by Donna Alam
Though I’ll get to it eventually.
My heart scarcely has time to flutter before the arrival of the third. I slip the phone under the table, almost sure I’d set it to silent, not vibrate. As I lay it against my thigh, it vibrates again.
Dinner first. You’ll need the energy.
Rolling my lips together, I curtail an embryonic smile. I know who this is but don’t have time to consider how before my phone buzzes again.
The very last thing I want to do is hurt you. I’m going to take my time getting you there. You’ll come so hard and so often the pleasure will blend with the pain.
Everything south of my navel clenches with deliciousness. I studiously keep my eyes lowered for fear my colleagues will be able to read my thoughts via my expression as another text comes through.
The cuffs. You’ll look so beautiful in them.
Heat flares everywhere, my nipples hard and aching in the confines of my bra. And I’m sure if I were standing, I’d need to sit down. I need a moment. A moment with him. I almost laugh aloud.
My house. Saturday after 6. Do you remember where?
He wants to see me again. My skin sizzles and my heart soars—a repeat of the experience is the chance I hadn’t foreseen. Fully zoned out from the meeting going on around me, I contemplate an appropriate response.
Yes, yes, please! Too eager. Yes, sir? Hilarious, though sort of appropriate; the address, at least. Could he be a little Dom? Just considering sending that as a response is laughable, isn’t it? Dammit, I need to read better books.
Who is this? Too coy, as well as too easily misconstrued. I don’t want him to think I’d forgotten our night already. Or make myself sound like a slut. At that particular thought, I choke back a laugh, turning it into a dignified clearing of the throat.
Redundant. I went home with him after only knowing him a few hours. He probably already saw me as easy.
What am I worrying about? It’s not like I have to see him again. Wasn’t that the point of creeping out from his bed last weekend before he awoke? The reason for not exchanging names and numbers, too. I’d planned on saving myself the discomfort. The awkwardness and his assumptions of me.
Far better to just fuck . . . then fuck off. Or at least, that was the plan. And how in the hell did he get my number, anyway?
In not telling him my name, I’d felt mysterious. A little powerful. But more than that, I’d begged him to fuck me. To bruise me. Perhaps I thought anonymity would provide me with the excuse that those desires weren’t really mine. That it was just an experience. Something to get out of my system before slamming it back in the closet with the other rattling chains. If we each remained anonymous, maybe I could pretend it never happened—that it wasn’t me. He’d probably remember me as some hot, nameless fuck, and I could continue telling myself I’d been pretending that night. That it was an experience that had nothing to do with who I really am.
And what better place to do this in than a country far away from my own? Someplace I’d be gone from in a year.
Yet on the brink of another weekend in London, I allow myself to feel the first stirrings of regret as I read his texts. Words and promises burning my thigh. A tide of reckless rises in my mind; excitement accompanied by a tremor of fear as I consider seeing him again. I slip my phone under my leg and try to focus on the meeting—the litany of performance indicators and projections—even as my mind strains to return to a performance of his. But a second chance of the experience. Should I? Could I really?
What would Flo say? That, at least, is easy to anticipate. What’s the problem, sweets? Wasn’t he fun? Wasn’t he hung? Hit that till you’re done.
If only it were that easy.
I shouldn’t really.
~*~
Waking the next morning in my cold and soulless room, I stretch and decide I’m going to stop kidding myself. Why shouldn’t I go? At the fairground, everyone revisits their favourite ride, right? But as a get out, or fate’s opportunity to screw this up, or maybe a strange kind of punishment, I find I can’t answer his texts.
I leave it in fate’s hands, and if he isn’t home because I don’t confirm . . . well, that would be that. The universe will have spoken. So fatalistic. And while I feel like a coward, I still don’t call.
Driving out of the city, I spend a mindless morning at Ikea buying useless shit for my room. My giant blue bag is full of candles, towels, and other household stuff when I spot something that, on instinct, I think I might buy for him. Him. My mystery man. Despite cowardice interfering with my manners, and a reply, a good guest never arrives empty-handed. I could take wine or chocolates, but those gifts seem too familiar or commonplace. Maybe bland? But I would take something, even something that felt like a prop.
