He pushed into my fist, and I watched avidly as his cock pulsed and a thick stream of hot white come splashed onto my chest, sluicing down in a jetting stream. I jerked my fist around him faster then, holding tight, squeezing as I stroked him, and another stream hit my skin, this time spurting onto my nipple and dripping down the side into the valley between my breasts. I looked up at him, watching him watch us, watching his narrowed, slitted eyes glitter and gleam as he growled and came yet more, this stream arcing lower down, onto my stomach.
I’d never had a guy come on me before. I always thought it would feel, I don’t know, degrading somehow. But now, letting him do this, feeling his hot seed on my skin, watching the way his jaw flexed, knowing I’d pulled every drop out of him, knowing even as I slid my fist around him to draw another shudder, another pearly stream from his tip down to the slope of my tit, that I’d made him lose control, that I’d made him feel good, as good as he’d made me feel, and I liked it. I liked his come on my skin. I felt rebellious and dirty and slutty and I liked it. And I’d do it again.
Who was I?
“Holy fuckin’ hell, Nina,” Ian gasped. “That was…hot.”
“Yeah, it was.” I slid up and out from underneath him, feeling his come sliding viscously down my skin, down to my stomach.
“Now. You’re gonna wash off, and I’m going to go buy us condoms.” Ian stood up, crossed the room in a few long strides, and ripped a length of paper towel free, returned, cock waving and softening but still tall and semi-rigid.
He wiped the come from my skin, folded the paper towel, and wiped again, cleaning the worst of it off. I stood up, grinning at him. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me toward the bathroom. “Go. Clean up. I’ll be back.”
He was dressed in a flash, leaving his boxers on the floor and shoving his feet into his shoes. Then he was at the door and gone before I could say a word.
I had no intention of taking a shower. Not yet. There was no point. I opted for a ho-bath with a wet washcloth and a bar of soap, washing his essence off me and drying quickly, then lying in my bed to wait for him.
I fell asleep, quickly and deeply. I woke alone, the clock showing 3:39 a.m., and realized Ian hadn’t returned. Clearly, he wasn’t coming back.
I pushed away the feelings of disappointment as I let myself slide back into sleep.
CHAPTER 5
When I finally woke up I looked at the bedside clock: 11:39 a.m. It was late, but I didn’t get out of bed right away. Instead, I thought about what had happened yesterday and searched myself to discover my emotions regarding last night.
Regret? No.
Embarrassment? A little.
Shame at my sluttiness? Some.
Anger at Ian for ditching me without saying so much as cheerio? A LOT.
I pushed it all away, chalking it up to a learning experience. I hopped in the shower, scrubbing myself a little more vigorously than was probably necessary. I trimmed myself down there but, once again, I didn’t have the courage to totally shave it. As I stood under the hot water, I thought further about the events of last night.
I’d learned I liked being jizzed on, which was a weird thing to learn about on my first night in a new country. I’d also learned that I could come three times in less than ten minutes under the right ministrations. That was also a lesson I hadn’t expected and sure didn’t know how to categorize. Finally, I’d learned that I very much disliked being left in the lurch. And that was not weird at all.
I dressed, and didn’t think too hard about the fact that I took the time to find and put on a matching set of Cacique bra and underwear—black bikini and a lacy push-up. Not that my tatas needed pushing up, mind you. Not at all. But fuck it, the slight twinge of shame and embarrassment only heightened my sense of sexiness. I felt good about myself. I’d done something crazy, something I’d wanted to do for me, even if it had been a bad idea and something I never thought I’d do.
Maybe Ian had a good reason for vanishing. Hopefully it was nothing life-threatening, but something that would allow me to forgive him. I hoped it had been something serious that had required his immediate attention.
But why wouldn’t he at least call? Or text? Or…leave a note? Had we exchanged phone numbers? I couldn’t remember. I still hadn’t found a plug converter, so my phone was—I dug it out of my purse—yep. Dead as a doornail. I tossed the device back into my purse with a curse, wiggled my feet into my Toms, and headed outdoors.
