‘Who the hell was that?’ she’d asked, eyes like saucers.
‘Some time-waster,’ Claire had said, trying to brush the matter aside.
‘Well, Christ, I wouldn’t mind wasting some time with him!’ Sandy exclaimed. She was one of the few people who actually did exclaim, with such breathless fervour Claire could practically see the exclamation marks pepper the air above her head. More and more, she regretted hiring the girl.
‘Don’t you just love that rough-and-ready type?’
Claire had pointedly ignored her, but it didn’t seem to work.
‘Oh, God, all that stubble and the way he swaggered. Definitely swaggered out of here. Like Robert Redford in denim. Did you see his eyes?’
Of course Claire had seen his eyes. They were burnt into her memory. Like his skinny hips and the way he’d snaked out of the office, his whole demeanour just dripping with don’t-give-a-fuck mystique. Behind her desk, she shuddered. He’d disappeared into the anonymous mass of the city, she reminded herself. He was gone.
She nearly tripped over him. Lounging behind a lamppost, legs crossed, hands shoved in pockets. Just waiting round the corner.
‘Christ,’ she muttered. Was this stalking, or a dreadful coincidence?
‘Hey, Claire.’
She felt his voice swarm around her ears again and shook it off. She tried to cross the road, but was thwarted by a sudden rush of traffic.
‘Come for a drink?’ he asked, making her reach for her hair with a fluttering hand, as though she could brush him off like a stray mosquito.
‘No?’ he continued. ‘A walk?’
It seemed they were already having a walk, whether Claire liked it or not. Trying to ignore him, she was walking briskly down Union Street towards the station. And the guy was keeping pace easily beside her.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got something better to do? Claire? There’s a lovely sunset tonight. I could show you some undiscovered corners of our own fair city.’
Claire drew herself up short. They came to a standstill together, Claire gripping her briefcase tightly.
‘Leave me alone, or I’m calling the police.’
‘Ah, come on. There’s no need for any drama. I’m just trying to be friendly.’
She stiffened.
The guy shook his head and laughed. ‘Now I’m not going to drag you off and force myself on you. Unless that’s what you’d really like, Claire?’
She slapped him as hard as she could, the edge of her hand connecting with his jaw and jolting his head back. Around them, the sea of commuters swerved suddenly, curious eyes hungry to see what was happening but keen to keep their distance at the same time.
Claire watched as a slow strawberry-red stain bloomed on the guy’s cheek. They stood facing each other, while Claire’s blood froze in her veins. Her hand was stinging. She held it raised still, and it occurred to her suddenly that she was standing there like she was pledging an oath. Ridiculous, overdramatic. She thought she might scream.
‘Seems I touched a nerve,’ the guy said quietly.
Claire stayed rigid, unmoving, aware that passers-by were staring at her, shocked by her wild-eyed posture and trembling raised hand. She looked like a madwoman.
And then, slowly and very very gently, he took her hand in his. Lowered it to her side. He was holding it with the slightest of touches, so that it felt like she was dipping her fingers into warm water. Not letting go.
‘Give yourself a break, Claire. Try something new for a change.’
Her shoulders dropped and Claire took a breath that seemed to fill her lungs like the fresh wind from the sea. It was sweet and sharp and dizzy. The guy’s eyes were still on her face, his hand still enveloping hers. Around them the sea of rush-hour commuters swarmed towards the station, making the six o’clock train. Claire looked at the entrance to the station, saw the grim-faced passengers and the silent journey and the dark flat waiting for her and suddenly knew something inside her could not face another long winter night with the computer. Her stack of dirty films.
His hand was warm over hers, warm and strange and promising.
‘You want to go for a walk?’ she said. Her voice felt strange in her mouth. ‘Where to?’
*
The river looked different when you stood right by it. Claire usually sailed high overhead on the rail bridge, seated in a train carriage, eyes blank. The Clyde below was just a strip of dirty water, which broke the city in half, easily ignored if you were fixed on your destination.
