I wonder if he knows that I want to mount him. I wonder if he’s going to try to make me feel like a fool, now, to make sure I don’t make a pass.
‘Kit,’ he says.
And then he touches my arm in this oh-so-soft way, and I go all still. Just like that.
Likely he has a lot of experience with wild animals. I can see an Ocean World T-shirt slung over the dresser by the door – he’s probably a shark wrangler or maybe a killer whale wrestler. Are those actually things? I don’t know. But I do know I should be focusing on the here and now, instead of imaginary careers he might have. He’s still touching my arm, and I’m still watching him touch my arm, and after a while the tension is just too great.
I have to look up at him.
Hesitantly, though. Maybe I even briefly slip into slow motion – it kind of feels like it. I’m afraid to see his face, in case it looks too good for me to stand.
And sure enough, it absolutely does. His expression is molten metal, from those heavy-lidded eyes of his to his parted lips. The intense heat from the ironworks he’s operating inside himself has melted any higher considerations, and suddenly he’s just this. This greedy, lustful thing. He looks at me from underneath those thick, black lashes, and I don’t think he’s doing it so he can assess my shoe problem.
He’s doing it because he knows it makes me weak in the knees.
‘Come on,’ I say, doing my best to hit the same note of incredulity he does, when he utters those two words. But the problem is – he has whole sentences to go after them. I don’t. I just go, ‘Come on, come on, come on,’ over and over again, until he’s forced to ask for clarification.
‘Come on what?’
‘None of that really happened.’
Shame that such sure words have such a faint voice to support them. I feel like I barely have any breath to push out the things I want to say, and the cocky pose I’m trying to hold is coming apart at the seams. It doesn’t help that my right side sinks much lower than I expect it to, every time I sag beneath the pressure.
If only I hadn’t lost that one shoe!
‘I mean, nobody really loses their virginity like that, to some hot older woman.’
‘No? So how do they do it?’
He’s not looking at my face any more. He’s looking at the fingers he’s busy trailing up my arm – the ones that somehow end up at the collar of my suit jacket.
And then he … then he kind of … opens the material a little bit, in a way that should make me very, very nervous. He’s almost peering around the corner of my clothes, to get a look at what lies beyond – which sounds terrible, I know.
Yet somehow it’s not. There’s such a gentleness to it, and that way he sneaks a peek is so overt it’s nearly cute. I like the way his mouth skews right, like he knows he’s being cheeky. I like how his eyebrows mysteriously make everything playful, even when they should be turning my insides upside down.
I like him, I realise. A lot.
‘In the backseat of someone’s car, in under twenty seconds.’
‘Yeah?’
‘And it feels kind of like being thrown into a cement mixer.’
‘Sounds awesome.’
‘It sounds real. More real than anything you just said.’
‘You think? And where exactly did I fall down, on the reality front?’
I debate whether to say, specifically. There’s a chance it will lead me down some very narrow paths, to some incredibly uncomfortable cul-de-sacs. Most of them are marked you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, and he’s going to tell you so in great and graphic detail.
But the thing about a cul-de-sac is: once you’re in it, you can’t easily back out.
‘Well, for a start you can’t make a woman … do that. Like that. And I know, because I am a … I am one of those … I am a woman.’
Unfortunate that I sound so unsure on that last part. Kind of undermines my point, a bit.
‘I see. You sure do seem to have it all figured out.’
‘I do.’
‘Mmmhmm,’ he says – probably because my collar is so fascinating he can’t possibly tear himself away.
‘So you admit it, then?’
‘Admit what?’
‘That you just … made all that up.’
He takes what looks like a thoughtful breath. Clears his throat, in preparation to deliver the truth. I should be pleased, really, only once I know it’s coming I kind of don’t want it to. Just give me another thirty seconds with that thing that could never have possibly happened, I think at him.
And he does.
In fact, he gives me more than thirty seconds.
‘You know, Kit … I think the lecture portion of the afternoon is over.’ I pretend not to notice that he’s unbuttoning my jacket, as he says this. I pretend not to breathe, too. I’m very convincing – I almost pass out when, he next speaks. ‘I think it’s time for the practical demonstration.’
I believe I reply with this:
‘Oh. That’s OK.’
As though he just asked me if I wanted something for Christmas, and I was too polite to say yes. I’m always too polite to say yes. My worst enemy could ask me if I’d like this knife removing from my back, and I’d tell them, ‘If it isn’t too much trouble.’
All of which makes it even more startling, when he says:
‘I’m going to kiss you now.’
I mean, what on earth did I do to deserve such an honour? I’m fairly certain that a snog from a gorgeous man is not the standard reward for extreme courtesy. But I keep up with it, just in case.
‘No, really. You don’t have to.’
‘But I want to. It’s honestly no trouble,’ he says, in an absolutely ridiculous imitation of my British accent. His top notes hover somewhere around the Queen of England, while his bottom ones blunder around in Boston. He could attach a tally-ho to the end of that sentence and it wouldn’t seem out of place.
But I can’t laugh. He doesn’t give me a chance to. Once he’s done with the verbal teasing he dips his voice back down low, and heads straight for the other kind. The more … physical kind, that sort of makes me want to throw up.
