by Donna Alam
‘I do wear it.’
‘What?’
‘My makeup. I wear it. Every day.’
‘I’m not talking about when you’re at work.’
‘Neither am I,’ she protests. ‘I’ve worn makeup every day I’ve been here. Not a lot, but I still wear it.’
‘You look the same with or without it,’ I answer, confused.
‘Thanks.’ She might say thanks, but by her tone and expression that’s not what she means because that one little word? It’s weighted with a boatload of why don’t you just fuck off.
‘What I mean to say is, you wake up and you go to sleep looking as beautiful as you do during the day. Beautiful all day long.’ As I speak, her expression softens. I’m winning, so I’ll leave it there. I’m not so green as I’m cabbage looking, y’ken? Also, I happen to be telling the truth. ‘You’re away for a shower, then?’
‘Yes. Is that okay?’ she asks a little hesitantly.
‘Of course. There’s no shortage of hot water. I’ll just turn down the bed.’ Like a hotel turndown service. ‘And tidy the room a bit.’ Just call me housekeeping, hen.
‘Oh, sorry.’ Fingers grasping the towel at her chest, her expression twists. ‘I’m a bit of a nightmare house guest, aren’t I?’
‘No, not at all.’ God strike me down for lying. Though not really. I like having her around. I’d just like it a whole lot more if she was a wee bit tidier. And if I’m getting to add improvements to her stay, then I’d also like it if she was naked all the time.
‘Don’t tidy my mess,’ she protests, though not very vigorously. ‘I’ll do it after my shower.’
I nod, my gaze sweeping over the room. ‘I’ll just put your clothes back in your bag properly.’
‘A place for everything, and everything in its place, hey?’
‘Aye, something like that,’ I reply, looking up and sending her a wry smile.
‘Just so you know, there’s a place for you here in the shower . . . ’ Then with a bold look of invitation my way, she steps into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar.
That was an invitation not to be refused. And I won’t—refuse it, that is—but the tiny wee angel on my shoulder suggests I shove her clothes back in her bag.
For peace of mind.
For a wee bit of orderliness.
So I don’t break my neck falling over it in the middle of the night.
In the bathroom, the shower door clicks open, then the sound of running water echoes off the tiles.
I grab Isobel’s leather bag from the floor and dump it on the bed.
Buzzzz. Buzzz.
I pick the bag up without the handles, holding the side to my ear.
Buzzzz. Buzzz.
‘Darlin’,’ I call, ‘have you got another phone in here?’
She doesn’t answer, my words drowned out by the sound of the water.
Buzzzz. Buzzz.
This time, I start pulling out her clothes. Maybe she has a work phone she forgot she packed? If so, it might help her to call the office. Ease her mind. Or at least stop her picking up her dead phone to glare at it.
Buzzzz. Buzzz.
I dump the clothes in a heap next to the pillows, pulling out a satin purple bag. Which would be an odd thing to keep your phone in unless the phone turns out to be,
‘A vibrator.’
Purple in colour and no longer than the length of her own wee hand, it has a shaft and a rounded head, and that’s where the resemblance to my dick ends. Though I’m sure the head of my own knob has turned purple a time or two. From overuse.
‘Naughty wee Isobel,’ I whisper, taking the fake cock through its settings. ‘You’ve been holding out on me.’
‘Room for one more?’
As I open the shower door, Isobel lifts her head from the stream of water with a sultry smile. Water streams down her back, making her skin shine like diamonds, her hair a dark slick of ebony. She’s so fucking gorgeous, lithe legs and pale skin and those big, blue innocent eyes. Innocent with a side order of sin.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she says, turning to face me, sliding her arms around my neck as I step under the stream, water cascading down my back now.
‘Oh, I have every intention of coming,’ I reply, wrapping my hand around her hip. The other, I keep by the side of my thigh, holding her little gift.
Between us, the humid air swirls like a visual representation of our lust. Our lips meet in an instant, our hungry sounds pressed against the other’s lips, echoing through the small space. Harder, deeper we kiss, bodies pressed together, hands holding tight enough to bruise.
