‘Just go on with what?’ he asks, all innocence. Though the innocence is somewhat sullied by the skirt he’s pushed up around my hips. For the first time in history, the air in this fussy place has been exposed to a vagina.
And neither the air nor my sensible self is happy about it.
‘You know what.’
‘I do. But I think it’s important for you to say.’
‘I’ve said plenty to you.’
‘In a public library?’
‘Well … no.’
‘With your pussy all bare? Look at you, you filthy little thing. Exposing yourself like this, when anyone could walk in.’
‘I didn’t expose myself! You did it!’
He shrugs, as though it’s nothing. This torment is nothing.
‘Sure I did,’ he says. ‘But you liked it.’
And this time I’m so frantic I can’t even find the will to deny it.
‘I did like it,’ I say, because it’s true, oh, it’s so true. I liked him sliding my panties off so much that I’m still reliving it in my head. The glide of the cotton on my thighs, the thrill of being revealed, of falling so far …
And of other things, too.
‘You love lying there with your legs all spread, don’t you?’
Yes, I think, yes, oh, yes.
‘I do.’
‘And you want more, don’t you.’
‘Oh, yes, please, yes, please,’ I say, those babbling thoughts I had a second earlier suddenly forcing their way out of my mouth. Apparently, the barrier between my desires and my vocal cords has almost completely broken down.
Though it takes a little more to destroy it completely.
Like maybe his tongue slowly sliding over my clit.
‘What are you doing?’ I think I say, but it’s hard to tell for sure. I’m so stunned by the sensation and the daring of it and oh, God, his expression, once he’s done it … I can’t possibly say more. ‘What are you doing?’ is all that will come out, over and over again until he’s kind of laughing around my spread sex.
‘You tell me,’ he suggests, and then he licks again, just to make sure I know what I’m being tested on. Cunnilingus, I think. Going down, I think. The beautiful art of oral sex.
But unfortunately, I don’t answer with any of those options. I answer with a rather unsteady and completely mindless:
‘You’re doing things to my clit with your tongue.’
It’s quite possibly the most embarrassing sentence I’ve ever uttered.
And you know what? I love it for being so. I love how it sounds in my mouth – so filthy and fun. I love saying that word, like the lewdest thing this room has ever heard. And most of all, oh, most of all, I love love love my reward for speaking aloud:
A long, slow suck of that very thing, that ends with me moaning.
And him grinning.
‘Like that?’
‘Oh, yeah, like that,’ I say, and then suddenly I’m spilling out more words, without any prompting at all. ‘Do it like that. Suck me there.’
‘Uh-huh. And then what?’
‘Slide your fingers into my … into my …’
‘Into your … ?’
‘My pussy. Fuck my pussy with your fingers.’
At this point, I’ve no idea what’s more exciting. Him kneeling down between my thighs to do as I’m suggesting, or the words themselves. I mean, I just said ‘pussy’ in my library – a place that has never so much as seen me without my suit jacket on. I’m not even sure if I said ‘shit’ that one time I stapled my finger.
So this is …
This is really, really …
‘Ohhhhh, yeah.’
‘Yeah. You like that, huh?’
Is he seriously asking me if I like him licking me like that? Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m enjoying the long, slow slide of his thick fingers into me? Either of these is an option.
But both of them are insane.
‘Of course I do, oh, God, of course I do,’ I babble, because really, isn’t it obvious? He’s started stroking the flat of his tongue over the tip of my clit now, and he’s doing it in time to these unbearably steady strokes, in and out of my body.
I’m only surprised that I’m not humping his face. At the very least I’m rocking my hips. And as for my vocal cords … They’re completely out of control now. They’ve gone rogue, and started up their own splinter group.
Project Dillon’s Cock, I’m going to call it.
And apparently my vocal cords agree.
