He Touches Me (2 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Sax

BOOK: He Touches Me
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“No more changing your orders.” Michael laughs loudly, shaking his index finger at the ladies. They twitter, clearly enjoying his teasing, and he saunters toward me. He looks perfect, stunning, and I hold my breath, my heart beating wildly, my mind spinning. What should I say to him? Should I mention Friday's kiss or should I pretend it never happened?

Michael joins the end of the coffee line, standing close enough for me to reach out and touch. He runs his fingers through his shaggy blond hair, takes his phone out of his pocket and stares down at the screen.

He doesn't see me. My powers of invisibility hold. I exhale and my shoulders slump. I should feel relieved. I don't. I feel disappointed.

Michael orders four organic ice teas, each one a different flavor. He pays more for those teas than I spend on groceries in a month, leaves a monstrous tip, and returns to the table. The ladies send him back to the counter for organic artificial sweeteners, stir sticks, and lids.

Finally, Michael settles into a chair, the wood slab seat sagging under his weight. He tips a dome-­shaped container over his ice tea and empties a hive worth of golden honey into his beverage.

When he kissed me on Friday, he didn't taste sweet. I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip. He tasted like beer and fried food.

Michael rumbles happily and leans back in his chair, the metal legs creaking a protest. He sips on his ice tea as the ladies chat.

I watch him covertly.

I see the way he takes care of his mother, adding the artificial sweetener to her drink, unwrapping the tissue paper around the bright red leather purse she's purchased, retrieving the phone she drops.

I notice how she leans into him, how she gazes proudly at him when he isn't looking, how she smiles at his jokes.

Michael's mother loves him and he loves her. I drift closer to their table, secure in my invisibility, not as secure about my self-­worth. I loved my mother and that love hadn't been enough for her. After my father went to prison, she skipped town and never looked back, leaving her fourteen-­year-­old daughter to fend for herself. I did fend for myself because, as Blaine tells me, I'm strong, stronger than both of my parents.

Right now I don't feel strong. I'm envious and lonely and needy. The cat woman looks up from her heavily sweetened pomegranate ice tea and meets my gaze. Her face contorts, her eyes appearing sympathetic, almost pitying.

I pivot on my heels and hurry out the door before she brings my presence to Michael's attention. I might not know what else I want, from him or Blaine or anyone else. I do know I don't want to be pitied.

 

Chapter Two

I
CO
LLECT MORE
application forms from fast food restaurants, convenience stores, and one rather scary medical clinic. Returning to my temporary home, I allocate the afternoon to choosing my top three options and filling out the forms.

By working this second job, I should be able to manage financially. It will require a slight adjustment for Blaine and me, the shifts ending at midnight.

Tonight I can make our standing date. I strip, cover my naked body with the white cotton robe, slip on my flip-­flops, and return to Blaine's backyard, using my key to open the gate.

A small brown moth navigates the night breeze, her wings fluttering. She's not as brightly colored or as flashy as the butterflies I see in the daytime. Her beauty is subtle, refined.

The tang of cigar smoke teases my nostrils and my heart skips a beat. Blaine is here, waiting, watching. I walk faster, moving toward the pool, struggling to contain my excitement. The water ripples, lapping against the pool's stone sides.

A click sounds and a light turns on, illuminating Blaine. He reclines on a lounge chair, dressed in his usual black suit and white shirt, paired tonight with a plain green tie. His face is too angular to be handsome and his brilliant green eyes are hard, so very hard. He puffs on his cigar, his gaze fixed on me.

“You didn't take your phone, nymph,” Blaine drawls, his low deep voice warming my soul and igniting my arousal.

“I didn't know it was my phone.” I play with the robe's tie, my body bare under the soft cotton. Will he touch me tonight, stroke his rough hands across my skin, over my breasts, between my thighs?

“Ahhh . . . yes.” Blaine nods and a wayward lock of black hair falls across his forehead, freed from its confines. “That was my mistake. You'd never take what didn't belong to you.”

Unlike my father. He died in prison because he took what didn't belong to him. “Did you watch me?” I slip my feet out of the flip-­flops. The stone is cool against my toes.

“I always watch you.” Blaine partially lowers his eyelids, shielding his eyes, his expression dark and sultry. My pussy moistens, my need growing.

“I like that you watch.” I untie my robe and drop the white cotton to the ground, standing naked in front of my billionaire neighbor. The night breeze brushes my breasts, the caress gentler than fingers, and my nipples tighten.

Blaine's all-­seeing, all-­knowing gaze sweeps over my face, shoulders, breasts, and pauses at the triangle of neatly trimmed brown curls. His nostrils flare and I tremble. Can he smell how much I need him?

His lips twitch and he continues his leisurely perusal of my body, studying every inch of my skin while he sucks on his cigar, his cheeks indenting, a warm glow cast upon his face.

“You're beautiful,” he murmurs, and when I'm with him, I feel beautiful. He sees me, all of me. “Show me everything, Anna.”