This evening she stood under the bridge listening to the sound of trains rushing overhead, staring at the choppy brown surface and seeing the sun reflected in a thousand shattered pieces.
The man, who kept close but not too close to her side, was looking downstream at the cranes and warehouses of the shipyards.
‘This was where all the ships would come in, bringing their cargoes. Money flowing up the river. Glasgow was built on tobacco. And sugar, of course,’ he said.
‘Sugar?’
‘From the Caribbean, mostly. It’s why the native sons are so sweet.’
For the first time in what felt like weeks, Claire smiled.
‘You don’t believe me? Taste it.’
He came closer, bringing his honey-smoke smell and his stubbled cheek to Claire’s face, till she could feel his breath, on her face this time. The distance between them was so slight.
And she kissed him. Put her lips to his smiling mouth, let his tongue dart in between hers, tried to catch the taste of him while she felt the heat of his mouth against hers. His tongue was a wriggling fish in her mouth, and his hand that had held hers so gently was already moving over her ass, feeling the curve of it, squeezing.
Claire pulled away, surfacing. ‘You don’t even know me.’
‘That’s true.’
‘But you don’t understand. I’m not what you think I am.’
‘And what would that be?’
Claire struggled to find the words. His knee was pressed in between her legs, and it was confusing her already shell-shocked thoughts.
‘I didn’t want …’ she held her hand up to show him: this body, this face, this hair and these clothes. ‘… underneath, it’s messy. I sleep with married men. I don’t … I don’t know how to do this.’
He shrugged. He didn’t let go. ‘Life is messy.’
‘And you don’t care?’
‘To be honest, babe, right now all I care about is my skin against your skin. You know what I mean?’ He reached up to stroke her throat, to feel the pulse there under his hand. His fingers slipped down. They followed the curve of her breast, dragging lightly across her skin, tightening as they met the fabric of her top. Tugging. Pulling the cloth away, exposing her breast to the cold night air. Claire felt her nipple stiffen to a point, and watched mesmerised as the guy bent his head to take it in his mouth.
The feel of him sucking on the tender bud of her breast made her head swim. It was like being plugged into the supply of some dark and strong-running current, as though he were charging her whole body. Claire felt the prickle of his stubble against her and wondered for a moment if she was safe, but before she knew what was happening he had pulled away and left her shaking. Feeling the cold and sudden lack of him was enough to convince her that she wouldn’t leave till it was done.
He dropped to his knees, pushing her skirt up around her waist, burrowing in with his head and biting gently at her thighs. Her pussy was at once cooled by the night air and electric with anticipation. His head moved closer till it covered her centre, and his lips met her clit.
He sucked with a strong hot mouth and Claire thought of hummingbirds bent over flowers, licking at the nectar within. Everything was dissolving, sliding away, and the noise of the river carried her voice as she let out a gasp, as his tongue hit the target and slid inside her, opened her.
Claire felt the blind hunger rise in her, the need for a hard cock, the wanting and the ache for him to be inside her. She pulled away and lean
t back to grip the railings alongside the towpath, hoping the gathering dark would hide them, too frantic to stop now in any case. She spread her legs apart in a mute gesture of need, not caring any more if he stroked her gently or admired her beautiful lines. She wanted to be fucked.
He seemed to understand. As he pulled a little foil packet from his back pocket and bit it open, Claire’s knees weakened and she realised that a complete stranger was about to sheath up and take her. His face was a dark gold, clouded with concentration. Claire imagined she could still see the faint stain of her hand on his cheek, a mark of her uncontrolled anger which had transformed now into the ache of desire. He unrolled the rubber over his cock and Claire got a brief glimpse of its dark curving length rearing up before she turned back to face the river and closed her eyes.
When he nudged at her slit with the head of his cock, she felt the shock of unfamiliar flesh entering hers and, at the same time, the sweet recognition of that most natural of sensations – a man slipping inside a woman, moving himself to press as close as two people can get. He sank into her to the hilt, and she pushed back to feel his whole length swelling in her cunt, stretching her open, joining the two of them as though they were fused together.
