The Things That Make Me Give In (23 page)

She shoves hard at him then, almost wrenching his jeans down in the process. That, at least, makes him look startled, though not exactly in the way she was hoping for. His eyes go wide and he stumbles forward, but then the strap around his wrist snaps him back and she thinks, but isn’t sure, isn’t sure at all, that heat and pleasure shimmy over his face.

It’s catching, she thinks mindlessly, though it doesn’t shimmy through her. She feels as though she’s being stabbed in the gut over and over, and things are squirming there around the wound, and it all gets worse when the words
he likes it, he likes it, he likes it
march through her head.

‘Pervert,’ she snaps, before she can stop herself, but he just barks out a little incredulous laugh and then pushes back at her still shoving hand. His gaze skitters all over her face until the idea of blindfolding him, too, jumps up and smacks her right where the wound in her gut isn’t healing, but then he says, ‘Go on, push your hand down in there harder,’ and she forgets how to talk or be herself or anything, anything.

Anything that is needed in order to be a normal person.

At last, her fingers touch paper. Of course, they touch other things, too, but thinking about them is hard when you’re trying not to be an alien. When she tries to tug her hand free her fingers brush against the thing she’s finding it hard to think about and he sucks in a small but obvious gasp.

And yet she can’t seem to stop . . . moving. She can see herself very clearly at the dinner table over whatever tonight’s meal is going to be, telling everyone that she rubbed Gabe’s cock through the pocket of his jeans, and it’s mortifying.

But it’s also very easy to fall into.

Especially when you’ve got your hand trapped in wet denim and no matter how hard you struggle you can’t seem to get free. She wriggles and twists, but all that does is push his stiff prick closer to her fingers and his body closer to hers. His expression alternates between that knowing leer and a pleasantly surprised look that makes her even more uncomfortable than the leer does.

So she focuses on the least discomfiting aspect of this whole debacle.

She wonders if he’s leering because he’s tied to the post, or because he wanted her to put her hand so near to his crotch, or because this was the massive secret he was keeping in his own strange centre. He secretly likes to be tied to posts. He secretly wanted to rub his cock against her hand. He is secretly a hot, sexual person while they all flounder in a gruel of boring dates and correct wine ordering and missionary positions.

It seems that nothing wins at being the least discomfiting aspect of this whole debacle. Even her clothes are working ever harder against her: the heat inside the tweed has now reached some sort of crescendo. It’s so thick and all-consuming that, when he slips his free hand in the barely there space between their bodies and touches the button on her coat, she doesn’t do any of the things she expects of herself.

She thinks of slapping, of outrage, of anything but what she actually does, which is just giving in.

It feels like letting out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Her whole body deflates but then it has to tense again, when his mouth goes for hers. It’s all nothing but a series of lulls and awful too-high peaks that make her shaky inside heels she wishes she wasn’t wearing.

He has already got her coat halfway down her arms – other things are bound to follow. Their mouths are together now and things are speeding up and oh Lord, she is sure she can feel his tongue in a way that circumvents ordinary boring kissing. He pulls his mouth almost away and then just flickers his tongue against hers, and every point in her body receptive to arousal wakes up.

She can feel the tips of her tits and the soft spaces behind her knees and on the insides of her elbows and thighs. She feels the nape of her neck and the split of her sex. All of these places are blooming and aching. In that moment she understands exactly why someone might like to tie another person up, because, oh, she wants this anticipation and delay to build for ever and ever.

The word
tease
flashes up in bold behind her eyes. She thinks it’s flashing up behind his eyes, too. He’s certainly trying to work his cock against her, now. And when she finally pulls herself away and dodges his one free hand, he chokes out, ‘You’re not going to leave me this way, are you?’

The desperation in his voice strokes at her nipples and her clit, one after the other – but better than that is the fact that she thinks he knows it. He seems to know the effect his desperation has on her because, shortly after letting it out, one side of his mouth quirks up.

And then he struggles against the leather he could probably get free from, for maximum effect.

‘Do I have to say the magic word to get you to set me free?’ he asks. He’s close enough that she can still feel his breath, hot and moist, against her face. It doesn’t help her think of what’s appropriate to say next, but then again she’s sure that’s for the best.

Blurting out whatever her body wants her to seems like the only thing to do.

‘Maybe I’ll set you free if you talk dirty to me,’ she says, simply because no one ever has before, and once they leave the
barn no one, probably, will do so again. Or at least, she’ll never command anyone to do it again. She’ll never be able to command Alan and, even if she could, she knows he wouldn’t comply.