In arriving with a gift, would I feel more or less like a whore?
Flo’s out again this evening, so I don’t have to prepare any explanations. As the evening rolls around, I take a cab after casually asking Flo what street I’d spent last Friday night on. I arrive at his house a little after six, the butterflies in my stomach the size of albatrosses. The gate squeaks, the gravel crunches, and then I’m at his front door, staring at the huge handle. I look down at my outfit of casual sexy chic; a light boyfriend jacket, a white tank, dark, tight jeans, and heels. I’m not trying too hard to look sexy, right? Sick with nerves, I ring the bell just once, squeezing my fingers tight against the package in my other hand, half hoping he won’t be home. The other half of me tight and tingling. But as the door opens, his handsome face welcomes me, wreathed in such a wide smile that my whole body is awash with relief. And other stuff.
‘What a surprise.’ The light barb in his tone is clear as he bends to kiss me on both burning cheeks. I should’ve called. I’ve been childish, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.
Taking my hand, he pulls me over the threshold, and I’m compelled to follow as much by the strength of his smile as his hand. We walk the generous hallway—no creeping for me this time—and down a short flight of stairs to a large, airy kitchen. Shaker style cabinetry, butcher block work surfaces, and a high-end Aga stove, of all things. Something delicious is cooking—something fragrant with herbs. I recall I’ve been invited for dinner, but find I’m still surprised I’m here. It strikes me that this isn’t a bachelor’s kitchen and I can’t help but look for the tell-tale signs of a wife. Thankfully, nothing obvious. Sliding my butt onto a stool as directed, I place the tissue wrapped parcel on the island bench.
‘Balls?’ He laughs sort of quizzically upon unpackaging them as he holds the wrapping and ribbon in one hand with the brightly coloured balls balanced on his other palm.
‘Juggling balls,’ I clarify. ‘You like games.’ I shrug, feeling childish. I should’ve stuck to wine or chocolate, I think, when the reality is more that I should’ve confirmed. Still, an unfamiliar rush of pink creeps into my cheeks as I consider the randomness of my gift.
‘Perceptive girl,’ he replies, his smile taking on a cryptic edge. ‘I’m very fond of games.’
As though sensing my discomfort, he steps closer, taking one of my hands in his. Wrapping the unravelled ribbon around my wrist, he ties it in a bow, kissing the point of my pulse below. The soft touch might’ve taken the power from my knees had I not been sitting. It’s just as well that he turns at that point to open a bottle of wine.
From my position on the other side of the kitchen, I study him. A dark, fine knit sweater clings to his defined back; his dark hair somehow tousled yet tame. The pale skin on the back of his elegant neck, and as he turns, those brilliant dark blue eyes that seemed to see right into the core of me last weekend. He’s just as good looking as I’d remembered; pale and strong though lean. Very well groomed with just an edge of something louche. Because despite his hundred-dollar haircut and his handmade shoes, something is just a little bit wrong about him.
The thrilling kind.
‘Louise.’ He smiles as he hands me a large glass with a very generous pour. I
contemplate the liquid as he leaves me for a moment to place the bottle on the table on the other side of the room. It’s set for dinner, I notice for the first time. Dinner for two.
‘Where did you get my number?’ I ask, inhaling a sharp breath. ‘And how do you know my name?’
He slips his hand into the back pocket of his dark jeans, pushing one of my business cards along the wooden countertop in front of me.
‘I didn’t leave that on purpose,’ I respond immediately. I raise the glass to my mouth—both something to hide behind and something to quell my nerves. The wine is cool and tart. I instinctively feel little of the first and much of the last.
‘Did I say so?’ His perfectly arched brow matches his tone. ‘I’m afraid I have a small confession to make.’ Confession or not, the look he sends me isn’t contrite. ‘I’d taken the card from your purse while you slept.’
‘You went through my things?’ My voice is incredulous, my shoulders around my ears in distrust.
‘You can tell a lot about a woman by their bag contents,’ he responds blandly. ‘Keychains with pictures of unmentioned husbands and children. Credit cards with names other than the ones they’ve told.’