As I pull back, she licks her lips, tasting the water and me, her heated gaze drawing fire through my veins. Then I growl, my body bowing as she unexpectedly takes me in her hand. I like this version of Isobel, the woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take it. As her fingers tighten around my cock, my tight breaths join the heated air around us.
‘I want to have sex in here.’ Her hot breath touches my face, her words exploding like little bursts of pleasure deep inside my gut.
‘Making up for lost time, darlin’? The kitchen. The sofa. In front of the fire.’
‘Yes.’ The word is a deliberate hiss in my ear as she runs her wrinkled thumb over the slit of my cock head, her fingers dancing a torturous dance against my balls. ‘I want it all. I want you to give it all.’
Our mouths meet again, her bold tongue seeking mine, and I’m fucking done for, so much so, I’ve forgotten what I hold in my hand. But not for long.
‘Turn around, Isobel.’ She does so with a sultry looking smile before I take the lobe of her ear between my teeth. ‘That’s right. Let me see that delectable arse.’
‘Yes.’ Her hips jerk as she presses back against me, my fingers finding her heated centre, slipping through her wetness. ‘Oh, Greg. Yes, like that.’
Her hands wrap around my neck, her breasts rising in the action, her nipples so hard I long to take them into my mouth. Our skins fuse in the humidity, her hands twisted in my hair as I begin to pet her clit, sweeping small circles with my fingers as I would my tongue.
‘I like that. Like those sounds you’re making. Like the way your tits bounce as I touch you.’
‘Yes! Please. More. Oh, God, I want to.’
‘Do you touch yourself in the shower, Isobel? Do you play with this pretty pussy?’
‘Please, Greg.’
‘Answer the question, darlin’. Answer the question and I’ll make it feel so fuckin’ good.’
‘S-sometimes,’ comes her stuttering answer as, one hand banded around her ribs now, I switch on the purple wand, holding it against her thigh. ‘Look what I found.’ I feel rather than see her smile as I trail the head across her wet, silky skin. ‘I hope it’s waterproof.’
She licks her lips and nods her head, whispering, ‘It is.’
‘Oh, you dirty, delicious girl. How do you like it?’ I ask, running it along her inner thigh. ‘Do you use it like a cock and against your clit?’’
‘Both. Sometimes.’
Her body arches as I hone in on where she needs it before I glide it agonisingly slow past her clit.
‘Please, Greg,’ she begs, spreading her legs. ‘Please, touch me.’
‘I’m going to do better than that. I’m going to fuck you while I torture you with this.’
Leaning into her, I press her body forward, causing her hands to spread flat against the glass. She dips her spine, offering herself up to me, and fuck if that doesn’t make me that little bit harder—make me want this a little bit more. She moans loud and long as I nudge my head against her slit, mewling and pushing back against me as I circle but don’t commit. Tease her a little, tease us both. And all the while, the noise of my little buzzing friend echoes.
‘You’re a greedy, greedy girl.’
‘Yes, yes. I am, and I need—’
‘This.’ My hiss counters her cry as, with a flex of my hips, I push into her body. The warmth of her p
ussy engulfs me beautifully, my knees almost giving way. I curl my hand around her shoulder, desperate to rut and fuck, desperate to lose myself in her. To hurt us both in the best sort of way.
‘You feel so big this way.’
And those words? Those breathy little sounds? There is no going slow right now as I pull back and slam into her again, hard and deep. This time, I bring my hand around her hip and position the purple head against her clit.
A whole lot of nonsense bursts forth from her lips. And fuck me if I don’t reap the benefits of that, too. Her walls spasm around me, the vibrations of the fake dick connecting, too.
‘Wait, darlin’.’ I’m not going to last long at this rate. I grab the condom I’d slid onto the recessed shelf, tearing it open with my teeth before sliding it on.
‘Need a hand?’ Her words are a husky invitation over the sound of the water. Head turned, she watches with a languid gaze.
