Four Temptations

by PJ Adams

  Stupid, tipsy flirting by text wasn’t going to help anyone.

  I could come round if you need some company?

  Was he really suggesting what I thought, or was I reading too much into his messages?

  Simon Darby. Old acquaintance, my husband’s best friend. I shifted in my seat, and took another sip of wine. Squeezing my thighs together as I moved had sent a stab of pleasure deep into my belly. Was I really getting turned on by this?

  And was he really taking advantage of the situation, taking advantage of me and my stupid, muddled head? I wouldn’t have thought it of him, but then I’d never really seen him in a sexual way, so it wouldn’t even have occurred to me that this might happen, that he might be so shallow and insensitive.

  I shifted again, remembering that hardness pressing against me.

  The phone went, and I jumped, as if caught in the act.

  It was Simon. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, fine thanks.”

  “You want some company?”

  “I... No. Thank you, but no, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am. Thanks.”

  “’kay.”

  §

  It would have been a rebound thing, a revenge thing. It would have been a mistake.

  I was flattered by the attention, and surprised at the turn of events, but it could only ever have been a mistake. I wasn’t in a good place, and I didn’t want to lose a good friend just for a rebound thing, a revenge fuck.

  And a part of me still doubted my interpretation of that exchange with Simon. Maybe it was innocent, and I’d just read too much into it. Once you start seeing hidden meanings it’s hard to stop.

  You want some company?

  He was just being nice, supportive, just being a good friend.

  Of course he was. And that erection grinding against me had just been a Snickers bar in his pocket.

  He was a man.

  Any opportunity, any sniff of a chance...

  And what were his motives? To put one over on his old friend Porter? Or was it simply because he’d sensed an opportunity? Would I have been just another tick in his little black book?

  That moment of horniness had well and truly passed, now. I didn’t even feel flattered any more, just lonely and maudlin.

  §

  I got through the next few days. I got through work, planning the layout for a client’s autumn fashions catalog. I got through life, alone in that big house in the suburbs.

  I tried not to think about anything beyond what I was doing at the time. Detail work like the catalog was perfect for that. Each day I arrived at the studio early, left late, and ate take-out food in front of the TV.

  I didn’t have time to think about Porter, or about Simon’s opportunistic flirting. It was just work, eat and sleep.

  I didn’t break out of that tight focus until the Friday night, when I went to Maggie Nolan’s book launch and saw my husband with his arm protectively around the waist of a skinny young blonde and I had to fight with every ounce of strength in my body not to go up to him and hurl my glass of wine in his face.

  Focus...

  Maggie had been a copywriter at the agency where I worked a few years ago. Bubbly and funny and bored as hell with her work, she was always going to break out some day. After the first novel and movie deal she quit the day job, but stayed in touch. We were friends on Facebook, and we sent each other cat pictures and other funnies all the time, even though we only ever saw each other occasionally.

  She was friends with Porter and Simon, too, which is why they’d been invited, and Porter had actually had the gall to show up with his new girlfriend. Or was she new? How long had they been together?

  The launch was at an old pub, one of those events where I couldn’t help but feel very small-town. Everyone seemed to know each other; there was lots of air-kissing in greeting, lots of faces I recognized from magazines and TV.

  Maggie saw me as soon as I walked in, and came rushing over with two glasses of bubbly.

  “Rebecca, Rebecca,” she said. “So glad you could come.” And then, in that melodramatic way of hers, she drew me closer, glanced back over her shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize, darling. Apologies for the faux pas, I should never have invited–”

  Porter was there, on the far side of the room, his arm around her waist, his head dipped close to her as she spoke. Her lips were perfect rosebuds, her eyes wide and deep blue; her cheekbones were sculpted, her hair that slightly tousled shaggy cut that must have taken her hours to achieve. She was a good head shorter than him – my husband! – slim and perfect in a short black dress that revealed perfect golden legs and perfect golden cleavage.

  I wanted to turn around and leave.

  I felt old and frumpy in my flower print Jane Norman midi dress and gladiator wedges.

  “I didn’t know...”

  I turned back to Maggie. “Sorry, I should have said that Porter and I were...” Why was I apologizing for not having made some kind of announcement? And why was I cross with Maggie, of all people? “I’m sorry.” I faltered. “I just...”

  Maggie laughed, unprompted, and far too loud, keeping me fixed with those sharp eyes. “Imagine I’m giving you a great big supportive hug, darling. Okay? But I’m not going to do that because he’d see and you don’t want to show him any sign of weakness, now, do you? Okay, darling? Hug over. Was the bastard looking?”

  I laughed, for the first time in days. “Yes, yes,” I said. “He looked over. Didn’t seem too bothered, though.”

  “Oh he will be, darling,” she said. “He just won’t want to show it.” She put an arm around me and steered me through the crowd. “Come along, let me introduce you to some people.”

  She wasted no time. There was a TV scriptwriter, tall and dark, with a gentle Edinburgh accent and single. “Rebecca’s single too, you know!” And there was an author who shared Maggie’s agent, a little older, with salt and pepper hair and an infectious laugh. He was single, too.

