The Erotic Secrets of a French Maid (17 page)

She was suddenly impatient for him to thrust himself deep within her, touching places that no tongue could reach, with that thick, stretching width that satisfied the way no fingers could.

She wrenched herself away from his mouth, dismounting. "There's something I want to do to you," she said before he could protest, reaching over him for the massage oil and the gloves.

"If you wish. I was quite happy where I was, though."

Page 85

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

She gave him a small smile, not sure of the truth of that, and pulled on the gloves. As much as she wanted him to give her an orgasm, part of her also
didrit
want it. There was power in being the one to give and not receive. She was in control: of him, of herself, of how much of her inner self she revealed.

She could find plenty of pleasure without reaching that big O.

"You'll be even happier when I'm through with you," she said, raising an eyebrow suggestively as she unzipped her dress the rest of the way and shrugged it off.

Naked on top, with only the garter belt, stockings, and spike heels below, she poured massage oil into her gloved palm and warmed it between her hands. She cupped her breasts in her slick hands and coated them in oil, watching as his gaze followed every move. The oil smelled of lavender; it was supposed to be a turn-on for men.

She put her hands on him and started kneading his chest and shoulders, then worked her way down his arms to his hands, taking her time, running her fingers between his and massaging the webs, the joints, the center of his palm. He made small happy sounds of pleasure.

She went to his feet next and gave them the same treatment, running her thumb hard along his arch, pulling gently on his toes, and giving a soft pinching massage to the two indentations on either side of his Achilles tendon. Up his calf, over his knee, and then to his thighs, working gradually up them until she reached his balls. She cupped them in her hands and stroked them with infinite care, then lay down beside him on her side, her mouth level with his groin.

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes as she reached over his hip and urged him to turn onto his side, facing her. He obeyed, and she wrapped her lower hand around the base of his erection and put his head to her lips. She pressed her tongue against the underside of his cock, making her tongue as firm as a thumb as she moved her mouth up and down on him.

She felt his reaction in his body, in the tensing of his muscles and the movement of his hips as he thrust into her mouth. She slowed and sped up, took him shallow and took him deep, her jaw beginning to ache. She settled into a deep steady rhythm as her upper hand slid over his hip, over his buttock, and toward that dark passage where she had never ventured before with anyone.

The book she'd bought
said
this was a good idea. It said that the prostate was a man's secret G-spot, and that stroking it with a finger up his ass would propel him to skyrocketing explosions that he'd never known before.

His breathing was growing ragged, and she knew that if she was going to send him shooting for the moon, now was the time. Her gloved finger, slick with massage oil, found his tight entrance and dove deep inside.

His reaction was immediate and spectacular.

"Yeeowl"

he cried, and reached back to knock her hand away.
"What the hell? What was that?"
He wasn't thrusting into her mouth anymore. His whole body felt like a piece of lumber, board hard and not moving anywhere.

Her hand curled into a fist as if to hide its shame and she tucked her face against his thigh in embarrassment. "You didn't like it," she said into his leg.

Page 86

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"What?" he asked. "I can't hear you." She felt his hands on her shoulder and head, guiding her to look up at him.

She rolled away and sat up. "You didn't like that?" she asked.

"No!" He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

She bit her lip. "Not at all?"

"No!"

"The book said it would feel good."

"I don't care what the book said!" he said, looking at her. "I don't want you putting your—putting your—I don't want you touching me there!"

She looked down at her gloved hands, feeling like a pervert. Worse, she felt like she'd failed. "It's supposed to feel really, really good," she said, trying to salvage her efforts.

"Emma, I don't care. I'm never going to enjoy anything that involves putting something up my—well, up there. I just can't."

She raised her eyes to his. "Have you ever tried?"

"No!"

"No girlfriend has ever done this to you?"

"No! And I'm never going to let one!"

"Why not?"

"Because!"

She raised her brows. Was he embarrassed? "Because—"

"Because I don't want you anywhere near that spot."

"Because?"

"Because it's not a nice place."

"In what way, not nice?" she asked. "Not nice because it's naughty?"

"I don't care about that. I care about..."

"Yes?"

"It's dirty. Unhygienic."

Page 87

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

She held up her hand. "But I'm wearing a glove."

He groaned and covered his face with his arms. Strangely, his erection was still present.

"You don't need to worry about it being dirty if I have a glove, and if I don't mind doing it."

He groaned again.

"Don't you want to let me try? Aren't you a little bit curious?"

He lowered his arms and looked at her. "Emma. No."

"I'm

curious. I'd like to know if you'd enjoy it."

"You're wearing a nurse's cap. Hints of the medical profession, a latex glove, plus a finger
there
is about as far from sexual excitement as a guy can get. If I wanted my prostate examined I'd pay my primary care doctor to do it, and he wouldn't expect me to enjoy it."

"A lot of men supposedly do—not the exam, but the finger thing during sex."

"Emma, it's not an area of my anatomy that I wish to explore in a sexual way. The reasons why don't matter. That part of my body is off limits, permanently."

She shrugged and peeled off the gloves, careful to turn them inside out as she did so. She was a little hurt that he wasn't willing to give it a try. It seemed that she was the one who had been taking the bigger risk, and it would have been nice if he'd met her halfway. "Okay. I thought you wanted new things, is all. You said you wanted me to be creative."

"Come here," he said, opening his arms.

She crawled back into place beside him, lying on her side against his torso, her arm over his chest. "I only wanted to please you," she said, playing with his nipple, tugging lightly at the hairs around it. She found it a little easier to talk if she didn't look at his face. "If this didn't please you, then tell me what would."

