Tell Me More (22 page)

A booming, tinny sound—he recognized it as a bigger version of his gran’s dinner gong—summoned everyone to dinner.

It was another stately home setting in a huge room, one long table decorated with candelabra and flowers. He wanted to sit next to Jo, but they actually had place cards, which reminded him of his sister’s wedding (and another memory arose, of his da drunk and weeping, full of unwholesome sentimental blather about losing his little girl). How many of those bloody drinks had he had? He couldn’t remember, and that was a bad sign. His vision had a sharp, sparkling quality that he remembered from the few times he’d drunk seriously, and the sound in the room echoed and wavered. Already he was feeling thirsty, a warning that the poison should be diluted.

He downed the glass of water at his place setting and reached for a piece of bread.

“Hungry?” the woman on his right next to him murmured. Her eyes sparkled beneath her mask. Her voice reminded him of Jo’s, throaty and sexy.

He raised his empty water glass to her in a toast, wondering whether he’d met her already or what he’d find to talk to her about, if he was even capable of maintaining a coherent conversation. He narrowed his eyes and looked at her place card, debating whether he should retrieve his glasses.

“Sorry, I don’t remember whether we fucked,” the woman said.

What?
He gaped at her. She’d said “met,” surely. Yes, of course, she had.

“I don’t think so. It’s my first time here. I’m Patrick.”

“I’m Jackie. Great to meet you.” She offered her hand. “Oh, you’re
Patrick.
”

It must be the booze, distorting his hearing. “Yes, I’m Patrick. Is that significant?”

She giggled and put her hand on his knee. “I can’t wait for later.”

“Really? What do you have planned?”

“That depends on you, lover boy.” She ran her fingers up and down his thigh.

He removed her hand and grabbed the bread basket. “Have some bread.”

“Oh, you meanie.” She pouted sexily at him. “So, what do you like?”

“Like?”

“Yes. What are you into?”

“Skiing, music. I’m just learning about classical but I like jazz. I box a bit, work out. What about you?” But she’d turned away to talk to the guy on the other side.

I WISHED PATRICK AND I COULD HAVE SAT
together. He’d entered into an animated conversation with the woman on his left, and I was jealous she had all his attention. But later, I’d have him all to myself.

The food was delicious and I was starving. I’d managed to grab a few hors d’oeuvres in the library to sop up the deceptively strong cocktails. Patrick had downed several with no particular effect and I could see he was drinking wine now. I remembered how he’d claimed he didn’t drink and it concerned me very slightly that either he’d lied, or exaggerated, or was just taking a risk. But he was an adult, and I figured he knew what he was doing.

“So you’re Jo,” the man next to me said. He took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

From across and several seats down the table, Patrick, as though alerted by some sort of radar, glared at me. I smiled at him. Let him sweat a little. If he was planning to play games later, I could play them now.

“Yes, I’m Jo,” I said to my neighbor. “Why do I have the feeling I have some sort of notoriety here?”

“Oh, but you do. You’re the bad girl of the drones in the Great Room. You’re the only one who’s had the smarts to invade upstairs.”

“It wasn’t that difficult.” A plate of something delicious and beautiful appeared in front of me. The thought occurred that probably everyone in this room had seen me getting spanked and having an orgasm after and I hoped nobody would say anything indiscreet to Patrick.

“And after tonight…” He shrugged. “Rumor has it you’re going places.”

I nodded, wondering whether people joined the Association for its cloak-and-dagger atmosphere as much as the sex. I wanted to ask my neighbor if he knew Mr. D., but I’d long ago figured out that he wasn’t known by that name here. I looked around the table for a tall slim man with dark hair, and naturally there were several candidates. With the buzz of conversation and clatter of cutlery on china I couldn’t distinguish his voice. But I knew I had to stop thinking about Mr. D. because this was my night with Patrick.

Dinner lasted a long time, or maybe it only seemed that way because I wanted to be alone with Patrick. At the same time I appreciated the delay, the inevitable buildup in my mind, and that I could see him but not touch him. He was making the woman next to him laugh; I’d noticed that he talked only to this woman and not the one on his other side.

I chatted to both of my neighbors about, of all things, investments, and had the impression that I could have learned a lot if I’d taken notes.

“You sound a bit like that girl on the radio,” one of them said as we paused in between courses. “You know, the one who’s on late at night.”

Woman on the radio, please.
“Do I?”

Dessert arrived, tiny dark chocolate truffles, lemon tartlets and fresh raspberries garnished with a mint leaf and a fluffy cloud of whipped cream.