I glanced left and noticed the Pret from which Ian had gotten our coffees yesterday, so I headed that way, mentally warring with myself. I wanted to stew and be angry with Ian, but I was also worried that something had happened to him. At Pret, I got a large coffee with milk, a chocolate croissant, and a yogurt with some kind of crunchy berry things in it. I took my time with my breakfast, sitting facing the window, watching people and wondering what I was going to do with myself for the next month.
And then I saw him.
Ian.
Wearing the same clothes as last night, looking haggard, rings under his eyes, hands shoved into his hip pockets, head hanging, trudging slowly down the sidewalk. He was coming from the direction of my rented flat, on the opposite side of the street from me. In a rush, I tossed my garbage into the receptacle and hurried across the street with my coffee in hand. Except, in my haste, I forgot which direction the traffic went and almost got hit by a black taxi, getting horns and curses for my carelessness. Ian looked up, saw me standing in the middle of the road, cars rushing by on either side now, trapping me.
He stepped out into traffic, holding up his hand. Tires squealed again, horns blared, voices yelled curses, and then he was taking my hand and pulling me onto the sidewalk, hugging me against his chest.
“Nina, what the bloody hell were you doing? You were almost killed!”
“I forgot that you drive on the left here,” I explained, then backed out of his hold. “What happened last night, Ian? You never came back.”
“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.” He ducked his head, running a hand across the back of his neck. “I didn’t have your mobile number, and—” He cut off, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He looked beyond exhausted.
“Ian? What happened? Is everything okay?”
He shook his head. “It’s my dad. He had a heart attack. He called me, while—while it was happening, and told me to meet him at the hospital. I was there all night.”
“Jesus.” I went up against him, wrapped my arms around his waist. “Is he okay?”
Ian shrugged. “For now. He needed major surgery. He’s stable, but…” he trailed off, shaking his head, at a loss for words. “I just don’t know. They think he’s going to make it.”
“Jesus, Ian. I’m so sorry.” I handed him my coffee. “Shouldn’t you be with him?”
“Thanks.” He took a long sip. “Christ, that’s good. He’s resting now, he’ll be asleep for hours yet they told me, and I didn’t want you to think I’d run off on you, so I went to your flat, but you weren’t there.”
Ian swayed on his feet, and I struggled to hold him upright. “I think you should lie down. Why don’t you come back to my flat with me?”
“I’m not the sort to just pop off without a word, Nina. I just wanted you to know I hadn’t done a runner.”
“I guess you’ve got a pretty good excuse, as far as vanishing acts go.” I led him back toward my flat. “Come on. You need to rest.”
“I could use a lie-down, at that. I haven’t slept yet. I was up all night waiting for Dad to get out of surgery.”
“So you’ve been awake for—”
“Something like sixty hours now, or thereabouts,” Ian filled in.
“Yeah, you’re gonna come home with me and you’re going to sleep.”
“Just for a couple hours, though. I need to check in on Dad.”
We arrived at my building and I unlocked the front door and half-dragged Ian up the stairs, let
ting him lean on me as I unlocked the door to my unit. He was staggering by the time I got him inside and shut the door behind us.
“I’ll just take your couch,” Ian said.
“I don’t think so,” I said, pushing him toward my bedroom. “Take my bed.”
He didn’t argue, just lurched through the doorway and collapsed forward onto my bed. He nudged at the heel of one of his shoes with his other foot, and then grumbled in frustration when he couldn’t get the shoe off.
“Here, let me help you.” I untied his shoes and tugged them off, then stripped him of his socks, shoving them into the shoes.
It was a strangely intimate moment, helping Ian take his shoes and socks off. I pushed that thought down and moved around to the side of the bed, tugging at Ian’s hand.
“Come on,” I said. “Come up here by the pillow.”
Ian peered blearily at me through one cracked eyelid as he wiggled upward and laid his head on the pillow, angled partly on his side and partly on his back. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small, sleepy smile. “Get in bed with me, Nina. ’M not that tired.”