‘Oh, God, oh, God, I want you to fuck me,’ I say, and I don’t mean with his fingers. I mean with that big thick thing between his legs. I’ve lost all sense of space and time, it seems, and I couldn’t care less if someone catches him doing me. Would that really be any worse than what he’s doing now?
I don’t think so.
So I just say:
‘I want you inside me.’
Even though I kind of know that’s not going to do the trick. If you want to get the best prize you’ve got to play a bigger game, and so far I’ve been playing so small. I need to take a leaf out of his book – a lewd, lovely leaf – and surprisingly, it’s not as hard as it looks.
‘I want you to fill me with that stiff, swollen thing … oh, God, I bet you’re so hard right now. Are you? Are you hard for my little wet pussy?’ I ask, which sounds so silly, on the surface. I’m sure it does. In fact, I almost get as far as an embarrassed blush.
Before I realise he’s gone all still, between my thighs.
He’s not really licking me any more. He’s just sort of … resting his mouth there, while I do my best to twist him into as many knots as he’s twisted me.
‘I bet you just want to sink right in, don’t you? And ohhhh, baby, I want that too. I can’t wait for you to fill me with that thick cock of yours,’ I say, and I can’t believe the rush that goes through me when I do. It doesn’t sound silly any more. It sounds like the most arousing thing I’ve ever heard – and I’m the one spelling it out. I’m the one speaking.
How can that be an exciting thing?
And yet it is. I’m making myself all wet, not just with the images I’m conjuring up and the rudeness of the words, but the sound of my voice wrapping around them. My timid, pathetic little voice, going on about cocks and fucking.
I’m not surprised that he glances up at me, incredulous.
I’m doing the same thing to myself. His expression probably mirrors my own, all giddy and shocked and, best of all, shuddery. Ohhh, man, he’s shuddering. And I did that to him. I turned Dillon Holt into a shaking, disbelieving mess, unable to speak or move or function in the way he did before.
I’ve never been prouder of anything in my entire life.
Or loved a slow, knowing smile more than the one he then gives me.
‘I see what you did there,’ he says, and I practically burst. I have an actual secret in-joke with someone! A little thing that we both share, ridiculous and rude and naughty, but still: ours. Just mine and his.
And, for one fatal second, it sort of feels better than all the sex.
It feels so good, in fact, that I have to manoeuvre him back on track, immediately – before I start composing sonnets to him in my head, and imagining things he’s never said.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I ask him, but that affection for him is still in the back of my mind. So much so, in fact, that when he says ‘soon’ I think he’s referring to the feelings we’re sort of falling into, and I almost make a fool of myself.
I almost say, ‘Really?’
Before he saves me by burying his face between my legs. And this time … this time he totally goes for it. He doesn’t hold back in the hope that I’ll say more. He isn’t polite about it, in deference to my ladylike feelings. He licks around the fingers he’s still got inside me, as he fucks and fucks and fucks me with them. And when I moan and squirm, he spreads me with his free hand.
He gets me all nice and open, before he works his tongue back up to
my unbearably swollen clit – because he knows, I think. He knows how sensitive it makes that little bud to expose it like that. To make it stand proud of the slippery folds around it, as he laps at the tip of it, over and over.
And he knows, too, I think, that I’ll forget about what I wanted. I’ll forget about his cock, in that one sharp moment of bliss … though that’s not really what I want to focus on, as the pleasure builds. I’m focusing on my first instinct, instead – that one word he said – ‘soon’ – and how warm his expression had looked when he did.
He did mean something else, I think.
Not just fucking. Not just his cock sliding inside me.
He meant what I feel as I call out his name: that we’re going to be more than this, whether I’m capable of it or not. It’s like a promise, I’m sure – as crazy as that seems, from someone like him. But even crazier … as I shiver and shake through this insurmountable pleasure … as I go boneless for him, just in time for him to kiss me with his red, wet mouth …
It doesn’t seem crazy at all.
