The Things That Make Me Give In (12 page)

But he had let her snog him up against the shed. He had groped her tits with admirable enthusiasm and, anyway, as she’d said to him, no point being coy now.

When she creeps outside again, he throws up his hands.

‘Oh, look, Lita,’ he says, in the low, occasionally hissing voice of the guilty. ‘What do you think we’re going to do out here? It’s freezing cold –’

‘That’s why I brought the keys to the Jeep,’ she replies, and he seems to sag at hearing that. ‘I’ve always wanted to do bad things in the back seat of a car. Haven’t you?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Admit it. Tonight you’ve draped that blanket around yourself because you don’t want me to see your erection.’

‘It’s cold.’

‘Last night you just had your jacket on.’

‘My jacket’s . . . in the wash.’

‘You lying just entices me more.’

‘I’m sure date rapists also say that.’

‘OK. I’m just going to go over here and unlock the Jeep. And then I’m going to sit inside it. You can get in too, if you like – no pressure. I wouldn’t want to force a pretty little thing like you into doing something you’ll regret.’

He rolls his eyes at her. Before following her to the back seat.

After he’s closed them both in, he turns to her and says, ‘Right. But we’re just going to talk. OK? Just talk.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Because I could go down on you if you like.’

‘I’m su–’ he starts, and then changes his mind mid-sentence. ‘Don’t say things like that.’

‘I’ve got other ways of saying it.’

He pauses.

‘Like what?’

The genuine curiosity on his face shimmers hotly through her.

‘I don’t know. How would you ask me to go down on you?’

‘I’d ask you when we’re far, far away from here and on your fortieth birthday.’

‘Only fifteen years to go until you get that hummer then, I guess.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bit of a shame.’

‘Or would you ask for a blow job? Perhaps some epic head? Maybe you’d just be straightforward and explicit: suck my cock, Lita.’

The way his lips are parting and his eyelids are dropping with all that desire weighing them down . . . it makes it easier
for her to talk like this. Even though it’s naughty, it’s also easier.

‘If you say it, I might,’ she says, and leans into him.

His eyes search hers in between dips downward to the rise of her cleavage, or the flick of her tongue as it wets her lips. She knows he is looking at those things. That those things are luring him in. It makes her pussy slick and her limbs liquid.

‘Suck my cock,’ he says, and she feels her sex ache and swell. She rocks her hips just to keep the ache satisfied and knows that he is aware of what she’s doing.

‘OK,’ she says, as nonchalant as you like, but then he adds, ‘But let me see to you while you’re doing it.’

And everything glazes over inside her. She can feel herself almost trembling with the urgent need to be naked with him, and fuck and suck and lick and bite him into little pieces. It’s hard to breathe and her cheeks feel as if a fire’s been lit under them.

‘Here, let me do it,’ he says, and then he opens the pyjama bottoms he’s wearing and takes out his cock.

It’s so stiff that it tries to kiss his belly, and he doesn’t touch himself for long. He doesn’t need to tell her how quickly he’s going to go off, but he says it anyway, and then he tells her to get on her knees across the seat. Before she’s even managed to take his cock in her mouth, he has worked his hand underneath her body and into the little shorts she’s wearing.

The fact that there’s only the one thin layer between him and her pussy excites her unbearably, as does his sudden rough urgency. His hand covers her without hesitation, easily finding where he wants to go with her bottom in the air like this and her legs spread.

There comes a point when things are so worked up that everything is easy. He doesn’t seem to think twice about sliding his fingers through her slit, and when he does his head goes back against the seat, and he groans, ‘Jesus Christ.’

She knows why. She can feel how wet she is. His fingers slide as easy as breathing into her pussy and then over her clit and back again. And it feels so hot and good that she almost forgets what she’s supposed to be doing.

Until he reminds her. He reminds her with a hand in her hair that is gentle but definitely insistent. It’s the insistence that gets her harder. Arousal has made him desperate and to hell with anything else.

A sentiment which she agrees with. She sucks on him greedily, as greedily as he is working over her clit with firm, stiff fingers. When she swallows him down to the base and on the way back up flicks that sensitive spot just below the head with the very tip of her tongue, he pushes out a jumble of words that sound like ‘Oh, God, you give good head.’

