Addicted (12 page)

He’s at my throat now. Then back to my face, my lips. I can hardly keep up with him, only somehow that feels OK. I want to be swept away. I want him to leave these hot, wet marks all over me, right on down to the V of my shirt – and lower, if he wants to go.

Which he apparently does. He mouths at my breasts through the material, turning it wet and heavy. But that just makes the sensation more intense. The cotton clings to my skin, rubbing at me as his lips do, as his tongue does.

And then he catches one stiff nipple, and I cry out without meaning to.

‘Sensitive there, huh? And by there, I mean all over.
God
, you’re easy to get going.’

‘I am?’

‘Oh, yeah. You got going the moment I kissed you, right?’

He trails his mouth up over the curve of my throat – probably to illustrate this point. I squirm the second he does it, and end with another faint sigh, to feel him licking just below my right ear.

Who knew that could be an erogenous zone?

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe? Maybe is all you’re going to give me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though I could just slide my hand up your skirt and see.’

‘See what?’

Lord, I do ask some stupid questions. But in my own defence, he
is
sucking on my earlobe in-between sentences. I don’t think anyone could put two and two together under that kind of pressure.

‘See how wet you are, baby. Did you get wet just walking over here?’

‘No.’

‘Did you think about all those things I must have read, and feel that heat starting up between your legs? In your pussy?’

In truth, I can’t remember – not that it matters.

I can certainly feel it
now
. It started as a small flame, when he first put his mouth on mine. And it ends as a raging inferno, the moment he says that one wicked word. I actually jolt to hear it, said in so exciting a way. He strips it of every negative connotation, and leaves me without the ability to speak.

‘Because I read all of it, every word, every dark little fantasy, and I swear to God I’m going to do every single one to you.’

‘You
are
?’

I sound so helplessly incredulous. It’s almost humiliating.

‘Oh, yeah. And I’m going to start with chapter twenty-four.’

My brain immediately flicks to the offending section, and that incredulity increases tenfold. I’m trying to kiss him back, but it’s really hard to when your eyebrows have disappeared into the stratosphere. And my eyes … I know my eyes are comically wide.

I just can’t make them any smaller, in the face of chapter twenty-four.

I wasn’t even sure people really did that. I just put it in because it sounded so outrageous, but he doesn’t seem to think it is at all. He thinks it’s a trip to the post office to get some stamps. For him, chapter twenty-four is a daily event – and now he wants to do it all over me. And even more terrifying:

I think I might let him.

Oh, God, I can’t possibly let him.

‘Not chapter twenty-four,’ I moan, as though he just threatened me with a pair of pliers and a dentist’s chair. But my hands are sort of in his hair, as I say it, and I’m making these little daring, darting forays into various bits of his body. I jerk forward and give his earlobe a little lick – maybe to see if he likes that as much as I do – and when he goes all shivery I get a little bolder.

I lick his throat, too – his delicious throat, that kind of tastes like Juicy Fruit. And he’s so warm there, too, so warm and just a little bit bristly. The whole thing leads me on like a teasing little trollop, until I’m kissing him there all hot and wet. I leave a mark where that curve meets his jawline, and another once I’m sure he doesn’t mind.

But then, isn’t that what’s so cool about Dillon?

He doesn’t mind anything. I could probably get away with grabbing him between his legs, if I had the balls to go for it. As it is I’ve managed to get his T-shirt halfway up his back, and that’s in the middle of the most terrifying conversation of all time.

Imagine if I was calmer, I think.

Imagine how I’d be if I didn’t care at all
.

‘How about chapter twelve, then?’ he asks, as he rubs my achingly stiff nipples through all that material and all that wetness. It’s really hard to say no, with that sensation in the back of my mind. ‘I feel like you really, really might want chapter twelve.’

‘I don’t think I … I kind of …’

‘You kind of want to do chapter twelve.’

‘Maybe we could start with … something a little more like chapter – oh, God, don’t do that. Don’t do that. Why are you doing that?’

