Killer Heels (25 page)

If only he
hadn’t told me what it was!
she thought desperately, chewing
and swallowing as fast as she could.
The monkfish liver was rich, tasty, the twist of daikon radish
Jacob had picked up with it a refreshing crunchy contrast. But
the knowledge that she was eating fish liver almost made her
gag; as soon as it was down, she reached out for her martini
glass and took a long, cleansing gulp.
‘Have some daikon,’ Jacob suggested, watching her closely.
‘It freshens the mouth after strong-tasting food. The Japanese
know exactly what they’re doing. Like the Italians. Parsley and
radish to freshen the breath and help the digestion.’
He was right; the daikon
did
help. And to her huge relief,
Jacob didn’t insist that she have more liver; he ate it himself
with great enthusiasm, trailing the pieces through the ponzu
sauce, licking his lips after each one.
‘Ah!’ he said happily, as the waiter slid the empty trenchers
away and placed in the centre of the table a long, elaboratelycarved, shallow wooden boat, on which, beautifully arranged
on flakes of ice, lay various perfectly sliced pieces of raw fish.
Coco recognised bright pink tuna and equally bright orange
salmon with relief: those she could manage.
The others, however, she wasn’t so sure about.
‘Lobster,’ Jacob said, indicating different pieces with his
chopsticks.‘Fluke ceviche, chopped crunchy eel . . . mmn, fatty
tuna . . .’
‘Brilliant,’ Coco said faintly. ‘Fluke. My favourite.’
Jacob glanced at her and laughed. ‘Your face!’ he said. ‘Don’t
worry, you’ll love it all. And it’s raw fish – you can eat as much
as you want. Here.’ He dolloped a chopstick-full of ginger on
her plate. ‘Ginger helps. Shall we start with the lobster?
Everyone
likes lobster.’
‘I’ve never had lobster in my life,’ Coco admitted bravely.
Jacob’s hand squeezed her leg, and kept the pressure on, a
warm, tight caress that melted Coco, sent an electric charge up
her inner thigh all the way to her groin, a pulse of excitement
and anticipation. She longed for his fingers to slide up further,
between her legs . . .
‘Only you would admit that,’ he said with great appreciation. ‘All the other girls I’ve taken out would pretend they ate
it all the time, to impress me.’ He leaned over and dropped a
kiss on her ear. ‘You’re different, Coco,’ he whispered. ‘And
you know something?’
‘What?’ Coco was barely able to speak.
‘I love the way you say “Brilliant”,’ he said intimately. ‘Every
time you do, it cracks me up. Keep saying it, won’t you? For
me?’
Coco turned to look at him. His face so close, his golden tan
skin crinkled so appealingly around his eyes and mouth,
laughter-lines that seemed to speak of age and wisdom; she
wanted to learn from him, to soak up everything he had to
teach her. To be mentored by him, to become as sophisticated
as Victoria and Mireille, as successful as them. And if that
meant playing his games, passing his tests, she’d do it – she’d
do anything he wanted her to do.
His hand slid another inch up her leg, and she shuddered
from head to toe, picturing, once more, having the whole
weight of his body on her . . .
‘Yes, Jacob,’ she whispered back.

By the time they finished dinner, Coco was in a trance. Jacob
had fed her a dizzying array of sushi, and allowed her a few
spoonfuls of sorbet afterwards, watching her lick the sugary ice
off her spoon with great appreciation; she had drunk strong
green tea, which had sobered her up a little, but she knew that
she was more intoxicated by Jacob’s presence than by the alcohol she had consumed. Jacob ushered her out into the waiting
limo, and as it pulled away, he took both her hands in his, pulling her towards him.

Oh, God! Coco thought, panicking. He’s going to tell me
that I’m too young, too naïve, too inexperienced – that I’m not
ready for him. He’s turning me down. If he wanted to have sex
with me, he’d be kissing me, not holding my hands . . .

‘Coco,’ Jacob said softly, his voice as rich as brandy. ‘Lovely
young Coco. You make me feel so very alive.’ He raised her
hands to his mouth, kissing each in turn. ‘I want to ask you to
come back home with me, but . . .’

Her heart sank to the soles of her shoes. No! she thought
frantically. No ‘buts’. I have to seduce him somehow – to
convince him to have sex with me. After all this build-up I’ll
explode if we don’t have sex tonight.

For an awful moment it occurred to her that she could
always text Xavier, go round to his for a booty call. And then
she felt horribly guilty.
I can’t use him like that. I know he has
feelings for me
.

‘But,’ Jacob continued, a smile in his voice, ‘if you do, I warn
you, I’ll be unable to keep my hands off you. Will you trust me,
Coco, if I tell you something?’