“I'll show you.” I turn, giving him a view of my ass and back. The pool's surface reflects the moon and stars, bringing them within our reach. “Only you.” I face Blaine and our gazes meet, the connection between us strong and sensual.

He grinds the end of his cigar into the base of the ashtray. “Pull your chair closer to me,” Blaine orders, his voice firm, allowing no disobedience, and I quiver, his dominance driving my desire higher.

My chair has a straight back, naturally toned rattan armrests, and a soft seat cushion, perfectly designed for giving him complete access to my body. As I position the chair in front of Blaine, I cast a covert glance at the tabletop. There's a box of white tissues, my new phone, and the ashtray, but no black velvet bag. We won't be using the marble dildo tonight.

Will he use his fingers to pleasure me? Or will he fill me with his long thick cock? I shake as I lower myself into the seat. Am I ready for this, to take him inside me, to give up all of my control?

“Place your legs over the armrests.” His command takes the decision away from me.

I trust Blaine. I trust him not to hurt me, not to move faster than I'm willing to move. I hook my legs over the rattan, opening myself fully to him, the cool breeze skimming over my hot flesh.

I show Blaine everything, my dark curls, my pink pussy lips, my virgin entrance, and I wait, trembling, vulnerable and exposed. He gazes at me, his expression almost frighteningly intense, his black dress pants tented around his impressively large erection.

“You're so responsive.” Blaine leans forward, looking more closely at my pussy, lowering his head between my legs, his warm breath wafting on my inner thighs. “Wet and tight.”

“I'm wet for you, Blaine.” My voice grows husky. I need his touch. I need him. “Feel how much I want you.”

He looks up at me and his gaze meets mine, his eyes as dark as the sky above us. “You're sure?”

“I've never been more sure of anything in my life.” I spread my thighs wider, lifting my ass, giving him more access to me, trusting him with my body. “Touch me.”

Blaine pauses and I stiffen, bracing for rejection, certain he'll deny me yet again. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

He extends his index finger of his right hand and drifts the rough tip over my knee. I quiver, the brush of skin against skin exquisite. Blaine grazes his finger along my inner thigh, following the flare of my hip, avoiding my pussy, where I need his touch the most.

“Blaine.” I wiggle. His mouth curls upward and he strokes my side up and down, up and down, close but not close enough to my left breast.

I grip my ankles, determined to survive his teasing. Blaine traces my collarbone, playing with the black ribbon, the golden key dangling between my breasts. He moves up my neck, pressing his fingertips into my jugular vein.

“You're breathtaking, Anna.” He explores my countenance with his fingers, lifting my chin, sweeping his thumb across my bottom lip, his skin coarse and callused.

I tilt my body forward and brush my lips against his. He captures my face between his big hands, his fingers splaying over my cheekbones, and he deepens the kiss, spearing his tongue into the seam of my lips. I open to him and he fills my mouth, tasting of cigar and cognac and Blaine.

Our tongues tumble and twist, our breaths entwine. Neither of us closes our eyes. Blaine likes to watch, and my soul has been too battered to trust anyone, even my honorable billionaire, blindly.

I grasp his shoulders and his muscles ripple under the layers of fabric, his suit fitting him like a second skin. Blaine threads his fingers through my hair, holding me to him. He has me. He won't allow me to fall into passion's abyss alone, not tonight.

Blaine drags his hot mouth over my chin and I arch, offering him more skin for him to feast upon. He sucks, the tug and pull delectable, and I moan, my pussy pulsating to the same rhythm.

“Blaine.” I pluck at his lapels, wanting, needing, his skin against mine.

“Not tonight, Anna.” He flattens my palms against his chest. “Tonight is about you.”

I frown. Every night has been about me. I've never seen Blaine without his jacket, without his pants, without his shoes. Doesn't he trust me with his body?

“Let me touch you, savor you,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath tantalizingly hot. “And then I'll show you.”

He'll show me. I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. He'll show me how he pleasures himself, how he strokes his cock, how he brings himself to release. “Yes, please.”

“Yes.” Blaine gives me one of his rare smiles, his teeth flashing white in his tanned face, his eyes glittering as brightly as the stars above us. “I
will
please you.”

He circles my breasts with his fingertips, teasing me, his touch too slow, too far away from my taut nipples. I allow my head to drop back, panting as he caresses me round and round and round, spiraling into my core.

Blaine brushes his thumbs over my nipples and I cry out, the sound torn from my throat, surprising me, the pleasure too raw, too intense.

“Tomorrow, I'll suck on them,” he promises, his voice deep.

I wiggle, swishing my ass over the seat cushion, struggling to control myself, as Blaine lavishes attention on my small breasts, cherishing every curve. He toys with the key, rubbing the ribbon along my neck and the gold over my nipples, this first gift symbolizing the bond between us, his backyard serving as a safe haven.

Blaine lowers his left hand, gliding his palm over my stomach, spearing his fingers through my short curls, dipping his fingertips into my moist heat. “You're ready for me, nymph.”

