‘Wet,’ he says, like that’s the best possible thing a woman could be. ‘Sooooo,’ he says, in a low drawl that sets me off again.
I could come, I think, like this.
I could come just hearing him talk some more.
‘You’d never know that you were this aroused, baby, I swear,’ he says, while I shudder uncontrollably. It’s like I really am inside that cement mixer – only it’s awesome. ‘I mean, you get pretty flustered, but then there’s the suit, and the wisecracks, and way you hold yourself off … Even I had no idea. Thought I’d at least have to warm you up a bit.’
He’s touching me, now. Just the tip of his finger, trailing over the swollen outer curve of my sex. Barely anything, really, but it’s enough to illustrate what he’s saying. I can feel the glide between his touch and my skin. I can feel how easily he works his way in, through all of my slick folds and down, down to the place I want him most.
‘But I guess not, huh? Ohhhh, baby, you’re so slick. That feel nice, me stroking you like that? Maybe it feels a little more like torture, the state you’re in.’
Oh, Jesus – the state I’m in. Apparently I’m a bombsite; I’m a disaster area. I’m all over-excited and soaked through and swollen, and good God I do not care. For the first time in my life, I don’t care. All I want is for him to keep running his fingers over me, while he looks like this and talks like this. Oh, man, I could listen to him talk like this until the end of time. I’ve never heard any guy be this uninhibited in his speech, and it’s bliss. It’s unbelievable.
I’m writing thank-you letters to him in my head, for every single word he’s said.
‘Are you actually moving your hips in an effort to get my fingers a little closer to your clit? You know, I think you are.’
I think I am, too, but can he really blame me? He keeps circling that one agonising spot, without ever really touching anything. And sometimes it’s so close that I’m sure he’s there, I’m sure he is … but then he moves away, and I realise it was just my imagination.
I’m having pleasure hallucinations. I’m so turned on I can’t tell a real touch from a sly, teasing, non-existent one.
And then he makes it worse.
‘Come on baby, work for it,’ he says, because he’s really fucking teasing me. This isn’t me, going insane with lust. This is him, tormenting my aching body until I’d be willing to do anything, just anything to have him stroke me there.
Though I know he’s not going to do it. He’s going to do the other thing, instead – the one that absolutely will not work. I’m broken, I think at him, but he’s not listening.
He’s sliding a finger inside me, instead. Slow and steady, like he’s trying me out. He wants to know if I can take it, and despite the tension in me, I can. I take it better than I ever have before. My pussy just opens up to him, everything so smooth and slippery and good.
Then better still, once I’ve seen the expression on his face. His eyebrows dip in the middle and his mouth goes slack, just as I imagined it doing in his story. And he makes a sound, too, as he glides into me – so much hotter than the one before. This isn’t a puff of breath and a faint ‘oh’. It’s guttural and half-grunted, drawn out to the same speed as that finger sinking into me.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, baby, oh, you’re so hot and tight.’
As though it’s his cock filling me, rather than that single digit. He sinks it in all the way to the hilt, with just a little twist at the end. Then back out again, with as much pleasure as he seemed to experience over the long, slow slide in. I can see it in his eyes – narrowed to slits – and in the way his chest heaves up and down, as he explores me. It’s in the deliberate stroke of his fingers, more a fondle than anything else, and the flicker of his tongue over his soft, wet lips.
I swear to God, when he licks himself that way … my body goes nuts. Because he was right about that. He was absolutely right. There’s nothing I like better than knowing a man is turned on – and over me, of all things. He’s this excited because of the simple feel of my sex, to the point where he can hardly stand to be away from it. Those strokes grow shorter and shorter, until I’m not even sure if he’s leaving me at all.
He’s just letting my soft, wet heat enclose him completely, as he takes in the sight of it. And then when the sight isn’t enough, he uses his free hand to do something even lewder.