She nodded, heady with relief, heat building at the pit of
her stomach.
‘I know how things work in New York between a man and
a woman,’ he said, bending his head closer to her. ‘Women
think if they have sex on a first date, the man will think they’re
easy. He’ll never ring them again. And most of the time, I must
admit, that’s true. But not with me and you. I promise you
that. I want to take you to my home and make love to you
tonight, and it won’t end tomorrow morning.’
She felt his breath on her face, fragranced with nutty, smoky
green tea. He dropped a kiss on her lips, briefly, the same
promise in it as there had been in his words.
‘So if you come back with me, you know what’s going to
happen,’ he said against her mouth. ‘I’m fascinated by you.
Utterly fascinated. I want to know you, all of you. Your brain,
your body, your heart.’ His voice dropped to a bare whisper.
‘I want to hear the sounds you make when you come. I want
to come inside you. I want to feel what it’s like to come inside
you, how you feel there, how you taste . . .’
Coco’s hands were squeezing his now, as tight as she could,
holding onto him as if she would drown if she let go of him.
She cleared her throat, moistening her lips, which were dry
with tension.
‘Brilliant,’ she managed, and was rewarded with a soft laugh
of approval.
She didn’t even remember walking into his building, the
chequerboard tiled floor of the lobby, the Art Deco lighting
and the doorman jumping to hold the door for them. She
didn’t remember the elevator, the way it opened miraculously
into his apartment, or the rich glowing interior of his living
room, the manly colours in which it was decorated, the
oxblood leather chesterfield sofas, the cherrywood humidors,
the deep red and indigo silk rug, warm and inviting. All she
remembered was his arm around her, guiding her through,
down a hallway, into the room beyond.
Into his bedroom.
The bed loomed up, the huge carved mahogany headboard
dominating the room, two great knotted poles of wood at the
bottom corners, a fantastic Gothic work of art, piled high with
velvet cushions on the deep blue brocade coverlet. It was
impossible to look at that bed and not think of sex, and as
Jacob’s arms wrapped around Coco’s waist from behind, as his
lips started kissing her neck, finding each sensitive spot in turn,
working her slowly and expertly into a state of excitement that
she had never experienced before, she stared at the bed, imagining Jacob on top of her as she lay on the high mattress,
already desperate for it to happen. He could have pulled up
her skirt then and there, bent her over the edge, pushed himself
into her, and she would have screamed in pleasure, already wet
and ready for him.
But Jacob was no Xavier. He had decades of experience that
Xavier did not have, decades of practising to make perfect in
drawing out the anticipation and building tension. She felt his
hands at her shoulderblades, drawing down the zipper of her
dress, easing it off her shoulders; it fell to the floor with a shush
of silk and sequins collapsing into each other. A second later,
her bra was unfastened, falling to the floor in its turn, and she
felt Jacob’s hands close over her breasts, so hot she cried out in
pleasure, his square-tipped sculptor’s fingers pinching her
nipples, pulling them gently, twisting them, playing with them
on the boundary between pleasure and pain. She winced and
moaned and arched her back, her head slumping forward so he
could kiss her neck, completely pliant in his arms.
And then he spun her round, so she was facing him, her
naked breasts pressed into his shirtfront; he had taken off his
jacket as they entered the apartment, discarded it on one of
the sofas. Jacob lowered his head and kissed her, his tongue
driving into her mouth, his hands hard on her bottom, lifting
her towards him, pressing her into his crotch. She writhed
against him, wanting it to happen now, now, to feel his cock
inside her . . .
‘Do you want me to fuck you?’ he said.
‘Yes!’ she panted. ‘Yes, please, Jacob. Please fuck me.’
‘Then take off your panties,’ he said.
She stared up at him.
‘Do it,’ he said, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Take off your
panties.’
Hooking her thumbs into the lace border, she wriggled
them down her thighs, kicking them away as they fell to one
ankle.
‘Now lie on the bed,’ he said. ‘Face down.’
Coco was beyond questions or protest. Eagerly, naked, she
climbed onto the bed and lay down obediently, arms at her
side. She heard Jacob’s shoes being pulled off, a drawer opening, felt the mattress shift and yield as he climbed onto it,
beside her, and turned her head to catch a glimpse of him; the
next thing she knew, his hand closed round her skull, stroking
her hair, sliding under her forehead, lifting it as his other hand
slid a pillow underneath it so her face was turned back downwards again, raised enough with her forehead propped on the
velvet pillow so she could breathe.
And then she gasped, because something was trailing down
her vertebrae; feathers, it felt like, tickling her deliciously, up
and down her spine, circling her buttocks, teasing her, toying
with her, each individual one flicking and caressing her delicate nerve-endings, making her sigh and squirm against the
coverlet. The feathers were at the very base of her spine, tracing the split between the cheeks of her bottom, parting them
gently, so that she splayed her legs a little, then a little more,
wanting more and more, wanting to feel the feathers between
her legs . . .
And then they stopped stroking her, lifted away. Coco