“Always.” I squirm, having never had a man touch my pussy, the sensation too stimulating, his callused fingers shredding my control, leaving me vulnerable.

Blaine doesn't take advantage of my weakness. He strums my wet folds gently, reverently, treating me as though I'm priceless and fragile, and I bask in his open admiration, my body burning.

Blaine pushes one of his fingers inside me, skimming his rough skin along my inner walls, burying himself up to the joint, and my pussy clenches around him, protesting his invasion.

“You're so small, so tight.” Despair edges Blaine's voice.

I loosen, my body adjusting to him, accepting him. “I can take you.” I gaze pointedly at the large ridge in his dress pants. “All of you.”

“Not tonight.” Blaine pumps me, sliding his finger in and out, in and out, rubbing his thumb against my clit, and my rational thoughts stop, the animal side of my nature taking over, my focus on my pussy, my need. I dig my nails into his cloth-­covered shoulders and undulate, moving into his hand.

“That's it, Anna,” Blaine coaxes, his breath streaming over my neck. “Fuck my hand.” He adds one more finger, stretching me open, and I whimper, the fullness, the friction, stripping my restraint, leaving me bare.

Blaine works me with both of his hands, ravishing my pussy while squeezing and releasing my left breast, the dual sensation pushing me ruthlessly toward fulfillment. With each thrust of his fingers, his grip on my curves intensifies, the pain sharpening my pleasure.

I struggle for breath, an unrelenting band of emotion coiling around my chest. Beads of sweat form on Blaine's forehead, my billionaire as affected by the encounter. My pussy juices speckle his pristine white cuff. My musk scents the air.

“Can't . . . last,” I pant, desperately holding onto him, my constant in a harsh unreliable world. “Blaine?”

“Come for me.” He gives me the order I need, stripping this last barrier. “Come now.” He taps my clit hard and I break, my soul splintering into a million pieces, each of them sharp and bright.

I scream, driving my hips upward, taking his fingers deep inside me. Blaine surges forward and covers my mouth, muffling the sound, his fabric-­covered chest flattening my bare breasts. I writhe and twist and shake against him, torn between needing to be free and wanting to be closer.

He holds me with his free hand, his fingers remaining in my pussy, and I sob and shudder into his chest, my breathing gradually leveling and my heartbeat slowing, returning to normal.

Not that being finger fucked in my neighbor's backyard is normal. Water rushes over rock. Insects buzz. Blaine pulls away, withdrawing his fingers from my pussy.

“You're so wet.” He raises his fingers for me to see, moonlight glistening off his callused skin. “How do you taste?” Blaine meets my gaze and my breath hitches. He closes his lips around his fingers and slowly sucks them clean, his blissful expression warming my chest.

“Can I taste you?” I ask, my body humming with anticipation.

“Not tonight.” Blaine leans forward and brushes his lips across mine. I taste myself. “Don't move. I want to look at you as I touch myself.”

I'll finally see him, all of him. I hold Blaine's gaze, excited and nervous. He reclines on the lounge chair, unzips his dress pants, and pulls them down to his knees.

My breathing quickens. I want to lower my gaze but I know our rules and I wait for his permission. The moment stretches, testing my self-­control, challenging my willpower.

“Look at me, Anna. See how much I want you.”

I look and my mouth drops open. I've seen cocks before, in movies, on the Internet, in magazines, but his cock is huge, his cock head broad, his shaft thick and long.

Blaine grips himself at his base, his skin tanned against coarse black curls, and he waits, allowing me to study him. I want to do more than study him. I yearn to touch him, to trace the vein running along his shaft, to circle his rim, to stroke over his smooth cock head.

This isn't allowed, not yet. I close my fingers around my key, gripping the metal tightly. “I can take you,” I declare. Even I hear the doubt in my voice.

Blaine drops his gaze to my pussy and his eyes darken. “You're very small.” He pumps himself slowly, up and down, his knuckles white around his shaft.

“I can do it.” I cup my breasts, squeezing my curves to the tempo of his hands, my nipples taut, my passions rising once more. “But I'll be tight around you, Blaine. My pussy will hug your shaft.”

Blaine works his cock faster and faster, sliding his hands along his length. A bead of pre-­cum forms on his tip. I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, hungry for a taste of him, and he groans.

“Do you like to be sucked?” I ask, wanting to know his preferences, wishing to please him, my more worldly billionaire.

“Yes,” Blaine rumbles, his voice deepening. “Have you ever sucked a cock?”

“No,” I admit, woefully aware of my inexperience. I've never trusted a man enough to consider letting him inside me. “Will you teach me how?”

“Not tonight.” As he strokes his cock, he grunts, the animalistic sound exciting me. He's losing his renowned iron-­clad control, a rare occurrence for Blaine.

“I want to tongue your slit,” the devil in me adds. I tap my top lip with the tip of my tongue and his cock bobs. “Lick around your rim. Squeeze your balls.” I pinch my nipples, adding pain to the emotions swirling inside me.

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