I refused coffee—I wanted to be awake, but not that awake—and ordered a green tea instead. People stood, gathered in groups to chat and drifted out of the room. I wondered if they were going to observe the Great Room or seek diversions elsewhere.

Patrick stood and looked across the table at me, his gaze sharp and compelling. He jerked his head toward the door and I stood, too, telling my companions I’d see them later. They grinned and nudged each other in a way that made me uneasy, but I forgot as Patrick walked toward me—no, he stalked, fierce and predatory—and reached to rip off his mask.

“Come on,” he said, putting on his glasses. “I’ve had enough.” He didn’t seem at all drunk. He was still steady on his feet, his eyes as direct and perceptive as usual, but this was another side of Patrick I’d barely glimpsed.

What the hell had they told him? “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs.” He removed the room key from his pocket, and dangled it in front of me. “I’m fed up with women who aren’t you.”

“You seemed to be doing pretty well.”

His smile had little humor. “She was into web design, too.” He looked around. “How the hell do we get to the third floor?”

“There’s an elevator here.” Once inside I removed my mask, very aware of Patrick fixing me with that fierce gaze.

He raised his hand and unknotted his tie, drawing it slowly from his neck. I watched his hands as he rolled it and slipped it back inside his jacket pocket.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped out into a dimly lit corridor that had the quiet anonymity of a hotel. It was very quiet and my sense of anxiety about the evening, which had lessened over dinner, increased again. But what could possibly go wrong now?

Patrick consulted the key ring for our room number and led me along the corridor, stopping to unlock a door and push it open.

I stepped into the room and saw that Harry’s promise to provide romance had been serious. The room was golden with the glow of candles and the large four-poster bed was scattered with rose petals. Logs burned in the fireplace. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket next to the bed. Our backpacks sat discreetly against one wall, looking shabby and out of place.

Patrick walked past me and looked around with approval, although I think his interest lay in the size of the bed and the huge mirror opposite. He shrugged off his jacket and sat in one of the armchairs. “Come here.”

I made myself walk slowly. I wanted to run to him and snuggle on his lap, but that sternness in his expression told me that tonight he was to issue orders and I was to obey. I stood in front of him and he gestured for me to turn around. The zipper on the dress hissed and the silk slithered down. I turned around to see he now held the tie in his hands.

“Bra off. And panties.”

So I was down to my garter belt and stockings as he’d intended and that cool, lustful gaze made me shiver.

“Can I undress you?” I asked.

“No. But you can see if there’s water in the refrigerator and bring me some.”

He wanted to watch me while I paraded around like a wet dream in my black stockings and garter belt and heels, so I made the most of it. I sashayed across the room and parted my legs to bend and inspect the contents of the small refrigerator, knowing he would look at my exposed cunt and butt and the position of my breasts.

I returned with a bottle of water and stood in front of him as he drank it. Again, that silent scrutiny of my body.

A log fell in the fireplace with a crackle and shower of sparks.

He placed the empty bottle on the floor. “Give me your wrists.”

I held out my wrists and he stood to loop and knot the tie around them. He was close to me now and I longed to touch him, or for him to touch me. The front of his pants, distended by his erection, brushed against me and I pushed my hips against him.

“No,” he said in a kind but stern voice, “I don’t think so. Not yet. Only when I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Patrick.”

“Get on the bed. I want you to lie diagonally across it and I want your legs open as wide as you can get them.” He moved ahead of me to shove the pillows and the quilt in its creamy raw silk cover aside. “Lie down. Your arms above your head.” I felt the pull and tug as he tied the silk tie around a bed post. The smooth sheets were cool and gentle against my skin and the faint scent of rose petals filled the air.

Patrick leaned against the bedpost, arms folded, and surveyed me, entirely serious and quiet. He shifted positions a couple of times and I guess he’d toed off his shoes and socks. He sat on the edge of the bed next to me but not looking at me, and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. I might have been invisible, but I could tell from the tension in his shoulders, the pace of his breathing, that he was as aroused as I was.

He stood again and, with his gaze fixed on mine, unbuttoned his shirt with great care and infinite slowness. I think at one point I moaned. His hands stilled and he raised his eyebrows. “I need those legs to be farther apart,” he commented, and resumed unbuttoning.

I spread my legs, exposing my cunt to him. He could see me, wide open, my secret parts swollen and wet, my clit erect.

He was busy at work on his pants now, or rather, busy at work at a slow, languorous unfastening. He stopped to remove a packet of condoms from his pocket and place them on a table next to the bed. He created a further delay by investigating the basket placed there, holding up items one at a time to show me: more condoms, a bottle of lube, a small vibrator in a sealed plastic bag. “Very nice,” he commented.