‘I think that’s beside the point,’ I bluster even as his words make sense. Invasive, maybe, but wasn’t he also protecting himself?
‘Is it?’ he counters calmly. ‘I’m afraid my depravity knows no ends.’ His words drip with innuendo that heats between my legs.
‘Look, I’ve never . . . I don’t do this usually. I know how it looks.’ I duck my head, unable to look away fully. At least, not when he’s looking at me that way.
‘I don’t think your vision quite meets mine.’ His gaze slides from my face, lingering quite obviously over my tank covered breasts before travelling the length of my legs. ‘Because what I see looks pretty fucking exquisite.’
The words, his attention, turn my nipples to pebbles. Makes my panties a mess. The atmosphere changes, the air between us sparking with electricity. And it’s all him.
I swallow more wine, feeling off balance. It’s a strange sort of feeling, both loving and loathing my body’s reaction to him. I’ve never felt someone’s attentions weigh so heavily on my skin. My past is . . . confusing. I’ve dated, of course. Slept with men. But somehow, those faces pale next to him. This is a man, not a boy. He isn’t to be toyed with unless I’m prepared to feel the sting.
Deep breath. Don’t cow.
‘Why did you call?’ I manage eventually, surprised by my cool tone.
Ignoring the fact that he hadn’t, he shrugs lightly. ‘Would you prefer I hadn’t contacted you at all?’
He steps closer, and I notice how much taller he is now, and even from the perspective of a high stool, something is dangerous about him.
Contradicting my thoughts, he holds out his hand, palm up in invitation. Without even thinking, I take it, sliding down from the stool.
‘Would you prefer to have forgotten last Friday? Ignore that part of you until the next time it grew too big to ignore?’ I open my mouth; heedless, he cuts my words off. ‘I’ve known women like you, reluctant and full of denial. Until someone holds fistfuls of their hair.’
The threat and the promise lights every one of my nerve endings, and his admonishment shouldn’t turn me on . . .
‘And that someone is you?’ What sounded like a challenge in my head comes out as more of an invitation.
He smiles a dangerous smile as he steps to me. On instinct, I back away, inwardly cursing my reaction. My body craves being caught, but my head would like it to appear as though I desire the opposite. Something ingrained in me feels I should hold my ground—resist—but as he steps closer still, and I move again, it’s like we’re taking part in some kind of dance. One he’s all too familiar with. But then, my bottom hits the edge of the scrubbed wooden table behind, and I realise there’s nowhere else to go.
‘Are these evenings always anonymous?’ he purrs.
‘I told you. I haven’t . . .’ I curl my lips inwards, cursing myself. I’d lay money on that was what he’d expected me to say. What they all say.
As he catches my wrists in his, the flush of nerves and excitement seems painted across my chest. He’s enjoying my disconcertion. He thinks I’ll bend for him.
‘I want to hear you say it.’
My wrists in his hands, I look at the floor to conceal my expression, not wanting to be that person—be secondary to him. ‘I told you already,’ I murmur. ‘I don’t usually do this.’ Why do those words sound so tired? Even to me? When my gaze rises again, I fill it with defiance. ‘I don’t.’
‘Yet here you are. Again.’ This time, his smile is kinder. ‘Daniel. You haven’t asked. My name is Daniel. I’d like to hear you say it.’
‘Why?’ Did he notice me raise my chin a fraction more?
‘Because I want to hear my name on your lips.’
His mouth, those words, lick right between my legs. I close my eyes, struggling with my feelings and the dynamic, and for reasons I don’t understand, I revert to type. And sarcasm.
‘And to what do I owe this . . . pleasure, Daniel?’ Will this attitude level the playing field? Hide my crumbling self-control around him?
‘The reason for my invitation?’ he repeats, one brow curled in question. ‘Unfinished or extended business. And let’s be honest, your being here proves the pleasure wasn’t only mine.’
He leans towards me, and I meet him halfway, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. Our kisses are hot and heavy, fingers urgent, fumbling, and grasping. He moans into my mouth, and I feel it everywhere. My hands fall to his belt, grasping the fastening. I need his cock in my hand. In my mouth. Inside me. In my haste, it takes me a moment to realise his hands cover mine.