‘That’s it. Easy. Nice and slow. Now move against me.’ He held himself rigid, arms circling her waist in a tight grip, refusing to fuck her and denying her the rhythm she craved. To feel the delicious push and pull, Claire had to rock her hips against him, thrust and bump and grind herself on his cock. Her body twisted in desperation, fighting him to reach the quickening point that made them both gasp. Beneath them the river seemed to flow faster, darker and rougher as she strained to fuck him harder.
He moved one hand to her face, covering her mouth and pushing his fingers inside so that she sucked and bit, letting him cram three in so that her mouth was as full as her cunt. He had crept inside her, this man, and now he both surrounded and filled her. She could smell the wet reek of the river before her, mixed with his scents of honey and smoke, and feel on her skin the tension of his wiry and supple frame. He was obliterating her careful glamour, smearing her lipstick and pulling her hair loose. Claire had the feeling she was disintegrating, being dragged from her perfectly designed life and thrown into the turbulent currents of a new world.
As she felt his cock tighten inside her and he at last answered her movements with his own, thrusting more urgently and with greater decisiveness, she knew she was on the brink. She would come, violently, with more guttural sounds than she’d ever made before, the scream of an animal being torn from familiar territory and flung high and hard. Her body was loosening, unravelling, fucking itself into the strange cold night with a man she’d never met before. It was like discovering a whole new city, there under the bridge.
She wondered what the world would look like when she opened her eyes.
The Highest Bidder
Sarah J. Husch
‘SOLD! TO THE very excited lady in the purple bustier!’
Gemma sat back in the chair, disappointment pouting her lips. She’d wanted him. The extra-cute upstairs neighbour she’d lusted after for the past six months, but had never quite had the nerve to approach. The bachelor auction benefiting the Performing Arts Guild had been the perfect opportunity to stake her claim. But she’d been outbid by Miss Purple Bustier who was even now latching onto that muscled arm and jiggling her pushed-up breasts at him.
‘Have another drink,’ her friend, Bea, advised. She waved at one of the prowling waiters, and two more flutes of champagne appeared on the table. ‘Bid on someone else.’
Gemma sighed, and sipped the bubbly liquid. Already, the auctioneer, Annette Sullivan, the Guild’s president, was announcing the next bachelor up for bid. He came out in a tuxedo, dark hair slicked back, a red rose in one hand. He flashed white teeth at the women, not seeming to mind the attention.
‘He’s cute,’ Bea said, leaning forwards a little. ‘What about him?’
‘Too suave,’ Gemma dismissed.
‘You are very hard to please,’ Bea told her. She tossed back her curly red hair and crossed one miniskirted leg over the other. ‘I, on the other hand, haven’t had a date in two months, and I’m willing to lower my standards a little.’ She eyed the James Bond lookalike on stage. ‘Although, I wouldn’t have to lower them at all with him.’
Laughter made the champagne bubbles go up her nose, and Gemma coughed. Bea obligingly smacked her between the shoulder blades.
While they’d been talking, the bidding had escalated sharply. The bachelor had taken off his tuxedo jacket and loosened his tie. He slid it from around his neck, and tossed it into the audience. The reaction was intense. Gemma thought two women would come to blows fighting over the scrap of black cloth.
While they were arguing over who’d caught it first, the bidding had continued without them. A demure woman in a tidy business suit walked up to the stage and received the rose from her new acquisition. He jumped down from the stage and joined her at her table.
The evening was turning into a bust, Gemma thought. She finished the glass of champagne, feeling a little light-headed. At least the alcohol was complimentary. The Performing Arts Guild had spared no expense to get the women to loosen their purse strings. And from the looks of Miss Purple Bustier still glued to her prize’s side, that wasn’t all that was getting loose.
‘Stop frowning,’ Bea said. ‘This is fun. Just bid on someone. It’s for a good cause.’
Gemma sighed. It had been for a good cause when she’d been bidding on her neighbour. Now, it was just money to the Arts Guild. ‘I’ll bid on the next guy,’ Gemma promised.