Whether he says it or not, it shoves her hard into a bucking, trembling orgasm.

She loses what she’s meant to be doing and he tells her, ‘Please, please don’t stop,’ but it’s not as though she has a lot more to do. He comes when she moans around his cock on the last shimmer of her own pleasure, hand tightening in her hair, hips lifting, his long guttural groan twisting inside her until it’s too much. It’s far too much.

As she lies in his lap with her cheek pressed to his slowly, slowly softening cock, and he laughs and can’t seem to catch his breath at the same time, she tries not to imagine just how much actually fucking will be.

It definitely isn’t going to get to fucking. There’s just no way it is. He seems more guilty than ever, and he stops going out at 2 a.m. altogether. They sit on opposite ends of the couch like bookends, reading.

That’s what they’re doing when her parents come downstairs all togged up and announce that they’re going to the pub. Would anyone like to come with them? And Norman replies that, no, he wouldn’t like to go to the pub tonight. He’s just got
to an interesting part of his book, apparently. He’d really like to stay here and see where it goes.

And she glances across at his completely-avoiding-looking-at-her face, and knows with a kind of giddy joy that this is it.

‘What about you, Lita?’ her dad says.

She stares straight forward to avoid meeting Norm’s eyes.

‘I’ve got to an interesting part too, Dad. I think I’ll stay here and finish it.’

He shrugs, and puts his arm around Mum’s shoulders.

‘We’ll be off then,’ he says. ‘You two have fun.’

‘So. What’s interesting about the part you’re up to?’ he asks, once the door closes.

She swears by Beelzebub that she won’t be the first person to drop the act.

‘It’s where the heroine torments the hero until he dies.’

‘Really? That doesn’t sound like a very nice book.’

‘It isn’t. It’s awful.’

‘What does she torment him with?’

‘Her fabulous tits.’

‘Want to know what my book is about?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s about this fella who gets his head blown off by the shotgun of the dad of a girl who torments him with her tits.’

‘That sounds
awful
.’

‘It is.’

‘So what leads up to the fatal shotgun blast?’

‘Well . . . the tormenting.’

‘Like . . . what? Like maybe she strips off in front of him, really slow?’

‘Don’t you dare strip off in front of me, Lita.’

She points a finger at him, triumphant. ‘Ha! I win the dropping-the-act game. Now you have to take all my clothes off.’

He drops his book into his lap, and glances across at her. ‘That doesn’t seem right to me.’

‘All right. I’ll just take them off, then.’

He doesn’t say anything this time. His eyes just follow her as she stands. His eyes follow her fingers, too, as she unbuttons her peasant blouse. She’s about halfway down when he stands up suddenly, and reaches for her.

She knows he’s reaching for her to stop her progress, however, so dances away and keeps unbuttoning.

‘Lita,’ he says. ‘Just hold on.’

She gets to the bottom and starts sliding the blouse off her shoulders, and all the while he follows her as though his intent is to put her clothes back on. He isn’t doing a very good job, though. The blouse is soon on the floor and then her bra is too.

‘You like showing your tits off, don’t you,’ he says, in an accusing sort of way that makes her feel like a tease.

‘I like showing them off to you.’

He takes a step closer. He’s almost within kissing distance now, and he doesn’t reach for her hand when it goes for the zipper on her skirt.

‘Really? Why?’

Closer still.

‘Because you look at them – you look at me like you really want to have me. Even though you know it might get you into trouble with a mate, you look at me with desperation. I’ve never seen anyone look so much like they want to fuck me.’

He doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t stop looking at her like that, either.

So she kisses him, soft, soft.

This time his hand goes immediately to the small of her back. He seems much less taken aback by the sudden amount of bare skin his hand encounters – though of course this time he isn’t blindfolded with a jumper. Instead of backing away, his hand smoothes up the curve of her spine. It slides around and over her hips. His fingers find the soft slight grooves just below her ribs.

They press closer together, and her breasts push against his chest. His agreeable prick pushes against the voluminous
layers of her skirt, and then the cushion of her mons. She guesses that she must feel very soft to him, because he feels all hard angles and wiry muscle to her.