Our mouths separate as he pulls them to my sides, and as his eyes slowly rise, his intentions are written in a measured smile.
Slowly, so slowly, he begins to peel me from my clothes. His attentions are so thorough and his words so sweet as he slides the jacket from my arms, kissing my cheek.
‘Your skin is like silk,’ he whispers, sealing his lips over my collarbone, popping the button of my jeans. ‘You taste like honey.’
Lifting my arms around his neck, he sucks on my bottom lip as he glides them over my hips. ‘And your cunt is heavenly.’
I barely notice the items dropping to the floor. Until I do. Standing in the warm kitchen in just my underwear and white tank, I shiver. But not because I’m cold. I feel exposed. Sort of dirty next to him and his clothed self. And wired, so wired. More so as he looks at me. Just looks. His gaze appraising and making me feel like just a . . . a thing. His thing.
I feel all those things along with the unravelling pulse between my legs.
I grab for his belt again, but he lifts my hands away with a low laugh.
‘My rules, you remember?’
His rules suck.
Of course, I remember, but that was then, not now. Why strip me half naked in his kitchen to remind me he likes to be in charge? Now is the time for action, not games.
Never in my life have I felt so desperate; doesn’t he understand?
Very deliberately, he lowers my hands to my sides, and my heart misfires as his fingers then lift to his black leather belt. In the silence of the room, the buckle clinks open. I want not to watch. I don’t want to be so effected. I feel I ought to look away—to not play these games—as he pulls slowly on the zipper. To tantalise. But watch I do—my panties are wet and sticking to me, my chest moving in heavy breaths—as he lifts his cock, swollen and thick, free of the seams. It looks at home there, the weight of it in his palm. The feeling of skin on skin.
‘Kiss it.’ His voice is soft and low and so tempting. ‘Lick it. I want you to make it . . . wet.’
Not a command nor an instruction but compelling enough to make me fall to my knees against the hard flagstone floor. Moving his untucked shirt, I push the sides of his trousers wider when he tilts my chin. His eyes roam over my face, dar
k and tense as I stare up at him. I’m not sure what he hopes to see, but then rests his hand on my head like a gentle benediction. Like he’s granting permission. And like a good girl, I do as I’m bid, bending forward and kissing his silky tip.
Dan sighs softly as I slide my mouth down his length, pausing only to look up at his face. His expression is exquisite, a mixture of suspense and agony, of awe, and as I take him deeper, he exhales a rasping gasp.
In my mouth, he’s satin, steel, and musk, and in my ears, he’s intense. He tells me how I whisper to him as he stirs from sleep. How he can’t stop thinking of me during the day. Of how he’d touched himself in the shower this afternoon, thinking of me. Wanked, he says, the coarseness of the word rushing through me like the blood in my veins, my brain spilling over with his pornographic montage. One hand on the glass, the other working himself, my name on his lips as he comes.
His hand strokes my hair as he speaks, his words now low and hoarse, driving me to move faster. Further. Pushes himself further into my mouth. Makes me wet. Needy. Makes my mouth sloppy. Makes me want to touch myself as he whispers breathless words about the gold of my skin and the velvet of my cunt. As he growls that I’m cock hungry for him.
His hands tight in my hair, I moan as he begins to move himself, sliding deeper as though he can’t stop. As he grazes the back of my throat, my gag reflex reacts, my eyes smarting and leaking as I pull away and look up at him. His wet cock still in my hand, my chest heaves as I try to catch my breath.
‘For me,’ he whispers.
And when he asks so beautifully, what else can I do? Mascara stings my eyes as I bend forward, allowing him to lay his steady hand on the back of my head, my insides pulsing and twisting as he tangles his fingers in my hair.
I’ve known women like you, reluctant and full of denial. Until someone holds fistfuls of their hair.
God, he was right.
‘Take it all.’
And I try. Oh, do I.
‘That’s it,’ Dan hisses, his hips jerking, the sounds of my pleasure humming in the back of my throat. I’m going to do this. Make him come for me.