He spreads me open. He parts my folds and leans in closer, in a way that should definitely make me uncomfortable. I rarely like someone scrutinising my face, so I don’t know why this feels so different.
It just does. A hot flush of pleasure gushes through me, the second he does it. And it’s followed by another as I think of all the things he must be seeing: the way my pussy clings to his deliciously thick finger, when he does force himself to slide it slowly back out. My clit, which feels just as stiff and swollen as he described in his story, and just as ripe for that wicked little tongue of his.
God, I wish he’d give me his tongue. Because as good as this feels, I know he’s never going to get me there like this. It feels amazing – there’s none of the usual burn and all of the pleasure I never normally feel – but I’m not really that close to orgasm.
I’m sure I’m not. I’m too sure I’m not.
‘I think I’m going to win this bet,’ I say.
Which is kind of a mistake.
I know it as soon as he looks up at me with that spark in his eyes. I know it before he slides a second finger into me, in a way that still feels good. I like the new feeling of fullness, more than most actual cocks I’ve had inside me. And I like the urgency suddenly in him, as he sits up straighter over me, and sets that impossibly firm jaw of his. He’s going to give it to me now, I think.
So it’s almost a disappointment when he doesn’t. I even go to tell him again: really, this isn’t going to work.
And then he spreads those two fingers inside me, and turns his hand, and my body just jerks all on its own. Like when you go to the doctor and he hits your knee with a hammer. Suddenly, your leg is not your own. My body is not my own – and the loss of control is so startling I think I tell him off.
‘Don’t do that,’ I say, as though he’s some naughty schoolboy.
But of course he isn’t. He’s not been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and now has to be contrite. He’s a sexual maniac, who doesn’t have to do a thing I say. In fact, he goes one better than that: he ignores me. He spreads his fingers again, and gives them a little twist.
Such a simple move, really. I think of keys in locks and a dancer turning in her partner’s arms, about a second before something grabs a hold of my body and wrings me out. I bite my tongue. I make this sound: ‘Goh.’
And I have no more control over any of it than I do over him.
‘Yeah, there, huh?’ he says, from somewhere seven hundred million miles from me. ‘Fuck, you’re primed. You wanna come, honey? Tell me you wanna come.’
I writhe against his tormenting hand, helplessly, soundlessly. There’s nothing else I can do. I’m so turned on I’ve turned mute – but he’s not satisfied with that. He curls his fingers inside me and strokes hard, hard. Harder than I should like, and rougher too.
But, oh, the bloom of sensation that follows that vicious stroke … the way it makes me want to curl my body up and never straighten myself back out again … I can hardly stand it. Something’s definitely going to happen really soon, if he keeps this up.
So naturally he doesn’t.
He stops, right when I’m about to get my hands on the Holy Grail.
He stops, and says this:
‘Oh, that’s good, huh?’
Probably because he’s sure I’ll agree. He’s sure I am. Of course, I try to be calm and cool about things – but I know how I must look. Every time he strokes over that one non-existent place inside me, I ball the sheets up in my fists. I go all stiff, like I’m not used to processing this sensation and kind of have a system malfunction, every time it happens. Th
at weird, lowdown bloom of pleasure just goes through me, and I shut down.
And then just as I’m recovering, he does it all over again. Harder and faster, until it really is like he’s fucking me. He’s pounding me, which is good on two fronts. The first being how much I fucking love oh God I love it oh Jesus that feeling, and the second comes with a sudden and startling realisation.
This is why girls like that.
There’s no sense of being pummelled into oblivion, while most of me dies of boredom. When it’s done right, when someone’s actually hitting the target instead of veering off on some irrelevant tangent, there’s nothing that’s too much.
I want this. I want him to do it again.
Though I’ll be damned if I’m going to say.
‘You want some more? Tell me it’s good,’ he says, only now he’s just as breathless and half-crazed as me. This … this resisting … it’s the only chip I’ve got left. After he’s made me say it, what else is there? I’ll be in his thrall forever.
