Thor (Recherché #1)

by L. P. Lovell

  I pick up my pace, groaning as I fuck her harder. “Fuck.”

  She pushes back against me, demanding more and I give it to her. I fuck her so hard it’s bordering on brutal. Her pussy clenches around my dick and my balls tighten, that tingling sensation forming at the bottom of my spine before I come. Her moans are muffled, barely audible. When I open my eyes and see April I feel sick. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  “Oh my god. That was amazing.” She sighs. I climb off the bed and go to her ensuite, dropping the condom in the bin. I turn the tap on and splash cold water on my face.

  “I have to go.” I say when I walk back into the room. She frowns as I pull my jeans on and yank the t-shirt over my head.

  “But you’ve only been here for half an hour.” What does the woman want from me? She came twice. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to say just that.

  “I’ll make it up to you.” She sighs but seems somewhat appeased.

  “You know it really upset me seeing you with that Whitely girl.” She pouts and moves across the bed on her knees. Reaching out, she drags her nail over the centre of my chest. “I don’t like sharing you.”

  I grip her wrist and her eyes lift to meet mine. “I’m not your boyfriend, April. Not sharing isn’t an option.”

  She falls back on her haunches, a look of hurt crossing her features. “You know I could pay you enough that you’d never have to go to another woman ever again.”

  I drag both hands through my hair and tilt my head back, focusing in the ceiling. “We’ve spoken about this before…”

  “I don’t understand.” Her voice hitches up a notch and I focus my gaze back on her. She purses her collagen-filled lips and crosses her arms over her fake tits. “I would give you everything, and yet you choose to keep whoring yourself out.”

  I take a measured step closer and bring my face close to hers. She tilts her head back so as to look up at me. “Careful, April. You’re not indispensable. You’re a client. And clients can be replaced.”

  Tears well in her eyes before they flash with anger. She opens her mouth to say something and then closes it again. I turn away from her and leave without another word. I don’t need this shit.

  I get in my car and sit there for a few minutes staring at my phone. Poppy’s number is pulled up on the screen and my finger is hovering over the call button. This is getting out of hand. She’s all I can fucking think about. It’s borderline obsessive. I press the call button and then toss the phone on the passenger seat. Resting my forehead on the steering wheel I listen the ring tone blare through the speakers. After a few rings she picks up.

  “Oh, shit. Hello?” She says breathlessly. I smile straight away.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “Good. I’m…I’m good.” Shit, I don’t even know what I am anymore.

  “Okay.” I can hear the amusement in her voice.

  God, even just the sound of her voice…How is it possible to feel like you need someone you barely even know? I’m annoyed by the prospect but I just came in a client while imagining it was her. Shit doesn’t get much more fucked up than that.

  “What are you up to?” She asks.

  “Uh, I just finished work.” I inwardly cringe and again, what the fuck?

  “Well, I’m just in the studio, but I said I’d go and watch my friend at this open mic night tonight. Want to come?” Say no. Say no!

  “When and where?” Fuck.

  “Note in Soho. It starts at eight but turn up whenever.”

  “Okay.” I hesitate. “I’ll text you.” And then I press the hang up button on the steering wheel before the sound of her fucking voice can lure me any further off the path. Sex is one thing. Sex can be passed off as physical, a release…not sure that works when you fuck people for a living but still. This though…what the fuck am I doing? I ask myself these questions, tell myself to stop but I can’t and I don’t.

  I try not to keep looking at the door, I really do. Michelina sits next to me, sipping on her gin and tonic as we watch the first act. I’m not drinking, not after the last two times I’ve seen him. He’ll think I’m a raging alcoholic. I double check my phone again, convinced he’ll cancel. The last text he sent to me is still there

  I’m on my way. X

  He’s that guy that you constantly tell yourself to forget about. I mean, he turned up at my apartment, we fucked, we talked, we slept, then I don’t hear from him for nearly a week. There’s no middle ground with him. He’s on or he’s off, and it makes me uneasy. I tell myself that’s it, I’m not seeing him again, and then suddenly he calls. Did I tell him to fuck off? No. I bloody invited him here. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe that’s what happens when a guy gives you the most epic orgasms you’ve ever had. You get like...vaginally attached.