The ‘that’ in question is him rubbing the heel of his palm over my sex, through my skirt. And even though my skirt is made of tweed and has the density of a giant chunk of dark matter, the surge of sensation I get from the feel of him is just … otherworldly. A heated pulse spreads outwards from the place he’s touching, and I clutch at his body. I gasp for air.

‘To get a better number.’

‘You’re not going to get a better number by playing dirty.’

‘Are you sure? Because it kind of feels like I might.’

‘You definitely won’t, oh, God, you definitely won’t.’

‘Really? Not even if I keep rubbing you like this?’

‘Mmmm yes … I mean … no. No. No.’

‘Because that is your clit right there, isn’t it? And when I just make these little circles … that feels good, right? I bet that feels sooooo good. You came so easily when I fucked you like that, so I gotta guess that you can do it in seconds, when someone’s rubbing you here. Even if it’s through material like this. Even if I’m barely touching you at all.’

He’s right. I’ve got my arm around his shoulders and I’m kind of squeezing him in these spasms, and I can hear the sounds I’m making. I’m moaning in these little fits and starts that get louder as I manage to get my feet on the ground and shift position a bit.

‘Yeah, oh, yeah. Did you just spread your legs a little for me, baby? Huh? You like that, huh? Want me to pull your panties down and lift your skirt? Maybe stroke you skin to skin? When does that happen in your book? … chapter three, I think. Yeah, chapter three is when he finds her in the copy room, and rubs her off while the whole office watches through the window.’

‘Please don’t let anyone watch,’ I say, because that’s all I can manage. I can’t tell him I don’t want him to take my underwear off, because I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. And I can’t suggest that he shouldn’t stroke me with his bare fingers, as that is pretty much all I’ve dreamt about since he almost did it yesterday.

So this is the one bargaining chip I’ve got left: no insane voyeurism.

But apparently it’s not really needed.

‘Ohhhh, honey,’ he says, as he takes my face in one hand, and kisses me long and slow on the mouth. ‘You really think that’s how it’s going to work? That I’m the one who has to let things happen?’

I go blank, momentarily. Then think of all the guys in every story I’ve ever written. They’re always giving permission and making things happen, and I guess I’d kind of thought the same of him. He certainly seems like a steam train, barrelling through all of my barriers.

But now I’m not so sure.

I’m not sure about anything.

‘It’s just you,’ he says. ‘And whether you’d be OK with chapter two.’

There’s something worse about that one than all the others. Not because it’s ruder, because it really isn’t. Chapter two is just the introduction of my heroine to her Master – it goes back to when they first met, and she was too embarrassed to admit anything about herself. So he makes her lie on the bed, with most of her clothes still on, and then …

And then she does the thing I’m suddenly petrified of.

I almost say to Dillon:
no, let’s go back to the first thing you suggested.
If I’m really in charge and I’m truly the one with the power of permission, then maybe I can just say. I even form the words in my head
: I’d like you just to stroke me, if that’s OK?

So it’s weird that I don’t let them out.

Instead I unzip the side of my skirt, and let it fall. If I’m remembering correctly she does the whole thing in her underwear – but that’s still so very bare to be. That’s still much more naked than I’ve been in front of him before, and now there’s an extra layer of exposure on top, too. There’s his growing knowledge of me, so much more extensive than anything I’ve got on him. I don’t even know if he likes seeing me this way.

Though I think I can guess.

He seems excited just watching me unlace my shoes – so excited that I’m surprised he can stay where he is. That heat is crackling out of him again, and he’s breathing really hard, but he doesn’t come any closer. He stays sitting in one of those little loveseats, as I strip off in front of his bed. He’s swept the curtain aside and drawn the chair very near to me – just like in the story – but that’s the limit.

That’s all he does, as I start unbuttoning my shirt.

‘You want me to talk?’ he asks, after a second – probably because I’m shaking and fumbling with this last real barrier. He’s not seen my love handles, yet, or my ridiculously big boobs, and the thought of him doing so is making me shake.

So I say yes, even though the hero of my book rarely said a word. He was all moody looks and angry sneers, steely in his silence like some Clint Eastwood character. But when I wrote that, I didn’t fully realise what words could do. I’m used to quiet myself, during sex, and have never really had the benefit of anything else.