I’ll be his slave, and I know it.
He probably knows it. Some lady in a hut on top of the Himalayas knows it. She can hear me sobbing with pleasure from all the way over there, every time he drums his fingers against that absolutely existent place inside me. She’s laughing at me for trying to get away.
Because I do that too. I attempt to claw my way up the bed, but he’s having none of it. ‘Where are you going?’ he says. ‘No, no, get back here. You said it wouldn’t work, right? So come on, tell me if it’s working. Oh, yeah, you like that, huh?’
I do, I do. I even like the slight sense of being brutalised, now. Of being forced to come against my will. He just grinds the heel of his free palm down over my swollen mound – moulding my pussy around those working fingers, forcing everything right down onto him – and I almost start crying. That lowdown feeling intensifies tenfold, and I know then. I’m definitely doing it.
Though that’s not why words finally spill out of me. No, no. They burst out because of the way he looks, which really isn’t all that smug at all. He doesn’t look victorious. He looks fucked out and flushed with this monumental effort. He looks like he’d do this to me forever, until he died, until he lost his mind.
And I can’t be bitter about that.
So I just let it out.
‘Oh, God, yeah, I’m coming,’ I gasp.
It’s the first time I’ve ever done so and had it not be a lie. In fact, none of this is a lie. I twist on his bed as the sensation thuds through my lower belly – one pulse at a time, so slow and heavy. And each one pushes outwards, once it’s done with me between my legs. It grabs a hold of all of me, and just when I think I can’t take it, it releases.
Before starting back up again, at the beginning.
I’ve no idea how long it goes on for. Feels like days. He makes it like days. I try to get away again and he pins me in place. He gets his body over mine and drills me harder, until I’m gritting my teeth and trying desperately to grind sound through them.
I don’t even know what that is. Is that a thing – grinding sound through your teeth? I don’t know, but I have to do it. If I don’t, I might die of this orgasm.
Though I suspect I’m going to anyway, whether I do or not.
It’s probably why I’m really crying, when he finally lets me go. Yeah, that’s definitely why my eyes are wet, and my body is shaking uncontrollably. It’s because I’m sure I’m going to be dead, soon. Here lies Kit Connor, I think. Died of sex at age twenty-eight.
Only it’s not funny really.
I’ve lived my entire life without anything like this. All those years I’ve wasted on wan feelings and half-pleasures, satisfied with so little and thinking it was so much …
Lord, I didn’t even believe him.
But I believe him now.
* * *
The first thing I do once I’ve composed myself is try to leave, but that doesn’t work out so well for me. I wriggle my skirt down and plant my feet on the floor, but when I go to stand my legs have apparently forgotten what that is.
I actually drop to one knee – and even that doesn’t know how to behave. I’ve just had an orgasm, leave me alone, it says, before sort of skidding across the floor. I have to grab onto the bed sheets – which are actually quite nice, for someone like him. I didn’t notice them before because I was too busy being desperate for sex … though in truth I don’t know how I’m noticing them now.
Maybe I just need something to focus on. White, and yet still crisp and clean, I think, frantically. And, oh, he has a real duvet and one of those memory foam mattresses!
I recognise the latter because the thing tries to suck my will to live, during my attempts to get back up again. Somehow I’m bum-skiing down the side of his bed – which basically means that I get all turned around and, in an effort to keep my feet, I brace my backside against the mattress.
Before sliding sideways along it.
‘Have you possibly forgotten how to move like a human being?’ he asks, after a while. I can’t be mad, however. That’s exactly what it looks like. ‘I don’t think you’re going to make it back to your apartment by suction-cupping surfaces with your butt.’
I mean, he’s got a point.
Shame he uses that point for evil.
‘I’m doing fine, OK,’ I say, which sounds ridiculous, even to me. I’m not suddenly trying to manage after a hideous car accident that robbed me of my inner ear. Nobody needs to be told that I’m fine.