‘I want to taste that sweet little mouth of yours,’ he says, but he’s not done. He’s just using a dramatic pause to build the tension for the next bit. And it’s good that he does, because the next part is this: ‘Before I make you come so hard you forget who you are.’
I think I actually gasp.
‘I’d like to kiss you while you’re still Kit,’ he adds, but he’s out of luck on that. I’m not Kit when he leans down and touches his mouth to mine. I’m a shell of myself, ready to crumble into dust and blow away. His kiss is just too gentle for me to stay together. It’s too tender to go with his bristly stubble and his big body and his many tattoos.
I expect rough, horny tongues and lots of pressure, but he just traces his lips over mine, barely touching – and I think I know why, too. Because when he pulls away, I’m so desperate for more I could claw him back. I even put out a hand, to grab his arm.
But he still has no mercy on me.
‘Take your panties off,’ he says, at the most perfect point he possibly could. I’m all primed and suddenly starving, and I’ve made a fist around the sleeve of his T-shirt. I’m never going to tell him no, now, and yet I’m still electrically shocked when he says it. I’m electrically shocked by the way he says it – so low and syrupy soft. It’s hardly a command … but it’s hardly not, either. It exists in some perfect mid-space between what I’d like to do and what I can be talked into.
Though I still find myself floundering. What does he mean, exactly? Take them off after I’ve removed my skirt, so that I’m completely bare down there? I’m not sure I can manage that, but the other option seems childish.
I feel childish, doing it. I immediately want to stop before I’ve started, though of course I can’t. Once you’ve committed to pulling your underwear down, hitting pause is no longer viable.
/> So I keep my skirt down and do it under cover of darkness, like I’m out somewhere in public and I really need the bathroom. I squirm out of them, hoping that the embarrassment will fade once I’ve slid them all the way down my legs.
But it doesn’t. My face is on fire, and my brain simply won’t stop screaming at me. ‘Why are you doing this?’ it hollers, right in my ear. And I have no answers for it.
Especially after I’ve looked up with that little slip of cotton still tangled around my ankles, and seen the expression on his face. He glances off at something else, briefly, then closes his eyes. And he makes a sound, too – a little puff of breath, with a few ‘O’s on the end. Like someone shaking their head over something that costs too much.
I cost too much. My rudeness costs too much. He didn’t mean it about the underwear being off – it was just a test! And now I’ve failed, I’ve failed.
‘Man, there’s nothing sweeter than seeing a girl take her panties off like that. Those cotton? Oh yeah, that does it for me.’
He sounds like he really means it. He sounds shaky, in fact. But I have to be sure.
‘Are you messing with me? Seriously. Is this just –’
He reaches out and takes my hand.
‘Does it feel like I’m messing with you?’ he asks, in such a sweet, light-hearted way. He could be talking about picnics in the park or long walks in the beach, if it were not for the thing he presses my fingers over.
God, he’s so hard. He’s really, impossibly hard. I’m surprised I didn’t see the thick length of him, straining against the zipper on his jeans – though that’s just testament to how much I’m trying not to look. I don’t even look now, while he fondles himself with my hand.
I don’t really have to, to be honest. I can see just fine with my fingers. I can see that he seems to go on for ever and ever – to the point where it starts to get scary – and that the head of his cock is fat and thick, and very solid.
He could beat someone to death with that thing, I think, feverishly.
The fever probably explains why I actually voice this opinion.
‘It feels like you dropped your nightstick down your pants.’
‘Oh, so that’s where that went.’
‘I’m not kidding. Is this all you? Because if so, I think I may need to rethink a few things. I may need to rethink the shape and depth of my vagina.’
He gives me a dazzling, lopsided grin. I think I’d do anything for that thing. At the very least, I let him tow me through the veil of plastic between us and his bedroom, which is just as higgledy-piggledy as his living space. The sheets on his bed look clean and crisp, but the bed itself is tilted at a weird angle. And the tangle of clothes on his floor is so intense, I find myself thinking of the movie Labyrinth.
David Bowie is going to spring out of his discarded shorts, and thrust his crotch in my already overwhelmed face.
‘No, you don’t. Lie down on the bed.’
He gestures to that slanted thing with a sideways nod of his head. Like it’s a route out of here, instead of the place where I’m going to get my insides rearranged.
‘Really, I –’
‘I’m not gonna hurt you, Kit. It’s like I said: just a demonstration. And I know you want to see that demonstration, because you slid those sexy little panties down your legs in the hottest, awkwardest, most eager way I’ve ever seen anyone do that.’
My body flushes so hot it leaps off of me, and gets all over him.
‘You like eager, huh?’
‘I like awkward, too.’
‘So it does get you off to see me making a fool out of myself. I knew it.’
I roll my eyes, only I don’t truly mean it. I don’t mean it, because he’s not what I thought at all. Instead, he’s the kind of person who laughs, and says:
‘No, baby. It gets me off to see you not knowing a single damned thing about yourself, and getting to be the guy who makes sure you learn. Because I am going to be that guy, I promise you that.’ He pauses – probably to give me time to faint. ‘And we’re going to start with a much-needed lesson in orgasms.’