But now I’m starting to understand.

I’m starting to understand how it feels to have someone say words like this, when you’re stumbling around in the dark, unsure.

‘Ohhhh, man, those tits of yours. Oh, baby, it’s a crime that you hide that body under so many clothes. Come on. Come on, take that shirt off.’

They’d probably sound crude, to most people. They’re gruff and half-grunted, and he uses words like ‘tits’ and ‘fuck’. But somehow they’re a thousand times sweeter than the poetry Bobby Tate tried to write for me, or the halting ‘I like you very much’
I got from David Lerner. They make my heart thump in my chest, and a flush spread over my body.

And then he puts a hand between his own legs and squeezes the thick shape he finds there, and the effect is magnified. The effect thumps me in the face and knocks me unconsciousness. I barely even think about the shirt I’m sliding off my shoulders – because he gives me so many other things to consider.

By the time I’m standing there in my mismatched underwear, all of my focus is on his jeans-clad cock, and what he’s doing with it as he watches me.

He’s stroking himself, I think. He’s stroking himself over the breasts that barely fit into this ridiculous bra, and my silly cotton knickers that could put anyone off. The fact that the top bit is black and the bottom bit is white is just the icing on the cake, really, but apparently he doesn’t care.

‘Ohhh, yeah,’ he says, as though I’m some peephole stripper, lithe and lovely, ready to dance for his delectation. The idea doesn’t even make me feel tawdry, though I know it should. Whenever I’m writing a scenario like this, those are always the words I want to put into it. They’re the ones that Lori thought was missing – the real ones – that tend to hover on the periphery of my fantasies.
Cheap, silly, slutty, wrong
… they stand in a ring around my heroine.

Only they don’t stand around me now. I’m fluttering with nerves and they’re showing in my shaking body and my flushed face, but that’s about it. The rest is excitement, real excitement, of the kind that gets stronger when he says, ‘Get on the bed, then.’

By the time I’ve fumbled my way there I’m breathing jaggedly, and my pussy feels so hot, so swollen, I can hardly move around it. I can’t put my legs together, because putting my legs together feels like it might send me over the edge. And I can’t keep them really open, either, because once I’m lying down I’m very aware of the view.

He’ll be able to make out the plump swell of my sex, straining against the material, and the curving shape of my bottom, below – all of which he’s already seen, I know. He’s seen it all bare, in fact, so I should be absolutely fine about this.

And yet somehow I’m not. I’m more nervous, in some strange way, with my underwear still on, and him over there, just watching me. He’s not standing over my body, making everything happen with his hands. I have to do it myself, and doing it yourself is hard. It’s … more real. I reach down between my legs and find the material soaked through, and immediately want to hide the fact.

Even though he’s seen that before, too. He knows how I get.
I
know how I get. I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised to feel all that wetness, making my knickers thin and clingy and really, really rude.

But I am, all the same. I make a little startled sound and a thick surge of arousal goes through me, followed by that desire to close my legs. Thankfully, however, arousal wins, and I just manage to hold them open, as I force myself to keep stroking over that slippery shape beneath the material.

And then after a while I’m no longer forcing things at all. I’m fondling myself, I realise, just like he wanted. I’m doing what feels good – like a long slow rub over my plump outer lips; that soaked material making everything more sensitive and alive to sensation. Just like his mouth did on my nipples, I think, and then I touch myself there, too, without thinking. I slip a hand inside the cup of my bra, and run the tips of my fingers over that one stiff point.

While my other hand gets bolder.

My other hand isn’t content with teasing any more. I don’t think it was content five minutes ago, to be honest, but I held it back. I kept it captive with nerves, and now they’re falling away – along with my awareness of the story that sits behind all of this. The heroine had to be made to, if I remember correctly. He had to force her to touch herself, when she simply wouldn’t go the whole way.

But I guess I’m not really like that. I’m more the sort of person who gets so turned on that they can no longer think straight – who gets over-excited, just like he said, and can’t be shy about things any more. I want to come, I think, I really want to come, so I just slide my hand inside the material and ease my fingers through my own sex.