So why do I say it?
‘Maybe you should just come back to bed?’
Damn him. I’m still stunned from my orgasm, and that – combined with his lovely light-heartedness, his incredible state of happy-go-lucky – is really, really making me want to do what he’s suggesting. He doesn’t even make the suggestion sound smug.
Nothing he says sounds smug.
He’s some sort of smugness-avoiding champion. Behold:
‘It won’t be a big deal if you come back to bed. I was thinking it could be a very small deal – a hardly noticeable deal – of possible light cuddling and a casual plate of home-made waffles.’
Lord, please let me survive Dillon Holt. He’s not natural. He keeps saying stuff and saying stuff, and it’s even more baffling than his ability to press a button inside me that apparently makes me come.
‘I mean, the amount of waffles on the plate would be enormous,’ he’s saying. ‘But the plate itself is very laid-back. It won’t even make a comment on why you’re here, or when we might engage in more sex acts. Very easy-going things plates.’
Is it weird if I want to hug his face? At the very least, his sideways slanting commentary on the state of things makes me stop floundering. I parlay my butt-skiing into a mild sitting on the end of the bed.
Where things calm down considerably.
Most of my body’s still going haywire – probably because it barely recognised any of the things he did to me – but the sex haze is clearing from my brain. I’m starting to stumble out into the ruins of myself, with the words what the fuck just happened on my lips.
I’m a war-torn survivor of Dillon Holt.
‘I have to … uh … go to a meeting,’ I try, but I’ve misjudged. It was way too early to attempt speech – my voice comes out all up and down and obviously stuffed full of lies, lies, lies. Though it’s not my fault entirely that he guesses.
‘At seven-thirty on a Wednesday evening?’
I jerk around, searching blindly for a clock or a watch or some other indicator that this cannot be true. The cat with the second-counting tail – the one on his wall, just above his head – won’t tell me so, however.
Seven-twenty-seven, that fucker claims.
Probably because it’s in collusion with him.
‘It can’t be that late. Wasn’t it four o’clock when I got here?’
‘Time has no meaning in my zone of sex.’
‘Did you really just say that?’
‘I’m hoping I didn’t.’
It’s a mistake, however. Not only is his expression really awesome – a self-deprecating eyebrow raise aimed entirely at himself – his fingers are just sort of … trailing over his glossy bottom lip. And then as I’m watching, transfixed, he lets one slide a little way into his mouth.
He’s tasting me. He’s tasting me on his fingertips, as though I’m some exotic fruit he just finished pulling apart. I can even see the faint gleam I’ve left on him, honey soft in the dying light from his narrow window.
But there’s nothing I can say. Telling him to stop will mean I’m acknowledging the lewd thing he’s doing. Telling him to keep doing that – maybe harder, with more of a long slow suck so I can really see how he looks, when he uses that blow job mouth of his – will simply mean I’ve gone nuts.
Unfortunate, really, that the latter is what I most want to do.
‘Sure you have to go?’ he asks, after too long a time. He knows it’s getting harder to say no by the second. All I’m thinking now is: what do I taste like on him? Can he make out the tang of his own skin underneath? Am I good?
He makes it look like I’m good. He strokes his tongue up and down the underside of his finger, then seems to sink – near helplessly – into something more. A long, slow slide into his mouth, just as I had imagined.
Only better. His eyes flutter closed as he does it, the way people usually do when they’re biting into a gloriously rich cream cake. And he makes a sound, oh, God, he always makes a sound when he does these things … does he know how that makes me feel? My mind empties of all other considerations the second he does it, before filling up with all the things he could possibly say and do.
I’ve only experienced a quarter of what he’s capable of, it seems. Less – a fifth, an eighth, a piddling pathetic pinprick of an amount. And that’s very bad for me, I know. It’s a bad thought to have, when I’m trying so desperately to leave.
It makes my words come out like this:
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 8