Chapter Nine
That word is in my head now, and it can’t easily be removed. Soon, I think, soon, as I sip my hot chocolate before bed, or attempt to get on with my job in the place he once was. He pulled me to pieces at this desk yesterday, I think to myself, and then that word just slithers its way back in. It suggests all kinds of things, from fucking to feelings to all the stuff I want him to tell me … and all the stuff he won’t.
And worse:
I can’t wait for any of it. Soon is not soon enough. I’m beyond that stage of trying to keep my sanity, and all the way into I don’t give a fuck – which is probably how I find myself at his door, again, despite my lack of excuses. I’m not here for the book, or because he looped a noose around my neck with some mystery.
I’m here because I want to be.
I want to be.
I want to be so much that my heart actually soars in my chest when he opens the door. And, even more alarming, I think the same thing might be happening to him, too. He actually goes up on tiptoe and his face does this crazy thing – this beaming-like-a-ray-of-sunshine thing.
Then, just when I’m doubting my sanity for believing such a thing, he falls on me. He falls on me and kisses me like I’m the Second Coming, if the Second Coming was something you greeted with groping. His tongue is in my mouth before we’ve even said hello, but of course that thought just excites me.
I’m actually beyond words with another human being. We don’t need to speak. We just need to kiss. We communicate through our tongues in each other’s mouth, and our hands all over the other person’s body. My fingers digging into his ass mean I missed you, his palms sliding underneath my shirt and over my back mean I missed you more.
And I’m so sure about this – absolutely, impossibly sure in a way I’ve never been before – that I’m quite startled when he pulls away. I thought we were on the same page, but apparently I was wrong.
Very wrong.
‘Whoa, hey,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we … uh … why don’t we …’
I hope he means to end that sentence with ‘have sex’. But to my horror he doesn’t. He wants to do the thing I thought we didn’t need to, for some inexplicable reason.
‘Maybe we should just talk, for a second,’ he says, in a way that should make me feel like a complete fool. He’s turned me into the guy, in this scenario, so hungry for his body I’d climb on top of it without a word of negotiation – and I should be mortified.
But when I go to check the box marked embarrassment inside me, it’s not there any more. I rifle through pages and pages of me, from falling flat on my face during P.E. to that time my boob popped out of the dress that Lori lent me, but there’s no shame to be found. There’s nothing.
And that realisation is just so overwhelming I don’t know how to bypass it. Part of me really does want to chat with him, if that’s what he wants. There are things I want to know and so many little pieces of him that I want to unravel. I still remember the way he went blank, when I asked him to share something about himself, and I’d dearly love to know why.
But this new-found freedom simply overrides it all.
‘I don’t want to talk,’ I say, like a completely different person from the one I was before. Then, even wilder: ‘I want to suck you.’
And I know it’s wild, too, because his answering expression is … impressive. I’m impressed by it, and I’m the one who made it happen. I think his eyebrows reach mid-air, and his single-word response is rather faint.
‘What?’ he asks, like an old lady who maybe misheard.
I love that I made him an old lady who maybe misheard.
‘I’ve waited long enough, and now it’s my turn. So get those pants off.’
And OK, I don’t sound quite as convincing as him. I’m missing some of his rough assurance, and I know my gaze isn’t as sultry as his. My eyes feel quite wide and guileless, so I’m guessing this is a little like being ordered to strip by Milly-Molly-Mandy.
But he does it, just the same. His hand goes to his belt, and then I get the utterly arousing sight of him slowly easing it out of the buckle – because, oh, I’ve always enjoyed that. The clink-clink sound of metal against metal, the whisper of leather … that sense of someone loosening a constraint …
It’s all very, very good.
As are the words he says to me, once he’s almost there. He’s got a hand on the top button of his jeans, and he’s maybe a hair’s breadth away from undoing them. And then he just tells me, in this husky tone of voice –
This madly arousing tone of voice –
‘You know how big I am, right? ’Cause otherwise I’m gonna warn you now.’
