The Red Collection (17 page)

He’s back now, though, working at the desk next to mine. Not looking my way, his face placid and calm and untroubled, while I’m going crazy inside, my body wanting … wanting something.

Do I want him to fuck me?

Christ almighty, I shock myself even thinking the word, but I’m not quite sure that’s exactly what I want.

Edward does his clever things with his keyboard and mouse. He talks on his mobile to people in other parts of the building. He hooks up a drive of some kind, loads more software.

He has absolutely no interest in me, and I’m just being stupid thinking he might ever have had any.

Boink!

I get an email.

Not so unusual, but the back of my neck prickles for some reason. It has an attachment. Again, not usual. People send me documents and forms all the time, and everything’s scanned and safe, thanks to Edward having beefed up the system’s security.

Still prickling, I open the mail … and nearly knock my bottle of water off the end of the desk.

It’s an image. Made of pixels this time, not a pattern created by the deluded neurones of my sex-addled brain.

Just what I’ve been imagining since this morning though.

In a softly lit room, a nude woman is sprawled across the knee of a man in leather jeans. She’s face down and, even though it’s all in sepia, you can see that the bare rounded moons of her bottom are reddened. His face is in shadow, and his hand’s on her back, fingers curved, as if he’s stroking and calming her.

The buckle on his belt is an exact match for the one holding up Edward’s jeans.

I glance to one side.

No response. Not a twitch. Not a smirk. Total calm and serenity. His finger curves on the dome of the mouse, as if he’s stroking and calming it.

I wish someone would calm me!

I snap the email closed but its contents are seared on my
brain
. I have to get out of here, away from him. He’s the devil.

There’s a small office at the far end of the main room. It’s for interviews, privacy. Sometimes, when one of us is doing a detailed job of some kind, we go in there and work alone, in peace and silence.

‘I need to go through these,’ I announce to the room in general and nobody in particular. ‘It’s cooler in the little room … I think I’ll go through them in there.’

After sweeping up my water bottle, my pen and a random selection of files that I’ve already processed, I stride up to the end of the room, heading for sanctuary.

In the little office, the air conditioning hums loudly, but works a treat. It
is
cool. I switch on the terminal there, one that Edward has already hooked up, but I don’t log in. I’m not here to work.

How in God’s name did he know what buttons to press with me? I don’t even know myself …

Who was the woman?

When did he spank her? Where? For how long?

Did they fuck afterwards? Did he touch her? Did she suck him, caress his cock with her lips and tongue?

I wish I could open my email from here. I want to see that image again, assure myself it’s him.

But of course I can.

Making no errors this time, I key in my password and finesse on into the system.

I open the file again and the sight that greets my eyes again makes my sex ripple.

God, that’s never happened before.

Spontaneous desire.

Physical response with no stimuli but vision and
imagination
. I clench the muscles of my pussy and my anus, imagining them exposed to him, across his knee, my bottom cheeks jumping from the spasm.

I slump back in my chair, my fingers tingling with energy. They want to stray to my crotch, but I’m trying to retain some semblance of control. I don’t do things like this! I’m a grown-up, in command of myself. Responsible and all that.

Yet here I am, horny as a teenager, desperate to play with myself because a hot young man sent me a picture just as hot.

I spread my legs, but I’m not going to touch myself.

I shuffle down, pressing myself against the chair, but I’m not going to touch myself.

I place my hand on the stretched fabric of my skirt, over my thigh. But I’m not going to touch myself.

Feeling my heart turn over strangely, I cup my crotch … and the door to the little room swings slowly open.

Every muscle in my body leaps, including the ones that are connected to my clit, but as Edward slides into the room, through the narrow gap of the partially open door, he presses his fingers to his lips in a ‘shush’, and I subside back into the chair, completely stilled by him.

The door snicks shut, then snicks again as he turns the lock. There’s only one window, but it’s obscured by a flipped-down blind.

We’re alone, enclosed, locked in, wrapped in silence but for the hum of the air conditioning.

Edward glances at my crotch where, I realise to my astonishment, my hand still rests. I should snatch it away, but I can’t. It’s as if his eyes have the power to paralyse me … or compel movement. Slowly, slowly, he licks his firm, sculpted lips.