Russ put his arm around Emma's shoulders; she was obviously upset. There was nothing more embarrassing for him than a detailed analysis of his sexual behaviors and preferences, yet that was what she was asking for.

"You don't need to be quite so, er, theater-oriented about the sex," he managed. "I don't need costumes and a script, or choreographed dance sequences." He felt her flinch, and grimaced at his social clumsiness. But how else was he supposed to say it? "The costumes have been fun," he said, trying to soften the criticism. "You've looked wonderful in them, and I especially like the, er, garter belt bit."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. It's very nice. But beyond a bit of sexy lingerie, my tastes are pretty tame. Vanilla. White bread.

Even bland."

"What about all that creativity you asked for?"

Page 88

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The creativity that he'd meant to describe his
dinner,
not sex. "I guess I was wrong about what I'd like."

"So, what do you want? Do you want the missionary position each time?"

What I want is to have sex with

you—
Emma Mayson. Not a harem girl or Betty Crocker with a bowl of pudding.
But it wasn't part of their arrangement that he ask for access to her inner self. It was her body he had hired, and her body she had agreed to let him see naked and to touch, not the person inside.

"I'm open to other positions. Let's just stay away from the accessories and the scripts and, er, the advanced sexual techniques. We don't have to work our way through
The Joy of Sex."

He felt her sigh, her breath warm on his skin. "I didn't really want to put my finger in there," she said softly.

Relief went through him. He'd been afraid she must think him a conservative old prude. "Then why'd you do it?"

"Because I let the book tell me what to do."

"Emma, I'm not going to enjoy something if you don't she didn't let it. Caution and common sense and flat practicality were the laws of her life, and the terror of making an error was the guiding principle behind it all.

What a relief it would be to mess up and not care; to shrug her shoulders, say "Whoops!" and move on.

The need to make no wrong step kept her from taking any steps at all.

Emma chewed her lip. She
did
want to see Russ skate; she wanted to catch a glimpse of him in his normal life, at ease among friends. "We can go—"

Daphne shrieked. "Yes! Shall I drive? Do you want to drive?"

"We can go," Emma repeated, trying to scowl, but a smile tugging at her lips, "but we're not going to let him know we're there."

"What fun is that?" Daphne asked.

"Yeah, that's no good," Beth said.

"Hey, it's enough that I agreed to go! And it'll be fun; think of it as playing spy."

Daphne grumbled. "Fine. We'll be sneaky. He'll never know we were there."

"He better not. I don't want him to think I'm a psycho stalker."

"Don't worry," Daphne said, but there was something in her grin that Emma didn't trust.

She glanced at Beth. She wore the exact same grin.

Page 89

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Oh God.

Russ lay on the bench in the locker room, dressed only in his black Puck Skins, and pulled his knee up to his chest, stretching. He'd arrived at the arena half an hour earlier than he usually did, hoping to ease the coiled tension of the day out of his muscles. Hoping as well to clear out distracting thoughts of Kevin and Emma.

He changed position, wishing he could stretch on the floor like you could in the Canadian ice rink locker rooms, where they washed the floors between each game. No one in their right mind would lie down on the locker room floor of the Aurora Ice Arena: it looked as if it hadn't been washed since the Cretaceous period, and the freestanding, stall-less toilet inexplicably plumbed into the center of the room was a reminder of just how filthy a hockey locker-room floor could get.

Still, this was home. The locker room might be a sty, the ice might be soft and rutted, but this was where his surrogate family lived and he had a perverse affection for it. It was his haven. His sanctuary from the world. The place where he was not Russ Carrick, multimillionaire entrepreneur, but was simply Buffy.

One of his teammates came in and bobbed his chin in greeting. Russ grunted a reply and stood for a different stretch.

Unbidden, memories of his conversation with Kevin earlier in the day came back to mind.

"I think she's starting to like me," Kevin had said.

Russ had feigned disinterest, but his heart had thunked sickly in his chest. "How so?"

"Just a feeling I get, when I call her."

"Didn't you say she was seeing someone?"

Kevin's face had been impassive but strangely alert, as if watching for Russ's reaction. "She doesn't talk about him. It must not mean much to her if she doesn't talk about him."

Russ had shrugged, but the words had festered all day. Reason said that she was too cautious to talk about him to Kevin, even under cover of her mythical "boyfriend," but it gnawed at him that there was nothing she said to Kevin, not even a generic comment on their getting along well or liking some of the same things. It made him wonder whether she talked about him to her friends or pretended that he didn't exist.

Was he just a thrice weekly sex partner who ate the food figure-skating lesson earlier. The bleachers were outside the lobby, rising up in a bank above the boxes where the players would sit.

"How tall is he?"

"Midrange."

"That rules out stumpy over there, and those two lumberjacks. I guess that's something."

"And he's not a goalie. Wait, is that—"

Page 90

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"You see him? Which one?"

"Shoot. I can't tell. I thought I saw him, but..."

"C'mon. We've got to go out there." Daphne headed for the glass door to the rink area.

"Daphne, wait! I can't go out there! He'll see me!"

"Pish. He will not."

"Daphne, there's no one else in the freakin' stands! Of course he'll notice!"

Daphne sat back down, a pout on her face. "Fine. We'll wait till the game starts. Then he'U be concentrating on it and won't look up."

Emma visored her hand over her forehead, half-hiding her face. "I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this."

"Look, we'll go up in the stands, we'll spot him, we'll watch the game, and then we'll tear out of here before it ends. Even if he thinks he sees you—which he won't—he won't be sure. You can always deny it if he asks."

"Lie to him? Yeah, great, that's what I want to do."

"Oh, stop making such a big deal out of this. There's no crime in watching him play hockey. He’ll probably be flattered. No one else has a hot babe in the stands."