  It was over the top and far too obvious and the perfect antidote to how I’d been feeling all week.

  It was much later when I saw Simon Darby, over there chatting with Porter and his perfect little bimbo. Laughing... Chatting and joking and laughing with them.

  For a moment, Simon paused and glanced across, and he had the decency to look shamefaced. Then the blonde said something and he and Porter laughed, and the moment had passed.

  “Darling, darling,” said Maggie, taking my arm again. “Come along, Rebecca. There’s someone I want you to meet...”

  §

  The odd thing...

  Well, the odd thing was when I realized later that I’d been more angry with Simon than with Porter.

  Porter was there with his girlfriend, brash and inconsiderate as usual; he never had been the sensitive type.

  But Simon...

  Back when I’d first asked him if Porter was having an affair he’d denied it, but he’d denied it in such a way that it absolved him of any responsibility: no, Porter wasn’t having an affair, or if he was, then he hadn’t told Simon about it.

  And after all that solicitous texting, after the phone calls to check that I was okay, here he was with Porter, laughing and chatting as if nothing had happened.

  Why should I be surprised at that? They were old friends: of course they’d laugh and chat together. They were business partners, for God’s sake.

  So why did I feel cheated on?

  Why did I feel more hurt by Simon’s betrayal than Porter’s?

  §

  Home. I went inside. I’d been mulling over it all in the cab back from Maggie’s launch.

  It was nothing, I decided. Just another element of my fragile emotional state. A man who had shown some kind of interest, who had at least cared a little... Simon’s support and friendship had mattered to me, and maybe a part of me had read too much into that.

  It wasn’t his fault. It’s just how I was feeling at that time.


  §

  My cell phone went as I was fumbling the key into the lock. I fished it out of my clutch purse, saw that it was Simon calling, and put it away again.

  I’d had a drink or two but my head was still clear enough for me to know that the best place for me now was bed. Alone.

  I hadn’t realized how tired I was.

  Upstairs, I opened a new packet of wipes and took my make-up off, then went to brush my teeth. I was half-undressed when the doorbell went a short time later.

  Simon.

  I almost left him there, but when he rang again I pulled on a silk gown and went down to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as I edged the door open a few inches and peered out at him. “I’m an ass and an inconsiderate fool and I should have known better.”

  “You had a drink with an old friend,” I told him. “What’s wrong with that, apart from it being probably too many drinks, and it’s far too late for you to be banging on my door?”

  “He was with her...”

  “You told me he wasn’t having an affair.”

  He looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I–”

  “You were in an impossible position. I get it, okay? He’s your friend.”

  “I know. But so are you.”

  §

  That tipping point thing. The moment when it becomes easier to carry on than to stop. The moment when you pull a thread and you just have to keep going.

  That.

  §

  His eyes when he said those simple words.

  I know. But so are you.

  Head tipped down, blue eyes peering up at me. Watchful, studying my face for a response; almost calculating. But vulnerable, too; fragile, exposed.

  The slight quaver in his voice, like an adolescent’s cracking tones as he emphasized the you.

  The way he looked in the dim light of my front doorway, rough around the edges but still so damned hot, like he’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine.

  All that and more. Something indefinable. Something electric.

  It was a physical thing, a thing of that particular moment. A sudden need.

  Okay. Maybe it wasn’t just physical. Maybe it was a revenge thing, an anger thing.

  Maybe it was self-validation and revenge all thrown in together: Porter might have his young, perfect blonde but I still had it, I could have his best friend if I wanted.

  It was a rebound thing.

  It was the product of several things, all mixed together: the look in Simon’s eyes, the tone of his voice, the alcohol and the emotional turmoil muddying my thinking. It was a need to be needed.

  A need.

  That’s all it was.

  §

  I took him by the lapels of his linen jacket, rough and hungry. I drew his face down to mine and pressed my mouth to his. His lips were hard at first, as if he was going to resist, as if that brief moment of uncertainty in his eyes as I pulled him towards me was going to turn into some kind of willpower thing, some kind of resistance.

  But then they yielded, softened, parted, and my tongue was flicking across his teeth, finding his tongue, driving deep.

  Still holding his jacket, I backed deeper into the house, pulling him in my wake.

  My back came up against a bookcase, floor to ceiling and crammed with books. The shelves dug into my spine as Simon ground against me, and there was no mistaking that hardness pressing against my belly.

  I stood on tiptoes, adjusting position so that he was grinding against me lower down, and then his hands were inside my gown, parting it, sliding around my ribcage, one hand on my back the other stealing down to my ass and pulling at the flimsy lace of my little French shorts.

  I threw my arms back, knocking books from the shelves, and then his mouth moved away from mine, found my jaw, my neck, and worked its way down to kiss and nibble along my collarbone and across my shoulder.

  That hand... slowly it slid inside my lace shorts, fingers trailing down the crack of my ass, teasing me. As the lace stretched and pulled, the fabric tightened across my pussy, pressing against my clit, and I cried out.

  I reached down, found his belt, two buttons, the zip... Hardness brushed against my fingers as I released him, and then I held his shaft through his stretched-tight shorts.