‘So this is what people do in this little room. I’ve been wondering about it since I arrived here.’

I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. Instead, to my horror, my fingers start to grip, move, clasping my pussy through my skirt.

He laughs, and it’s a quiet, sweet, strangely wise sound. I count the years again, those twenty or so between me and him, but he seems ancient in wisdom and experience. Like a young god, tall and strong and beautiful, and imbued with esoteric knowledge and exotic preferences.

‘I would say you surprise me, Jane. But somehow, you don’t. I knew immediately you were a wicked woman beneath that straight, businesslike surface.’

Glancing at the screen, he raises his dark eyebrows.

‘Do you like that? I suspect you do.’ In a swift, darting movement, he pulls a straight-backed chair from the corner of the room and sets it opposite to me, with the desk and the computer to one side of us. He sinks onto it, all grace, setting his booted feet four-square on the carpet, his thighs slightly parted, gleaming in their leather.

The question loosens my tongue, gives me permission to speak.

‘I don’t know. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.’

Which is a lie, I now realise. I’ve seen films with hints of this in them. Documentaries. I’ve watched them, thinking What’s wrong with these people!, and all the while I’ve been ignoring what’s going on in my pussy.

Those beautiful midnight-blue eyes darken.

‘I think you’re fibbing to me, Jane. Why do you do that? Don’t you realise that dishonesty is wicked?’ His chin comes up, as if in triumph. He’s brought the conversation around to exactly the place he wants it to be. With me cast as the
wicked
, misbehaving bad girl. Or bad woman, more like.

How can I let this happen?

How can I not?

‘Do you want me to help you understand?’ His voice is low, mellow as honey. It’s as if he’s controlling me – completely – with dulcet kindness.

I nod my head, unable to speak again. All of a sudden I want to weep. It’s a kind of relief. An acceptance.

‘Touch yourself, Jane. Through your skirt. Just squeeze a bit.’

I obey him, burning up, gasping aloud as my clasping fingers knock my clit. It’s like a kind of sweet electricity stimulating a naked bundle of pleasure receptors. The tiny organ jumps, almost the way it does when I come. But it’s not that yet, not quite. I’m very close though.

Just from his voice, and a squeeze, and a lot of thoughts.

‘How does that feel? Are you ready to come?’

‘Yes.’

I flex my fingers to grab again, work my clit, force the issue.

‘Uh-oh … no, not yet. Not until I say so.’ He rises from his chair and looms over me. I wish he’d give me permission to grovel at his feet and kiss his boots. Either that or just to keep working myself until I have an orgasm. ‘We’ve a way to go yet, Jane. A long, long way.’

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I wonder what my colleagues outside must be thinking. Me, in the little room, with the technical whizz-kid who wears leather and has the body of a film star. I’m supposed to have authority, keep people in order, but I’m the one who’s being kept in order now.

The air in the room is cool, because of the conditioning,
but
it feels as thick as pudding on my skin. It presses down, like a blanket of sex, moist and hot. Or is that just me?

I’m moist and hot between my legs. I’m like a pond. My panties are saturated.

As I shift in my chair, imagining I can hear myself squelch, Edward looks down on me, reaches out and touches my hot cheek. His fingers feel cool, gentle yet unyielding. Just like the rest of him, I suppose, feeling dreamy yet wildly, distractedly excited.

‘Are you wet, Jane? Is that why you’re wriggling?’

My heart thuds, my knickers get wetter. My face burns hotter, so hot I’m surprised he doesn’t flinch, singed. But he just slides his fingertips under my chin, making me face him, forbidding me to hide my embarrassment. My mouth is so dry that my tongue cleaves to the roof of it.

But still those blue eyes command me. And his voice too.

‘Jane, don’t be stubborn. Are you wet?’ His voice is still low and mild. He doesn’t need to shout. He just has to
be
.

‘Yes,’ I admit, wondering how all this can have happened. Not half an hour ago, I was annoyed with him. Wishing him out of our office and my life. Yes, I thought he was attractive in his blatant, aggravating way, but in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t seem important.

But now … now … I adore him.

It doesn’t make sense.

‘There, was that so hard to admit?’