  I look up and there he is, standing across the bar from me. He’s wearing black jeans and a tight black v neck shirt that clings to every damn muscle. My heart beat skitters like a frightened animal and I have to focus on my breathing. No man should have the power to do this to a girl. It’s not right. He approaches the table and Michelina digs her elbow into my ribs.

  “Holy. Fuck. Oh my god, he’s coming over here.” She says in a rush.

  He stops at the table. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Mich, this is Thor. Thor, my friend Mich.”

  “Pleasure.” He smiles and she just stares at him like an idiot. See I’m worried that’s what I look like when I’m around him.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m gonna go and get ready.” She slides out of the seat and disappears.

  I turn my attention to him and a smirk pulls at his lips. “Something I said?”

  “Ignore her, she’s shy.” I lie, more like cock struck. Is that a thing?

  Those green eyes of his lock with mine and I don’t know how he does it, but it’s impossible to look away. It’s as though he holds me captive, in this trance where all I can see is him. Something shifts and pulls between us, like magnets moving.

  He breaks the stare first and I release a breath. Shit. “Move over, ginge.” He taps my thigh, and I slide across the circular booth. He takes a seat beside me, leaning back and stretching his arm along the back of the booth behind me. I glance sideways at him. He looks so out of place here in this bar. He’s sex personified. Every look, every breath, every tiny movement is laced with it. Literally every single thing Thor does is honed to make women fall at his feet. I would say it’s just me, but it’s not. Every woman in this place is looking at him, wanting him, fantasising about him. Whether he’s aware of it or not, I don’t know.

  He narrows his eyes at the girl singing into the microphone on stage.

  “So how do you know that one?” He nods towards the door Mich just disappeared through.

  “She uses the studio. She’s a great singer.” Truth be told, Mich loosely asked if I wanted to come watch. She plays this gig every week, but I think she felt sorry for me. With Elodie gone apparently I’m a sad case.

  “Do you sing?” He asks.

  I snort. “Uh, that would be a no.”

  He glances down at me and smiles. “I’m great in the shower.”

  I focus my gaze on the stage, trying desperately to push the image of Thor in the shower from my mind. I know exactly how good that man looks naked. Shit, it’s hot in here.

  His fingers toy with a strand of my hair, and I shiver when his warm breath blows over my neck. “You’re blushing.” He whispers against my ear. Of course, the moment he says that I feel the heat in my cheeks intensify. “You have a dirty mind, Poppy.” His voice drops to a raspy whisper. His lips are so close to me, I can hear each breath he takes, feel the heat of him. My skin prickles, erupting in goose bumps. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and my lungs falter awkwardly. The man is trying to kill me. He’s waiting, watching my every reaction play out. His fingers brush against my thigh, slowly moving upward over my bare skin. His fingers brush the hem of my skirt and it feels like he’s branding m
e. I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to numb the ache, but it doesn’t work. “Want to get out of here?” He asks. It’s a simple question, but it’s not.

  I turn my face towards him. He doesn’t move. Our lips are almost touching and I can taste his breath on my tongue. My eyes drop to his mouth, the perfect outline of it, the shadow of stubble just above his top lip. He never falters, never backs down. Meanwhile, I’m a mess, barely able to breathe or think past anything that isn’t his mouth on me.

  “I think that’s a good idea.” I gasp. Before I hump him right here in the bar.

  He slides out of the booth and holds his hand out to me. He looks completely unaffected, totally calm. I’m thinking this is very one sided.