moaned in frustration, her legs in a V on the coverlet, desperately hoping to feel Jacob’s hands on her hips, lifting her, his
cock inside her . . .
‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Oh God!’
Instead of the feathers, his palm had slid between her legs,
his fingers where she wanted his cock, dampening in her moist
warmth, his wide thumb now on her clitoris, playing with her
as if he were plucking a guitar string, thumbing her slowly and
surely to orgasm, her body weight on his hand, her hips driving
into him as he made her come as he had promised her he
would. She was whimpering in release, her mouth open,
making a ring of wetness on the coverlet as she came, and as
she did, as the spasms began to hit her, her whole body jerked
in shock.
Because Jacob’s other palm had come down on her buttocks
in a brisk, open-handed slap that brought the blood surging to
the surface.
‘Aah!’ she protested, but then his thumb circling her, his
fingers driving inside her, made her come again, and he spanked
her again as she did, pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure, until
she could no longer tell the difference. Until she was arching
up to feel his palm coming down on her bottom, waiting for
the next spank, relishing the fizz and shock of the impact, feeling her bottom growing hot and red, grinding into his palm
below her to find her next orgasm, sandwiched between his
hands, thrashing with excitement.
When he stopped at last, when his hand slid out from
beneath her, she knew what was about to happen, and eagerly
she pushed herself back, buttocks in the air, more than ready
for him. The next thing she knew, he was shoving a pillow
under her hips, pushing her back down onto it, climbing up
the bed beside her, wrapping something round one of her
wrists, and then the other.
‘You trust me, don’t you?’ he said, as he tied the velvet ropes
around her wrists. ‘Say it. Say you trust me.’
‘I trust you, Jacob,’ she whispered, caught between sudden
fear and deep, equally frightening excitement. She pulled on the
ropes, but they held firm. She heard him undressing, his belt
being unbuckled, his trousers unzipped, heard the clothes being
discarded, the crinkle of a condom wrapper being ripped open.
And then he was on top of her, as she had dreamed of him
being, heavy and finally naked. She felt his hairy chest against
her back, the thick hairs at his groin and the base of his penis
as he adjusted her hips, pulled her back onto his cock, and
began to fuck her. His cock wasn’t long, but it was thick, like
his body, and its entrance drew a cry from her, wet as she was.
Each pound of his hips made her feel the coarse hair of his
groin, his balls smacking against her.
‘Anything I do,’ he said, his voice hoarse now, ‘anything I do
when you’re tied up, if you want me to stop – say your name.
Your real name. Say that, and I’ll stop at once.’
With every thrust, the velvet ropes tightened and loosened,
throwing Coco back and forward; she worked to get the right
angle, her fingers closing round the velvet, pulling on the cords,
as she tilted her bottom into the pillow below, lifting it for
Jacob, feeling his whole cock inside her, slamming against her
bottom, fractionally wider at the base, each thrust followed by
a groan of his as he finally reached climax. The strokes became
faster, juddering, as he lost the steady rhythm, felt his orgasm
building, his fingers digging into her hipbones, forcing her to
be still as he throbbed his release deep inside her, not letting
her move an iota until he had spilled every drop, until his cock
finally stopped shuddering inside her.
It felt like forever until he unclamped his hips and let her
go; she slumped to the coverlet, still feeling the imprint of his
fingers hard on her skin, his body following her, collapsing on
top of her, as heavy as she had wanted, hairy and solid, hot as
an oven. She could barely breathe under his weight, and she
turned her head to the side, not wanting him to know, wanting
him to stay there, pressing her down, anchoring her, utterly
relaxed in the aftermath . . .
She sighed in disappointment as he lifted, slid out of her,
pulled off the condom and padded off the bed to discard it and
wash himself. She had forgotten that she was tied up; it was a
surprise when he circled the bed, undoing the knots around
her wrists, chafing them carefully with his hands to make sure
her circulation hadn’t been cut off.
‘I have a toothbrush for you,’ he said in her ear, kissing her
cheek. ‘And nightdresses. All new. Everything you need to get
ready for bed.’
‘I just want to sleep,’ Coco mumbled, but he was pulling
her arm, guiding her off the bed, helping her stumble down a
few steps, onto a tiled floor, to a black granite sink; he stood
beside her as she fumbled toothpaste onto a brush, washed
her face, dabbed on some Crème de la Mer from a jar he
handed her, pulled on a silk nightdress, soft as a cloud, and,
her eyes almost closed with exhaustion, climbed the steps
again and fell onto the bed.
It was unbelievably comfortable, the most comfortable bed
in the world, huge and luxurious, the 400 thread-count sheets
as silky as her nightdress, the pillows downy and yielding. The
last thing she remembered was Jacob beside her, his arm
thrown over her possessively, big and rough with dark hair, his
hairy legs tangled around hers, silk boxers covering his tumescent penis.
Stroking back her hair from her forehead, he kissed it. And,
lips against her ear, reaching back to turn out the last light, he
whispered to her, ‘Good girl,’ as she fell asleep.