The next guy turned out to be Mr March from the Fire Department’s annual calendar, along with a dinner cruise on the river for two. His arrival was heralded by cheers and applause, even a few wolf whistles. Getting into the spirit of the evening, he slowly removed his gear, revealing a white T-shirt which was moulded to very impressive abs.
Gemma raised her card, and Bea’s hand slapped it down. ‘He’s mine,’ she whispered. ‘I have that calendar and he’s the hottest guy on it.’
Never taking her eyes off of the hottie on stage, Bea held up her card and left it there. When it became obvious that she was intent on winning, the bidding slowed to a halt. Chequebook in hand, she went to claim her prize.
Great, just great, Gemma thought, when the two came back to the table. She gets Mr March and I get another glass of champagne.
‘Our final bachelor of the evening is Nick Dalton,’ Annette announced. She glanced down at the card in her hand. ‘Nick is an artist and, in fact, I highly recommend his show at the Blue Moon Gallery. Your date with Nick will include an afternoon of dolphin watching, courtesy of Tidewater Marina, and a romantic picnic for two.’
The heavy burgundy curtains at the back of the stage parted just enough for the bachelor to emerge. He waved at the audience, offering a quick smile before taking his place centre stage.
Oh my, Gemma thought faintly. She was barely aware that she had her card in the air before the auctioneer announced the opening bid.
Nick caught her eye and smiled. He had dimples. His smile was part boy next door, part wicked seduction and it made heat curl low in her stomach. From the top of his tousled brown hair to the tips of his sneakers, he was dressed casually. The faded jeans clung to lean hips and Gemma found herself wondering what it would be like to have her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The simple black T-shirt under an unbuttoned shirt made her wonder what she’d find when she stripped them off him.
A romantic picnic for two offered a wealth of erotic images for her imagination. Both of them naked against a soft blanket, sunshine warming their skin. The bark of a tree rough against her hands as he took her from behind. She squeezed her thighs together, intensifying the throb of need.
Maybe he could use his artistic talent and decorate her with body paints.
And, best of all, she no longer cared that Miss Purple Bustier had made off with her
neighbour.
Gemma wet her bottom lip with her tongue, suddenly realising that the bidding was rapidly climbing out of her range. She did some maths in her head, balancing out the contents of her cheque account, and her rainy-day savings. With a pang of real regret, she dropped out of the bidding.
Maybe she’d console herself by stopping by his gallery and looking at his art.
On the stage, Nick frowned, looking down at her. Her table was close enough that she could see the little crinkles next to his blue eyes. She could imagine looking into those eyes as she climaxed. It was all she could do not to touch herself under the table.
Covering the microphone, Nick leant close to Annette, whispering in her ear. His eyes never left Gemma’s. The matron looked at him in surprise, looked down at Gemma, and smiled slyly.
Gemma wondered what was going on. She glanced down at herself. No, she hadn’t spilt champagne on her dress. Nothing was hanging out that shouldn’t have been. So why the scrutiny?
Annette raised one hand, silencing the crowd. The stage lights danced on the diamonds at her ears. ‘We have a rather surprising twist,’ she announced. ‘Nick himself would like to place a bid. He’s assured me that he’ll top the highest amount by five hundred dollars if the blonde in the turquoise dress will share the date with him.’
Bea squealed, nudging her in the side.
She wasn’t quite able to believe what she’d just heard. Realising her mouth was open, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Nick’s eyes flared with hunger, and the smile on his mouth was no longer full of boyish charm. Now, it was all about desire, hot, hungry and full of promise.
Realising that the room had fallen silent and she was suddenly the centre of attention, Gemma pressed her hands into her lap. She was so wet, so hot for him, she was sure that everyone knew it. Not looking away, Gemma nodded.
With a final word to Annette, Nick vaulted down from the stage. He was all male grace and confidence as he walked to the table and slipped into the chair next to Gemma.
Sex with Strangers Page 11
