Addicted (16 page)

And then he gets his hands underneath my arms and just hauls me up. Right out of my chair and off my feet – as though I’ve turned into someone half my size. Tiny, sylph-like girls get thrown around like this. But girls with size seven feet never do. They’re supposed to stay completely rooted to their seats at all times, composed and kind of like a block of concrete. They don’t fly through the air with the greatest of ease.

Even though that’s kind of what happens. I think I actually feel the breeze above his head, briefly. I’m reminded of
Dirty Dancing
and a dozen movies I’ve always wanted to re-enact, before he brings me back down to earth.

Only it’s not earth he brings me back down to. It’s another dimension in which I’m sort of sprawled across my desk, and he’s planted himself firmly between my legs. And I can’t right myself. I can’t bring myself back to normality.

Because he won’t stop asking.

‘You want to talk now?’ he says, and I do my best to seem unfazed.

‘For a slab of wood beneath my ass? Come on,’ I say, but then I feel that treacherous spark of anticipation in my chest. That little thing inside me that really wants to know what he’s going to do next to persuade me. It wouldn’t have to be very much, I don’t think – and I’m right.

I sigh just to feel his big hands on my thighs, sliding underneath my skirt. He’s done it before, of course, but I can’t deny that it’s different here. There’s this extra knot of tension that turns to arousal as it unravels, though I try to deny it does.

‘Any closer?’ he asks.

‘Not even slightly,’ I say.

I swear you’d never know that I’m going out of my mind.

‘And if I slide your panties off?’

‘I’d probably slap you.’

I’d probably thank you
,
I think, and luckily it’s my thoughts he hears. He always hears my thoughts. They must be written on my face in large print. I’m like
See Spot Run
, only with exhibitionism instead of happy dogs.

‘You’re never going to do that,’ he says, and of course he’s right. My hands stay bunched at my sides, slick with perspiration and so tense. I don’t think I could unfold them and crack across his face if he said disparaging things about my mother. I’m too wrapped in a dozen different sensations: the restriction of his body between my legs, forcing them to stay open … the stroke of his fingers over my thighs … his gaze bearing down on me like this …

How does he do it?

It took so much more to get public indecency out of my heroine. My hero had to go through pages and pages of info-dumps, just to convince her it was a cool, safe thing to do. Dillon comes around my desk, lifts me up and plonks me down, and that gap between me and her is suddenly a chasm.

She would have chopped his body in two, to get her thighs together.

Whereas I … well …

I come pretty close to helping him, when he eases my panties down over my legs. And I can’t even berate myself for it, either, because he’s just moving far, far too slowly. He does it like we have all the time in the world, which we definitely don’t. Someone’s almost certainly going to come down here at any moment, and I’m not sure what’s worse about such a possibility:

That I might be fired, or that I might not get an orgasm.

At which point, I realise why he’s moving at a snail’s pace.

‘Just go on then,’ I say, because I can’t not. I have to, now. He’s made orgasms more important to me than my job.

‘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.

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.