I laughed. “Yes, you are. You can try to charm my pants back off later.”
“Don’t need to try. I’ll have ’em off before you can think twice.”
“I know,” I said, still laughing. “That’s the problem. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
“Fine.” He shoved one big hand under the pillow, blinked twice, three times, and then his eyes stayed closed.
I tugged the blanket up around his shoulders and stood beside the bed, watching as he fell deeper into sleep. His mouth went slack, and his features smoothed out. And, unfairly, even in sleep he was gorgeous. In the vulnerability of sleep, Ian Stirling looked more boyishly handsome, softer, somehow. Awake, he was wolfish, beautiful, intelligent, and vibrant. Totally alive, domineeringly present. Asleep, he seemed younger, innocent. I reached a hand out, and before I could stop myself, I brushed a lock of his sandy blond hair away from his forehead, smoothing it aside. I traced a fingertip over the lines in his forehead, touching the lines on the bridge of his nose. He had worry lines on his face, even asleep. Some part of me wanted to take that worry away. Bear some of the weight of it. Replace worry lines with laugh lines.
What the hell are you thinking, Nina? I withdrew my hand abruptly, jerking it back as if burned. Touching his face tenderly while he slept? Thinking about bearing the weight of his worry? At the moment it felt as if some alien presence had taken temporary possession of my heart. I was in England to study Regency literature, not fall in love with a gorgeous British computer geek.
And then I realized I’d used a certain three-word phrase entirely too prematurely. Even if just in my thoughts. I backed away from Ian. And then stepped further away. I was out of reach now, and my hand was shaking at my side. What was wrong with me?
This was why I didn’t do casual sex. We hadn’t even really had actual penetrative sex yet, and I was gazing adoringly at him while he slept? What the fuck was wrong with me? You’re being stupid, Nina. Get a grip.
This is how naïve American exchange students end up living alone with a dozen cats, reading Tessa Dare by candlelight while drinking Two-Buck Chuck by the bottle, reminiscing about the glory days of a summer spent in England, heartbroken over a one-night stand gone awry.
Get a hold of yourself, Nina. This thing with Ian was just casual fun. Nothing more.
I nodded firmly, and turned on my heel, closing the bedroom door behind me.
Yet, somehow, closing the door on temptation felt a little like trying to shove a hungry lion into a hamster cage.
* * *
To distract myself while Ian slept, I went shopping. After explaining to a cabby what I needed, he took me to Marks & Spencer, a department store that sells everything. I picked up an iron and countertop ironing board, a pair of jeans, a sweater, and a lingerie set. I refused to think about why I was buying a new outfit, or how much I was spending. A girl needs a new outfit every now and again, right? Right. Plus, the plus-size selection was incredible.
Another cabby brought me to Tesco, a supermarket that sells everything, located within walking distance of my flat. I bought a charger for my phone, an electric converter for my curling iron and laptop, some essential groceries, and a box of condoms. I refused to let myself think about that last item either. I didn’t even let myself make up justifications.
Casual fun. Best to be prepared, right?
Okay, maybe a few justifications.
Ian was still asleep when I got home, so I put away my purchases quietly, then sat down with my laptop and mobile hotspot and worked on my thesis for a few hours. Yes, I admit to being an overachiever. Shut up.
Hours later, Ian was still asleep.
I refused to check on him. Refused to even take a peek.
British TV is weird. I came to that conclusion over the next few hours of flipping channels. It’s not better or worse, just different. Not what I’m used to, essentially. The production scale and value and methods are different. It’s not as slick, not as big budget, but that makes it seem more…intimate. More back-to-basics reliance on content rather than sheer volume of production funding.
And then I fell asleep watching some kind of talk show. I don’t usually remember my dreams. Almost never, in fact. And I’m never aware of dreaming in situ. I also rarely take naps. I’m too busy, too active, too focused on the go-go-go of getting things done to even contemplate falling asleep. So it was exceedingly odd for me to dream of fingers trailing through my hair, to dream of breath on my neck. Fingers, no wrist, no hand, no body, just fingers emerging from some nebulous darkness to feather through my thick black locks, breath hot on my throat, on my neck, on my shoulder, then lips touching my cheekbone, the curve between my throat and breastbone, a tongue scraping ever so gently across the delicate hollow at the base of my throat.