But not his mouth, which is still as soft as melting chocolate. She tries to cram more of him against her, more of his melting-chocolate mouth against hers, but then it begins to feel as though they’re wrestling. When she grabs a handful of his bum and flicks her tongue against his, he tries to turn his face away.

His mouth ends up in her hair as he wriggles, but his hands do him no favours. As he tries to push her shoulder there is a bit of slippage, and he ends up with more breast than he had obviously intended.

‘Oh Christ – look, Lita, this is honestly going too far –’

She slides his T-shirt up at the back, and it does not surprise her to find him helping rather than hindering. He lifts one arm and then he’s not wearing a T-shirt any more.

‘Lita, really, we can’t get this naked –’

She licks somewhere beneath his right ear and he leans right into it.

‘Oh, that’s really nice, but seriously though –’

She gets her arms about his shoulders and kisses him, and kisses him, and somehow he’s heaving her up as she’s seen many a fellow do with young lithe girls. He tugs her legs around his waist in a haphazard fashion, and then makes for the stairs.

‘I don’t think this is a good idea at all,’ he says, as they pause to blindly kiss and grope against the paisley wallpaper that lines the staircase.

‘I think you’re being very wicked, to play with a man’s feelings like this,’ he says, as they almost fall over in the hallway, and bash into a chest of drawers, and her hands root through his hair madly and his hands root through her skirt madly.

‘You want to do it on your dad’s bed? No, Lita. No bloody
way,’ he says, as she gets hold of the door frame and drags him in there.

It’s the only room in the house with a double bed, after all.

He is quiet then. Quiet except for the harsh breathing. He wrestles frantically with the zipper on her skirt, but as he does he doesn’t stop kissing her – something she is glad of, because he’s a lovely kisser. Tender and deeply involved in it, as though he’s searching her out with his melting-chocolate lips.

It’s a wonder he gets her skirt off, but she gives him a hand along the way. Then he helps her get her knickers off, because it’s all about sharing and giving.

She can hear the rain again. She can feel the scratchy blanket on the bed making patterns on her side and then on her back, when he pushes her down. The smell of her dad’s cologne, her mum’s perfume. The feeling of being the teenager she never really was, nervy and naughty and raw.

‘Oh, God, fuck me. Fuck me, please, please.’

His eyes look disbelieving through the darkness, disbelieving and flashing over to the green side of hazel. He doesn’t say, ‘Are you sure?’ but she can read it right off him. She can read his fear of her father and his fear of her and his fear of himself. Stronger than in the car, as if this is the one step too many. As if he never knew he was this person. As if maybe he wants to be raw and nervy and naughty too, but is afraid.

She reaches under the bridge he’s made with his arms, and opens the drawer of the bedside cabinet. Touches her tongue to her teeth and offers him two choices – the two choices her mum once told her were different sorts of chewing gum.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he says, but he’s grinning that scampish grin. She’s betting he never really lets himself be a scamp. Sitting at his desk, wearing the same colour tie all the time and finding these holidays exciting because nothing else in his life ever is.

‘Green or yellow?’ she asks, and he snatches one from her
hand. The green. She has to admit, he’s not really a yellow sort of person.

‘I’d never be able to explain myself if I got you pregnant,’ he says, as he tears at the packet with his tongue arching up into the corner of his top lip. It looks lewd – lewder than watching him put the condom on – to see him sticking his tongue out like that. It looks very wet and slippery and full, as does his lower lip.

‘Who are you going to explain yourself to?’ she whispers as he leans back over her.

‘No one. Ever.’

‘Maybe you should explain yourself to me. Tell me what wicked things you’re about to do.’

‘I –’

‘Are you going to fuck me? Tell me you’re going to fuck me. I’m all wet and hot for you, are you going to –’

‘Yes,’ he says, and lifts her thigh until her knee is crooked against his side, and slides his cock down through her creamy slit until it reaches the opening of her sex. All of her is open.

It’s been too long; she has waited too long.

He doesn’t make love to her the way she had expected. He doesn’t go about it frantically, nervously, as though waiting to get shot at any moment by her dad with his shotgun. Everything goes slow and still like before, in the kitchen, and his expression is finally relaxed, while his eyelids droop, heavy with desire.