I don’t think he could have said anything better if I’d given him a script. My head spins at the sound of it, and that seed of an idea in the back of my mind takes root. Is this part of the reason why he kept putting this bit off? He said it was something else, but there’s a quality to that one word ‘warn’ that makes me think it wasn’t, not wholly.
And if so, I really have to put his mind at ease.
‘I have a pretty good idea.’
‘You sure? Other girls ran off screaming over a pretty good idea.’
I almost grin. So I’m right, then. I’m right! I’m actually starting to know him, just by watching his expression and taking educated guesses. I’m learning from the Master, and applying my lessons well.
I even get some of his confidence into my answer.
‘Baby, I am never going to run away screaming,’ I say, so suddenly sure of myself. So full of the kind of seduction I’ve always aimed for, but typically missed.
And then he worms his way out of his jeans and his underwear … and oh, God, I wish I’d been a bit more cautious. What was I thinking, taking on a persona I simply wasn’t ready for? I should have known that something like that only fits massive, handsome people like him. Put it on me and the arms trail on the floor … the shoulders sag around my stomach …
I’m a mess in it. I’m like a melted waxwork.
A melted waxwork who’s been really startled by someone’s enormous penis.
‘Oh. Well. That,’ I think I say. Mainly because I’ve forgotten what sentences are. I can’t even manage an ellipsis, or possibly an em-dash. I just stamp out those three words, complete with very final-sounding full stops on the end.
And of course he’s disappointed when I do.
Amused, but disappointed.
‘Knew you weren’t ready for that,’ he says, half-smiling, half-chagrined. And in a way he’s absolutely right. I’m still trying to speak properly, and I’m having to force my hand to stay away from my mouth. Most of the muscles in my legs seem to have disappeared, and I can’t stop staring.
But in another way … oh, praise be for Dillon Holt. Oh, let me immortalise his name in song. Can I compare his penis to a summer day? Because I totally would, if doing so didn’t sound insane. His cock is not only impossibly enormous
– so enormous it’s like an optical illusion – it’s lovely to look at, too. There’s no kink that makes it veer off in an unexpected direction, no odd shift in colour halfway down or weird flap of skin where it shouldn’t be.
He’s simply smooth there, perfectly smooth and gloriously shaped. The head flares in just the right sort of way – one that makes me think of him filling my mouth so completely, so thickly – and at the tip he’s so deliciously slick. Oh, he’s so glossy and slippery and swollen, like he’s been hard for days and days.
Which I suppose he has.
I admit, I doubted it before. But now that I’m looking at his erection, pointing skywards despite the extra weight … I can’t really doubt any more. One stroke of someone’s finger could probably get him off. I think I’m pushing him close to it just by staring at him this way – and his expression confirms it. The smile has dropped almost completely off his face, and it’s been replaced by a sort of slack, flushed longing.
But in case I’m still not sure, he’s got some things to say.
‘Jesus, Kit, I feel like you’re fucking me with your eyes. You want this, huh? Come on and get it, girl. Come on.’
Some really, really arousing things, with a few gestures just to finish me off. He puts a hand up to his mouth and actually licks his palm – the way he licked me, I’m sure – and then he strokes himself, just once.
But once is enough. It’s enough to send a spike of sensation through me, and enough to make him push out this delicious sound. It’s like an oh with the smooth bits sawn off, all rough and guttural and so good to hear. And after it’s out he does something even better – something that turns the spike of sensation into a lance.
He takes his hand away, too quick.
Like he’s on fire there, and can’t stand to linger for long. Doing so would only lead to him making a mess, I think, though I’m not sure that’s what he’s concerned about, exactly. His own touch seems to make him all jumpy and jerky, and he spends a good few seconds gasping in this shocked sort of way.
And of course that’s what gets me going:
The idea that the pleasure is so strong, and so intense … he can hardly take it. He can’t stand it. He shakes that one hand as though he really did burn himself, before getting himself back together.
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 13