There’s very little protest in me, after that. I think I manage a dry-mouthed and very up and down:
‘You’re not going to be able to do this, you know.’
But I’m fumbling my way onto the bed as I do. And I can’t blame myself for that. I think I’d give almost anything in return for words like those. He could probably ask me to climb on a sweaty camel right now, and I’d try. I’d run a million miles over mounds of molten lead, just to hear him say, ‘I’m going to be that guy.’
He’s not even lying. He grabs a hold of my leg – probably because I’m still clambering thirty minutes later – and then he just hauls me down the bed. He hauls me, the way other men haul other girls, when they really don’t want to be that far apart.
He even stresses this concept.
‘Yeah, we’re going to have to be closer than that,’ he says, as I do my best to get myself back into some sort of dignified sitting position. I know I’m not doing very well, however. I’m still breathless from the things he said and shocked by the manhandling – not to mention what’s happened to my skirt.
It ruffled up when he dragged me, which would probably bother me at the best of times. But right now I’m naked under here. My knickers are still in a puddle on the other side of the curtain, and all that leaves is my suddenly bare pussy, exposed to his greedy waiting gaze.
I notice his eyes flashing all big and excited, whenever he catches a glimpse.
I notice it.
‘Annnnd I’m probably going to see a lot of what you’re trying to hide, pretty soon.’
‘Really? Because I was hoping we could do this through telepathy. Like – you just think at my vagina and it spontaneously combusts.’
We’re not far from that, as it is. He’s burning a hole through my skirt with his heavy gaze, to the point where it’s actually making me want to flash at him a little. Just a hint of shadow, you know … just a suggestion of the inside seam of my thighs …
But enough to keep that heat on me.
‘While that sounds like fun, I’d prefer if you just slid that little skirt up your legs.’
He pauses, like he’s daydreaming about doing that very thing almost in the middle of doing that very thing. We’re two seconds away from the reality, but he’s so impatient he can’t wait. His eyes follow the path his hands haven’t taken, all around the outsides of my thighs, ruffling the material as he goes.
By the time he actually touches me, we’ve fondled, fucked and I’m smoking a cigarette – which should probably take the edge off things.
Only it doesn’t. My teeth clack together when he suddenly snaps out of his reverie and climbs onto the bed. He captures me between his two immense legs, and I’m shaking, I’m shaking. I can feel the bed rattling underneath me, despite the innocuous places he puts his hands: on my knees, really, rather than my thighs.
Though the tickle of his fingers on their outer edges … that’s something worth being this nervous over, I think. The fizz that’s flowing through my body is justified, for things like that. And for things like this:
‘I’m not all waxed down there,’ I tell him, partly because the thought is bothering me, and partly for something to say. He’s making these circles on the insides of my legs – just a little way beneath the material of my skirt – and I can feel it pulling me down into silence. Soon I won’t be saying anything at all, and then what?
Then I’ll be like him.
‘Uh-huh,’ he says, distractedly, like he’s forgotten how to make whole words. All his focus has transferred from things like conversation and my fluttery panic, to the inside of my thigh. He’s practically gripping it, now – groping it, I suppose – in this graphic, possessive sort of way.
As he inches my skirt ever closer to actually revealing something. I bet he can see the outline of my pussy now, plump and pursed and so, so ready for this. A little more and I’ll be com
pletely exposed, and, oh, that anticipation is agony. I’ve never been undressed like this before – in parts and pieces. He just lets the material sag and stutter down my angled thighs, then right when I’m on the verge of saying no, he makes an impatient sound.
And spreads my thighs.
He has to kind of slide back a bit to do it, then crook my legs a little more, to give them room. Which seems like a long-drawn-out operation – only it isn’t, in his hands. He does it all in one fluid move, like ripping off a plaster. One second I’m a nervous wreck. The next it’s all over.
I can feel the air on my spread pussy.
Though I can feel his eyes on it, more. His gaze seems to weigh a ton, and it goes on forever – most probably because he’s counting all the flaws. In fact, he must be counting all the flaws, because after a while of wandering all over everything he says:
‘You always get like this?’
In a weird tone of voice I haven’t heard before. It’s short on breath and long on roughness, and I feel almost yanked into answering.
‘Well … uh …’ I start, but after that I’m unsure how to proceed. If I say yes, then I’m locked into whatever awfulness he means. But if I say no, maybe I can go away and do something about it. I can spruce it up a bit, add some Christmas decorations.
Though that would mean leaving; which I definitely cannot do. I’m too paralysed by his tractor-beam eyes to move.
‘Was it the story?’ he asks, and I know it’s on purpose, now. He definitely baits his questions to get me to give the final push – right over the edge and into graphic sex talk.
‘Was what the story?’ I say, and he socks it to me.
‘That got you this wet. Oh, God, you’re soooo wet.’
The urge to glance down is great, but I resist. I resist because I know he’s right – I can feel my own slipperiness all over me, and know how it must look.
Though it’s not the story that made me this way. And it’s not the way I am, either, because I swear I’ve never been this excited in my life. No, no … it’s just him. It’s his face and his words and the way he says them.
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 7