Only then did he pull the zipper on his pants down and step out of them. His cock pushed against the black silk boxers. I wanted to see him as badly as I wanted his touch, but he left them on and stretched out beside me, resting his head next to mine.

“Jo,” he breathed, and I saw then the Patrick I was used to, the Patrick I loved, not the imperious, exciting stranger who had revealed himself tonight. “Jo, you’re so lovely. Give me a safe word.”

“I trust you. You won’t hurt me.”

“You might get a terrible cramp.”

“Okay, then. My safe word is…Scheherazade.” I was out of breath. He still hadn’t touched me and our bodies were inches apart.

His fingertips skimmed my hair and cheek and finally, thank God, we were kissing, the kisses wet and greedy and hungry, both of us murmuring incoherently of our need and lust, and possibly also of love; in that moment desire created its own language for us. He pulled his mouth from mine.

“I’m going to do what I want,” he said. “And you’ll do anything I ask.”

“Yes,” I said. I wanted him to fuck me right away, but he moved to kneel between my spread legs. The boxers had gone.

“Your cunt is beautiful,” he said with a sort of reverence. He stroked his cock as he talked, lightly at first, and then more roughly. “You’re so wet and shiny. Like pink silk. Plumped up for my cock.” He reached to touch my breasts and dropped onto all fours over me. “But first…”

His tongue snaked over my clit and delved briefly inside me. I writhed against him. I’d thought I would come at the slightest touch but although I tensed and quivered against his mouth and lips my body held back. He gave a murmur of appreciation and moved his hands to my thighs, clamping them open and preventing further movement.

He lunged back to my mouth. “Taste your cunt,” he said, and I did. More kissing, our legs tangled, although his held mine down as soon as he realized I attempted to rub against him. I wanted him so badly I was beyond dignity—heck, I was wearing a wet dream outfit and tied up with his tie; how much dignity could I possibly possess at this point?—and heard myself, thrillingly, begging him to fuck me. Fuck me hard. Shove that lovely, intact Irish dick right into me and make me scream. Please, Patrick.

“God, yes.” He reached for the condoms.

“No. Don’t use one.”

“What?”

“Scheherazade. Don’t use a condom. I want to feel you. I’m on the pill. Please.” I gulped for breath.

He paused, condom in hand. “Oh, fuck, yes.”

The condom was tossed aside and he pushed against me for one lovely moment and then slid inside me, very hard, very large.

I think I let out some sort of strange squawk. He stopped moving and hesitated, cradling my face in his hands. “Okay, Jo?”

“Yes. Please, don’t stop.”

He retreated a little, pushed forward again. “Relax, will you. It’s only a dick.”

I giggled then and shifted beneath him, craving the right angle, the right friction, and found it. Oh,
yes.
He followed, adapting to my unspoken request, with another teasing withdrawal almost to the tip—he caught his breath and paused— then back in, with a long delicious slide. His chest hair scraped my nipples.

I couldn’t use my hands but I could use my legs and my hips to encourage him, to urge us both on, to rub my clit against him and impose my rhythm, my wanting and heat, and build in counterpoint to his. I bit his collarbone, snarled at him to
wait, wait—stop, now, let me move,
and came in a great burst of wet heat and relief.
Can you feel that? Feel me come.
And astonished myself because it didn’t happen that way too often and I was filled with irrational, stupid gratitude and love.

“Good girl,” he said and for once I didn’t mind being called a girl. “Oh, good girl, lovely girl, oh, Christ, you do such things to my cock.” He slung my legs over his shoulders and I felt real fear that he’d do me an injury as he pumped away. I knew he’d come soon; I could tell from his breathing, the increased speed and urgency of his thrusts. His cock stiffened and jerked and heat flooded me. He groaned and rested his head on my breasts. “Oh, God. You okay, Jo? Sorry I couldn’t last longer.”

“I’m fine. It was wonderful.”

He laughed and released my legs. His cock slid out in a gush of fluid. He reached to unknot the tie and rub my arms. “Move your arms, otherwise you’ll be stiff as a board and there’s only one sort of stiffness we want around here.”

I stretched my arms, luxuriating in the ability to move and enjoying his weight and the dampness and scent of our mingled sweat; even the considerable amount of fluid pooling on the sheet and trickling down my thighs was pleasant.

A door opened and the room flooded with light and sound, voices and applause.

“Nice job, Jo,” said a familiar voice.