  So long and thick!

  The head was swollen and wet through the fabric. I wanted to free it, releasing him completely, but the shorts were stretched tight.

  He grunted then, and reached down, and then his shorts were around his thighs and that long dick was free, pointing towards me.

  That was one of those moments. It wasn’t a tipping point – we’d already gone way too far for us to stop – but it was one of those moments where you just take a breath and realize what it is that’s happening, that here I was, half naked with Simon Darby, just about to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth.

  I dropped to my knees and curled my fingers around the base of his shaft, holding him steady.

  His hands were on my head, and for a moment I thought he was going to force me down on him, but then I realized he was stroking my hair, a remarkably tender and intimate thing, just then.

  I moved my head so that the wet, swollen head of his manhood rested against my lips. His juices had a salty sweetness, as I eased my mouth open and slid him against my lips and tongue, and across my cheeks. Each time I drew him back across my open mouth, I pressed my tongue up hard against that sweet spot just below the head, making him groan louder each time.

  Then tender turned to urgent, those hands on my head guiding me, pulling me down on him so that his length slid deep into my mouth. Deeper and deeper, until the end hit the back of my throat and I had to swallow to stop from gagging. Each time I swallowed my throat tightened around the head of his dick and he tensed and groaned.

  My fist wrapped around his shaft started to pump – he was so hard! – and my free hand cupped his heavy balls, rolling and squeezing them.

  Abruptly, his whole body stiffened and I braced myself for that sudden gushing deep in my mouth. His shaft throbbed and pulsed, and his balls tightened. And then, slowly, the tension eased, and he had managed to stop himself – so close!

  Now, those hands on my head eased me back, away from him, drawing his length away through tightly-clamped lips, until he was free of me and I was looking at him along the length of his glistening wet manhood.

  He dropped to his knees then, my head still cradled in his hands. He paused, his mouth almost on mine, those blue eyes fixing me, and then our lips pressed, and his tongue explored my mouth, tenderly at first, and then more and more hungrily.

  His hands worked down, stealing round my back to release my bra, and then they were cupping my breasts, a thumb circling one nipple and then flicking at it, the nail hard against me, stinging with a pain that was mixed with the most exquisite pleasure.

  His mouth closing around my other nipple amplified that pleasure, his teeth teasing and biting, sending thrills through my body, and as a hand stole down between my legs I thought I was going to climax right then at his touch.

  He cupped me with that hand, squeezing and kneading my labia between his fingers and thumb, the heel of his hand grinding against my clit. I was so close... I tried to fight it, remembering how he had gone right to the edge and then stopped himself.

  “Fuck me,” I gasped, between gritted teeth. “Fuck me now.”

  Revenge sex. Rebound sex... it has to be urgent and animal, doesn’t it? Crude, rough sex.

  I moved away from the bookcase, and then leaned back to lie on the carpet, my hands on his jacket pulling him with me.

  He came down on top of me, taking his weight on his elbows, and that hard shaft slapped down on my belly, its base hard against my clit. I drew my knees up, savoring the way the movement ground that shaft against my pussy. Then, with a roll of the hips, I started to press and slide against him, his balls hard against me, his shaft sliding between my labia, against my clit, and along th
e narrow strip of hair, the wet head squeezed tight between our bellies.

  I wrapped my legs around his waist, holding him tight, pressing and shifting so that I could feel every slight movement.

  And then – deliciously, slowly – he pulled away. The head of his dick dragged wetly down my belly, down along that strip of hair, and pressed against the hood of skin covering my clit. He paused there, and I could feel every faint throb in his dick. When his eyes locked on mine, there was an intensity in his look that was almost shocking.

  “Fuck me,” I whispered, so softly that it was almost inaudible.

  A slight shift, and he was pressing between my lips, right against my opening, and then he was pushing inside, and it felt like I was being prized open by that broad dick, stretched like I’d never been before. Slowly, he filled me, until finally he was completely inside me, his hard pubic bone grinding against me, his balls pressed against my ass.

  I’d never been so full before, and then he started to move, pressing, grinding, rolling his hips, and my whole body was alive to the sensations of what was happening deep inside me.

  He knew what he was doing. He could tell I was on the edge, and he knew how to keep me there, right on the brink. Just as the feelings ebbed away from another peak he would press, move and take me right back to that peak.

  I don’t know how long we were like that, him deep inside me, barely moving, just keeping me on the edge of climax. Lying so still inside me that one more throb of his dick might send me over the edge.

  It was the eyes that did it, those piercing, pale blue eyes.

  His face close to mine, dipping occasionally to kiss me on the mouth, or along the line of my jaw; delicate kisses on my closed eyelids, teasing them open, and then that look, those eyes locked on mine. So intense, so intimate...

  A slight shift, and my clit pulsed and then I was clinging to him, burying my face in the space between his shoulder and neck, using his collarbone to gag me, to stop me from screaming out as a wave of incredible sensation tore through my abdomen and my entire body tightened in the first wave of orgasm.

  Again, my whole body clenched, everything centered on that long hard shaft, buried deep inside me.