  He leads me outside and opens the passenger door of his Aston Martin, which is parked at the curb. I slide into the leather seat. He gets in the driver’s side and has barely closed the door before he grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me towards him. His lips slam over mine so hard I physically can’t breathe.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you.” He groans against my mouth. My lips part on a ragged breath and he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. His hands are everywhere, bushing over my breast, caressing my throat, pulling my hair. He kisses me until all I can feel is him, all I want is him. And then he releases me and I fall back against the seat, heart pounding frantically.

  The engine starts and he slams his foot on the accelerator. The car lurches forward, tyres squealing as he pulls away. I’m clutching the seat so hard I can feel my nails bending against the leather. Oh my god. What is this? How does he do this to me? The heavy rumble from the powerful engine isn’t helping my situation at all. I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to relieve some pressure. My head falls back against the seat and I feel like a feral animal. I bite the inside of my cheek and twist my head to look at him. He looks calm. I want him to feel as unhinged as I feel. I want him to want me the way I want him. Without really thinking it through I allow my thighs to fall apart. Tentatively I trail my fingers from the inside of my knee, closing my eyes as I bring them higher. The car jerks on the road slightly, and I know without looking that he’s focused on me. I brush my fingertip over my underwear and it’s soaked through. My breathe hitches when I apply more pressure. Even through the thin layer of lace I feel like one touch could set off an explosion of epic proportions. A tremor rips through my body and then I’m thrown sideways against the door. Tyres squeal in protest and he slams the handbrake on, sliding the car clean across the road and bumping up a curb, Metal crunches underneath the car and then he’s slamming to a halt in a dark alleyway.

  “Fucking shit, Poppy!” He growls. Hands span my waist and I’m dragged across the centre console as if I weigh nothing more than a doll. He pulls me into his lap until I’m straddling him, my body trapped between his and the steering wheel. His hands shove underneath my skirt, tearing my underwear clean off me. I can’t clearly make out his face in the dim light, but everything about him is bristling with something that borders on dangerous. I hear the lowering of a zip and he bucks beneath me.

  His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise. His breaths are laboured and desperate as he manoeuvres me, forcing my body down onto his cock. I gasp as he fills me to the hilt.

  “Oh god.” I moan. I slide back up but he catches me, forcing me over him again. His hand moves, gripping my jaw and forcing my head back. I feel the trickle of breath over my neck before he speaks.

  “I control this, Poppy. I control you.” His voice is guttural and strained. I lean back and brace my forearms against the steering wheel, rolling my hips. Holy shit. His teeth snap together audibly and he throws his head back against the headrest. I grind over him again and it feels so fucking good that my vision actually flashes with spots. I move over him like that, watching the way the muscles in his neck strain, the way his jaw quivers. His fingers remain around my throat and with every drive of my hips they tighten and my head swims.

  “Fuck!” He yanks me upright and slams his lips against mine. It’s all tongue and teeth, aggression and want. He thrusts up beneath me and I gasp, throwing my arms around his neck. His face drops to my throat and teeth brush my skin as we fuck each other. I cling to him like he’s a raft in a stormy sea. His arms come around my back, constricting and bowing my body against him. Pressure starts in my core, building with every thrust. I tilt my head back and a moan escapes my lips as pleasure tears across my body. My vision blacks out and my body locks up as I come violently. A tortured groan makes its way up Thor’s throat, turning into a growl as his thrusts become stiff and disjointed. And then he collapses back against the seat, still holding me tight. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My legs feel like jelly.

  When I’ve sort of recovered I manage to crawl back across the centre console into the passenger seat. He opens the glove box and hands me something. A tissue. He starts the engine and the car purrs to life.

  “Are you on the pill?” He asks casually, as he turns in his seat and reverses out of the alley.

  I roll my eyes. “No, I’m going to have your love child and name it Loki.” The car jerks and fishtails back out onto the road. He glares at me. “Too soon?” I laugh nervously. Nothing. Jesus. “Yes, I’m on the pill. Although next time if you could…” I drift off.