In the dream, I lifted my chin to bare my throat, because that disembodied kiss was the textbook definition of erotic warmth, of sensual decadence. And then, in the dream, the fingers in my hair transitioned suddenly to sliding across my ear and down my arm and over my hip.
A strange factoid about Nina Herrera: I unbutton my pants when I watch TV. It’s just more comfortable. I like things to breathe, down there. I don’t like the feeling of my waistband digging into my belly when I’m trying to relax. I don’t even think about it anymore. I just sit down, cover my lap with a throw blanket, and pop the button of my jeans. Maybe nudge the zipper down a little bit.
Back to the dream: The fingers were now a hand, and the hand was strong and large and gentle and male, and it was exploring the opening of my pants, fingers tracing just above the elastic of my underwear.
I liked that. In my dream, I moaned and felt a sudden rush of need, felt a dream-intense wish that the hand would explore further down, delve under the silk and elastic. In my dream, I got my wish; fingers angled into my flesh, burrowing under elastic.
Open up for me, beautiful. The voice was low and slow and rough. It was a voice I had no hope of disobeying. So, in the dream, I let my knees spread apart and flexed my hips to allow the beautiful questing fingers access to the hot, damp, needy part of me.
Do you want me to touch you? the voice demanded.
I moaned in the affirmative. I needed it. Needed. God, did I need that touch. I ached. I hurt with need. Fires burned low in my core, fires of hunger that could only be sated by touch.
Say it, sexy. Let me hear you tell me you want me to touch you.
I couldn’t speak. My dream-voice was gone, my dream-lips sewn shut. I arched my spine and flexed my hips, pushing into the hand, moaning with need.
Uh-uh. Let me hear you say it.
“Mmmmmm.” That was my voice, I was pretty sure. I sounded wanton. “Please….”
“Please what?” The voice was a rough rumble. Crisp tones of an accent. The voice sounded familiar, the pronounced hhhh-whuuh sound on the initial syllable of the word “what.”
&nbs
p; “Touch me.” God, was that really me? I’d never spoken two words with such blatant, sensual demand in my voice.
Jesus, this dream is intense.
“It’s no dream, Nina. Look at me.”
Wait, what? Confusion barreled through me. I was dreaming, right? Had I spoken that last thought out loud?
But if I was dreaming, then there wasn’t actually anyone to hear, even if I had said it out loud. If it was a dream, was there a difference between thinking and speaking?
And then the fingers stroked my flesh and the fuzz of closely-trimmed hair just above my opening, and I lost my train of thought. “I’m waiting, Nina. Ask me to touch you.”
“Touch me, please.” God, my voice was raspy, breathy.
“Say my name. ‘Touch my pussy, Ian.’ Say that to me.”
Anything, ANYTHING to get those fingers inside me. “Touch my pussy, Ian.”
Wait. Ian?
Ian.
Holy shit.
My eyes flicked open as realization hit. Timed conveniently, of course, with Ian’s thick fingers spearing into my channel, ripping a moaning gasp from my lips. My eyes found his, found his lips fixed in a sexy smirk. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but then he curled his fingers and stroked me just so, and any capacity for thought was blasted out of me by the crash of pleasure smashing through me. My hips jerked up, and Ian pressed a thumb to my clit, and I spasmed, gasping, moaning, my hands fisting against the scratchy cushion, hips lifting so my ass was clear off the couch. His thumb remained pressed to my clit so I couldn’t get away from the white-hot electricity bolting through me, and his two thick and rough and slow fingers curled and straightened and withdrew and slid in and curled, and I came apart, came apart, came apart.
“Ian…ohFUCKohFUCK!” I heard myself whisper-shout in a hysterical shrill gasping intake of breath.
Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11) Page 7