What, the fact that I’m wet, or the fact that I’ve gradually, without my really knowing, become obsessed with this confident, beautiful man?

‘Not really.’

‘So what shall we do about it?’ He’s still touching me, the tips of his fingers against my face. I lean in to the contact and
it’s
as if it’s a signal. His hand slides down my face, my jaw, my throat … and dips to cup my breast through the fabric of my blouse.

‘Ah!’

I can’t contain myself when he strums my nipple as if it’s his sovereign property.

‘You’re a horny, beautiful woman, Jane. You make me want to do things to you, you really do.’

He strokes and strokes, then closes his thumb and finger over the tip of my breasts and squeezes quite hard.

I groan aloud, wriggle again in my seat, pressing on my clit with my clenched hand. When my pussy flutters, I toss my head, almost beside myself on a high wave of mixed sensations. Pleasure, pain, frustration, confusion … sweet longing.

But what do I want? The same thing as him? As he twists my nipple lightly in his fingers, I gasp, panting in time to the delicate little tweaks. My face turns from his, and my eyes light upon the image still burning on the computer screen. The woman’s naked bottom cheeks seem to pulsate, even though the picture is static. I feel her heart beating with excitement in my own chest.

‘Yes, that,’ confirms Edward. ‘That’s what I want. How about you?’

I nod. Because I do want it. Here and now. Even with a dozen folk in the room beyond wondering what the hell we’re doing. Even though I scarcely know this man from Adam, and he’s not my type, and he’s far too young, and I don’t like arrogant, domineering males … and a score of other reasons.

I think I’ll die if I don’t show him my bare bottom and he doesn’t spank it.

The moment seems frozen. My gaze skitters around his face. That neat little beard of his looks masculine, yet soft. Would it tickle my thighs if he was giving me oral sex? Would I still laugh, even if he was lapping at my clit?

His slight smile widens. His blue eyes dance.

‘What are you thinking about, Jane? Something naughty?’ His brows are dark, lifted in amusement. I want to bite his lower lip it looks so sinful.

‘Er … nothing. Not really.’

‘Liar. Tell me. Don’t keep things from me.’

Roaring blood colours my face even redder. ‘I was just … just wondering about something.’

He makes a little ‘tsk’ sort of sound, impatient with me.

‘I was wondering if your beard would tickle if you went down on me.’

He laughs, and it sounds so happy. As if he’s pleased with me. That makes my heart lift in my chest like a bird, and it’s more than sex.

‘Maybe you’ll find out,’ he says, with a smile in his voice. ‘But you’ll have to earn it. You’ll have to please me, in my particular way, before we get around to pleasing you.’ He gives another little twist to the tip of my breast and this time it really hurts.

I bite my lip, knowing that, even though this room is partially soundproofed, if I scream with thwarted lust and desire, someone might hear it. My clit flutters again. I’m lost … lost.

He releases me.

‘Undress, Jane. I want you naked. Just like her.’

I know he’s talking about the girl in the picture, and suddenly I’m jealous. Not only because he shared a moment like this with her first, but also because she’s slim and young
and
beautiful, and I’m not particularly any of those.

Don’t get me wrong. I like myself. I’m happy with my shape and my face and I can’t do anything about my age. But, right now, I’d love to be perfect and young, for him.

His hands fall away from me, and so does mine. I start unbuttoning my blouse, reluctantly aware that I’ve been sweating and I smell a little less than fresh. In these close quarters, he’ll smell that, not to mention the pungent aromas of my sex, when I take my knickers off.

But he’s commanded me to strip, and strip I will. As he returns to his seat, and sits down, crossing his long, leather-encased legs, the blouse comes off, and I lay it across the back of my chair. My white bra gleams almost fluorescent in the artificial lighting. My nipples poke through the thin cotton, dark smudges beneath it. Being shy at this stage of our journey is ridiculous, but I can’t help myself. Instead of exposing my breasts to him, I reach for the zip of my skirt and whir it down. I’m awkward as I step out of my skirt and I have to hold on to the chair. My heels aren’t high, but I’m not used to undressing in front of a man. It’s a long, long time since I did it, and then never for a man who disturbs me and distracts me the way Edward does.