‘This is what I need.’ I pull her hips back and she cries out as I impale her on my hard cock, her body spasming as I press the vibrator to her clit. I start to move, slow at first, slow and hard, setting the kind of pace and depth that won’t disturb my hand. But it’s hard, pardon the pun, hard to concentrate as with each flex of my hips, her moans become louder and a little more desperate. Her tits bounce as she fights the wave of torture against her clit. But whether she fights to get closer or away, only she can tell. It all makes me wish I had at least one other hand.
But not for long as she cries out, the sound like nothing I’ve ever heard. Her climax runs through my body like pure electricity. The force of it, the force of the vibrator, threatens to drag me to my knees. I wrap my hand in her hair, bringing her mouth to mine to swallow the sobs of her orgasm and eat them like I would her cunt. I drop the purple penis to the shower floor, pinning her in place before driving myself the fuck home.
Again and again.
I don’t last long, everything blurring and shimmering at the edges of my consciousness while a fevered heat runs over my skin. I pull out of her heat at the very last minute possible, tearing off the condom to jack myself to insensibility it seems. Weak in the moment, weak in the heat, I place my forehead against her spine, and the last thing I see before I close my eyes is my stream of white-hot cum as it stains her pristine skin.
Chapter 17
GREG
‘You’re up early.’
Isobel appears not to hear me. For the first time since her arrival, she’s awake before me, and not only awake, but also downstairs and dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of thick herringbone socks. If there’s anything more primally gratifying than finding a woman wearing your gear—the women you’ve been sunk to the hilt in best part of previous evening—I’ve yet to find it. It’s the stuff of cavemen, I’m sure.
The caveman kills the woolly mammoth.
Feeds his family woolly mammoth meat.
Lies his missus on the woolly mammoth pelt, then feeds her his meat.
In the kitchen, I come up behind her, sliding my arms around her trim waist as I place my lips on the soft curve where her neck and shoulder meet.
‘Day three of captivity finds Isobel in the kitchen.’ My soft rasp against her skin makes her shudder. ‘Is she lost? Is she awake because she spent an uncomfortable night sleeping in the wet spot? Or was she foraging for food?’
‘One of those things probably,’ she answers, placing her arms over mine as she turns her gaze reluctantly from the window.
She seems distant, and at first, I wonder about last night’s shower. It was intense for sure. Maybe a little too much so. But, no. We were good following. Well, one we’d managed to get our legs to work. She’d climbed into bed, her skin wrinkled and pink, complaining she looked like a prune. Meanwhile, I’d managed to make my way into the kitchen on unsteady legs to retrieve a couple of beers and some snacks for sustenance. We’d spent the next hour tucked up in bed talking about nothing.
Would you rather give up cheese for life or oral sex?
Her answer; oral. Mine, I’d rather die, actually.
Would you rather have penises for fingers or vaginas for ears?
Her answer, vaginas for ears and a selection of hats. Mine, vaginas for ears, though I’d probably be arrested daily for public indecency.
‘My money’s on you foraging for grub.’ For a wee totey thing, she has a really good appetite. It’s probably a reaction to the availability of real, actual food as opposed to the coffee shop offerings and microwave evening meals she says she lives on usually.
Her head turned towards me, I place a smacking kiss on the part of her mouth I can reach. What it would be like to wake up kissing this woman every morning I can only imagine. And I’ll stick to imagining.
‘You’re very quiet.’ I tighten my arms around her, my nose in her hair.
‘I was just thinking about Clare. She gets married this morning. She must be so excited.’
Christ, it’s Saturday already. But time flies when you’re snowed in with a woman as delicious as Isobel, I suppose. The start of the working week looms—I have orders to fulfil, a couple of tenders to submit, and a meeting with the bank this coming Monday morning. I really can’t afford for the weather to keep me here any longer than this weekend, yet I really don’t want to step away from this experience to go back to my own life.
‘Now you’ve gone quiet.’