  “If you didn’t touch yourself in my front seat, then I wouldn’t have to fuck you bare back.”

  “Fine, I won’t.”

  “Oh no, please do.” His lips twitch. “But, ginge…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t get spunk on my leather seats.” He eyes the tissue in my hand and I scowl at him.

  “You’re an arsehole.” He just laughs.

  He pulls up outside my flat but doesn’t switch the engine off. This whole thing with us in foreign and weird. If he were a normal guy who texted or called, or generally had in interest in my life, this would be easier, but I never quite know where I stand with him. When I’m around him it’s so sexually charged that the rest just doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t want anything from him, I’d just rather have a clear line. If it’s just sex then fine, but it doesn’t feel that way. When I’m with him he makes me feel like I’m everything, as though for that short period of time his world starts and ends with me. On every level. He makes me feel special. But then I hear absolutely nothing for a week and I start to wonder whether I imagined everything, the passionate kisses, the possessive touches, the gentle caress of his fingers on my cheek. His actions completely contradict themselves. He has my head fucked up.

  “I’ll see you whenever then.” I say. I have this feeling like I’m being played, and maybe I am, but am I not also using him? God, I feel like a hypocrite and a whore.

  I push the door open and put one foot on the ground before his hand wraps around my bicep. I turn to face him and his fingers whisper over my cheek. “I’ll call you.”

  No, he won’t, not until the next time he needs to blow his load. And that’s fine. I just wish that he wouldn’t look at me the way he is now. If he wants uncomplicated then he can’t look at me like I’m something he wants to figure out.

  His lips press gently against mine before I pull away and get out of the car. If I was sensible I would walk away from this. I would save myself the inevitable heartache. And maybe I would if being around him wasn’t such a buzz. Fucking him is like an adrenaline rush, a wild ride that I don’t want to get off.

  I watch the front door close behind her and grip the steering wheel tightly. I want to just drive away and not give a fuck, but an uncomfortable feeling has settled in my gut.

  I have no idea what I’m doing right now. This is completely out of control. This is wrong in so many ways. I’m not only breaking my own rules, but every ethical standard that would be upheld by any semi-decent fucking person. I stay away, then I bail and see her. I tell myself I’m not going to fuck her and then I do. In my car. Bare back. Shit! I slam my hand over the steering wheel and push myself back in my seat. Just drive away
, go home, don’t call her again.

  I’m an escort and Poppy…Poppy is the girl any guy would give his left nut to have. I close my eyes and all I can see is the expression on her face when she just got out of the car. She looked…ashamed? I don’t know. Fuck, why do I even care? I groan and lean forward, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel. I care because it’s Poppy. That’s all I’ve got. This is unchartered territory for me. In terms of how to handle women I’m figuratively working with no experience. Making women come I can do, but emotions…nope.

  “Damn it.” I turn the engine off and shove the door open.

  Poppy opens her door with a frown on her face. “Uh, are you okay?”

  “Got any wine?” I flash her a cocky smirk in an attempt to cover the fact that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here.

  She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “This.” She gestures between us. “I have no expectations here. Just…” She drops her gaze to the floor. “Sex is sex.”

  To a guy who doesn’t fuck without getting paid, sex is not sex. This is not sex. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not that. I don’t know why I’m standing here, but I just know that she deserves better than to feel like it is. But if I tell her she’s wrong, then what? I should just tell her, right here, right now. Explain that I’m an escort, get it all out in the open.

  I open my mouth to say the words and then she looks up at me. Those hazel eyes of hers meet mine and the words get stuck in my throat. That look…the way she looks at me…as if I’m something better than I really am. I cup the back of her neck and press my lips to her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, vanilla and something equally sweet. I can’t do it. I’m a fucking pussy, but I can’t. Not yet.

  “Ginge, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Trust me on that.” Her hand presses against my chest gently and she leans into me. Just one night. One last night.