don’t ever hook-up drunk. I might end up with a troll. Besides, drunk fucking is only half the fun.’
‘Oh.’ As far as replies go, this one is exceedingly lame. Last night might not have been a drunken one-night stand, but by some people’s standards, it was definitely shady.
‘Anyway, last night I was all about making sure my girlies had fun.’
‘Fun . . .’ Ivy groans, clutching the pillow to the sides of her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun before and I don’t think I want to ever again.’
‘What about that time you told me about, when that movie star, what’s his name again? You know, the one that’s always smashing paparazzi cameras?’
‘This is something I’ve never heard,’ I say, my gaze sliding along the sofa to Ivy’s panic stricken one. If it’s possible, she seems to turn a darker shade of green, maybe due to the rate she’s shaking her head. Her reactions are a great distraction, not to mention a bit of a balm. It’s good to hear about her questionable decisions instead of mine.
‘Come on, you must remember. How many men have you had drink tequila out of your—’ Ivy opens her mouth to interrupt right as Nat finishes her sentence with one less than delightful word—‘Snatch.’
‘What?’ This comes out wobbly and I think my eyes are probably hanging out of my head. ‘Why have I, your oldest friend, never heard this tale? And more to the point, how is it even possible? Something tantric? A craftily inserted glass while standing on your head?’
‘Nah, I’m only kidding,’ replies a laughing Natasha. ‘It was a shot glass propped in your cleavage wasn’t it?’
‘A party game,’ mumbles Ivy.
‘I rule,’ says a gleeful Natasha. ‘My girlies had so much fun! I got one drunk and flirty and sorted the other a shag with a hot stud!’ She holds out her hand for a high-five and as I barely slide my own against hers, I voice a sudden, yet ridiculous thought.
‘You didn’t pay him, did you?’ Please God, don’t let him be an escort. Please, please don’t let Rory be my birthday or cheer-up gift. Please, please, please let the nice wet man and my virginity taker be anything other than a sex worker on a busman’s holiday.
‘Pay him? You mean, like a prostitute?’ That sounds so much worse , I think, even as I nod my head. ‘What do you take me for? So I’m a pimp now? I thought I was just the lowly ho’.’
‘No one’s saying you’re a—you’re easy,’ I return quickly.
‘I’m easy under the right man, am I no?’ As far as questions go, this one is difficult to deconstruct on a night of little sleep and a morning of no caffeine. ‘If we’re truthful, we all are.’
‘You didn’t though, did you?’ I interrupt a little desperately. He was certainly hot enough to be on some high end escort’s books. And the more I think about the possibility, the more I feel ill.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she says, slipping her hand under her left butt cheek, sliding it out immediately, palm up. ‘Nope,’ she says, staring down at it. ‘I still can’t fart pound notes. Do I look made of money?’ she asks, her tone rising with incredulity. ‘How would I be able to afford his hourly rate? I took a pay cut to come here, you know.’
‘We know,’ says a placating Ivy as she struggles to sit while holding her hands to either side of her head. ‘And I appreciate it, but with the way things are going I’ll be able to pay you better really soon.’
‘And if I was buying anyone a shag
with the brother of Adonis, it would’na be for either of you. I mean, we’re pals and all, but . . .’
‘Yeah, okay. Point taken.’ I’m not sure if I’m feeling embarrassed for being so ridiculous or for being chastised.
‘So . . .’ Nat says suddenly, gripping the arms of the chair as she stands. ‘I think I’ll pop the kettle on. Tea? Coffee? A dish of hot water to soak your poor vagina in?’
‘Coffee for me.’ I ignore the rest. ‘I’ll help,’ I begin to say when she holds out her hand.
‘Nope.’ Her tone is heavy with meaning. ‘Stay where you are.’
The air feels awkward with just Ivy and me, and I know I’m in for more of her reckless Fin lectures when she surprises me.
‘Sorry about yesterday.’
I shrug, not able to find a response. I’m stunned, quite frankly.
‘I don’t mean I’m sorry about what happened—to you, I mean, ‘cos I am. I could kill him myself.’
‘If he weren’t already dead?’
‘Yeah, that,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry about my behaviour last night.’
Still speechless, not to mention suspicious, I decide not to say anything at all. No comment is neither confirmation nor denial of any wrongdoing at all.
‘I realise this is your life and you know best what you need.’
W-O-W . Maybe I need my ears tested.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
‘Are you still drunk?’ This has to be why she’s saying these things.
‘She isn’t!’ Calls a voice from the kitchen. ‘She puked most of the booze back up.’
‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ Ivy mumbles. I’m not sure if she means drinking to excess or her reaction as she begins pulling on the tassels of the crocheted throw covering her legs. ‘We . . . we’ve spent most of the night talking, Nat and me. She’s a good listener. That’s not to say, you aren’t, too,’ she adds quickly. ‘But you’ve been neck deep in your own troubles.’
‘So, this isn’t all about me?’