‘Sorry, darlin’. I was miles away there for a minute.’ Miles and a lifetime away. ‘I’m sorry you’ve missed your pal’s wedding. There’s a chance it might’ve been cancelled anyway, what with the weather and all. You might get another chance to go.’
‘I hope not,’ she answers immediately. ‘I hope it all happens today. Her family travelled to the hotel earlier this week, so I’m sure she’s got all the people she really needs around her.’ I sense more than feel her shrug. ‘I imagine it would be devastating to find you can’t get married after months and months of planning.’ Her back presses against my chest with a deep sigh.
‘You’re a good friend.’
‘Am I? I don’t think so.’
‘Nonsense. You came all this way to go to her wedding, and you want her day to go ahead for her despite the fact you’ll be missing all the shenanigans.’
‘Clare isn’t the type to go in for shenanigans, and Hamish, her fiancé, is an accountant and sounds like a bit of a stuffed shirt.’
‘They’re getting married in the Highlands. Trust me, there’ll be shenanigans.’ Pipes, kilts, and whisky are a recipe for such mischief.
‘Well, I hope they have a lovely day,’ she says, turning in my arms and sliding her hands around my waist. ‘And I imagine the photographs will be amazing with all this snow. It’s probably just as well I can’t get there. I was destined for a spot at the single’s table, anyway.’
‘The single’s table?’
‘For those who dare to turn up alone.’
‘Dare?’
‘You know, when you attend a wedding stag?’ There’s a certain edge of something I can’t quite place in her tone as she pulls back to look up at me. ‘Of course you don’t know what I’m talking about. You don’t ever have any problem getting a date to a wedding, do you?’
‘I feel like this is one of those questions where the honest answer isn’t necessarily the best.’
‘It’s not a trick question,’ she declares.
‘You’ll forgive me, hen, but that’s exactly what it sounds like. And I might have heard similar before. Does this lipstick suit me? Does my bum look big in these jeans?’
‘Urgh!’ She playfully pummels both fists against my chest. ‘Men.’
‘And for the record, men can’t tell whether a lipstick colour suits you. They only know they like looking at your mouth. And you only have to mention the word “lips” and they’re thinking about what yours taste like and how fantastic they feel against their cock. And as for jeans and arses—’
‘You can stop right there. I get where you’re going with this.’
<
br /> ‘Exactly.’ I slide my hands down to the hem of my T-shirt, dipping underneath to pull her against me. ‘How long until you run out of underwear?’
‘I can handwash,’ she says with a shrug. ‘It’s not perfect, but it means I won’t have to resort to wearing your boxer shorts as well as T-shirts. They’ll take no time to dry, unlike sweaters and stuff.’
‘We’ll see how they dry when I throw them out into the snow.’ Slipping my hands under her knicker elastic, I grasp her taut flesh. ‘Maybe I’ll throw both our clothes out in the snow to keep us both in the buff.’
‘I think we’ve already established that the leather sofa and skin don’t exactly get along.’
‘We’ll just have to stay in bed all day long, then.’
‘You’re almost naked now.’ She dips her chin, staring down the ladder of my abs to where we’re pressed together from the waist. Her nipples hard points under the pale cotton, making me wish I had another pair of hands. ‘Being naked with you sounds like a much better way to spend a day than at any old stuffy wedding.’
I don’t doubt what she’s saying because I know her being here with me has opened her eyes to how it can be between two people. But there’s a definite touch of wistfulness in her tone, one that makes me pull her closer. Sure, my dick is interested in our current cuddle status, but this hug is as nonsexual as can be between two people who are collectively three or four items of clothing away from full nudity.
I’d let her keep the socks on.
As has become the custom, her head fits perfectly into the space between my right shoulder and pectoral muscle. Offering her the comfort of my body, my arms band her back tightly, my cheek nestled against her head, leaving me a view of the window. For days, there has been nothing to see but snow. If my mind was on anything other than easing Isobel’s day, I’d have noticed the way the hills in the distance are greener than yesterday. But I don’t, at least, not for the moment, my head on other plans.