But Gabe does, and he does it better than she could have hoped.

‘I want to be inside your soft, wet cunt,’ he says.

It isn’t the words themselves that send shockwaves of sensation rolling through her. ‘Cunt’ gives her a cheap thrill, and his desire backs it up, but it’s his voice. His suddenly sultry voice, enunciating each word with exaggerated care.

She backs away from him and watches a myriad clashing emotions flicker over his odd face, though she can’t help him with any of them. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do any more than he does. All this feels like some mad dash to the finishing line of the only race she’s ever going to run.

He’ll probably run lots of races, crazy races that normal people could never even dream of.
Let him be confused,
she thinks. Let him not know what she’s going to do next. For once she can be unexpected and have someone else constantly playing catch-up, even if the someone else seems to be the person she is inside.

The idea that the person she is inside might catch up with whoever else is inside her – and who seems to be acting on her behalf – forces her to be faster. She needs to be faster. She needs to do this before it decides to be all over.

‘Undo your jeans,’ she says and it comes out just as she imagines it would: blurted and bullied and too nervous. But he doesn’t seem to mind whether she’s nervous or not. He seems as high as she is and she guesses that all encounters like this must be that way. He’s probably had dozens of them, and will have dozens more.

He probably doesn’t know what conventional sex is. He certainly does as he’s told fast enough, and that knowledge, that assumption, opens a little pocket of sadness inside her.

One that she shakes off quickly enough to keep up with the race.

She shakes it off and lets herself look at him, face flushed, lips parted, straining against the leash. His cock juts out obscenely, pale enough to be a contrast with the rough frame of his shoved-down jeans. The tip, however, is as red as she feels all over, and slick in a way she’s never seen before.

She would moan, if that wouldn’t let him have too much of her.

Instead, she pushes her coat off. And somehow her blouse follows. And when his free hand goes to his dick, it makes her want to unzip her skirt, too.

By the time it’s pooled on the floor, he is jerking himself off steadily.

His eyes are lit with pleasure and delight and he strains towards her constantly, murmuring words ever more desperate and delicious with every item she removes. When she unfastens her bra and slides it down her arms, he thumbs all that slickness over the head of his cock and makes an awkward compromise between throwing his head back and keeping his eyes on her.

His gaze is like a roughly stroking hand on her breasts, over her nipples, which spike in the cold air but feel hotter than ever. Her clothes are practically all off, but she is still scorching.

‘Lick your fingers and touch your nipples,’ he says, and his own words seem to make him more excited. He works at himself raggedly, short messy tugs that seem to shiver through him.

When she does as she’s told, he stops altogether. She has never seen anyone do it before, but she understands why he squeezes at the base of his cock, hard.

To make it last, she thinks, and just wants to lie down on the floor and have him fuck her. She pinches her right nipple to try to make the urge fade, but unsurprisingly it only makes the desire stronger.

She wants to fuck on the dirty floor in some appalling and obscene position, wet and sticky and urgent and unable to stop, and then when it’s finished she wants to start all over again, and again, until grit is embedded in her skin and that hot-fur smell will never come out.

But instead he tells her to take her panties off, and touch her clit. ‘Let me see,’ he moans, when she obeys him. ‘Let me see you stroking yourself.’

Her mind goes back to the book, the book with its simple, silly sex scenes that barely detailed anything at all, but, God, how much she had loved them. She remembers touching herself while thinking of words like
engorged
and
breaching
and all those things she hadn’t known existed, and there is an echo of that feeling in this.

This new thing – stroking herself in front of another person.

Her clit is almost too swollen to stand her touch so she isn’t surprised when her orgasm nearly overtakes her before she’s done anything. Just having him stare at her breasts and the wet slit of her pussy is enough on its own. Watching the slippery head of his cock disappear over and over into his tightly closed fist is too much.

‘Come here,’ he gasps. ‘Come here.’

And she does. She walks back to him with her hand between her legs and pushes herself right up against his fist and his cock. Their mouths come together just as quickly and she puts her free hand on his shoulder, between his shoulder blades. Presses him close enough to feel every tremor running through his body.

When she feels his leashed hand pull free and go briefly and firmly to her waist, her clit jumps against her pressing fingers. Orgasm surges up through her, sudden and brutal, and he devours the sounds she makes into his mouth. He makes them back, and then she feels hot wetness over her stomach, over the hand between her legs.

When she fumbles blindly forward and touches his still
pulsing cock, tentative and curious, he turns his face away and gasps loud and brokenly into her hair.

Then it’s over. Her legs give in and she pulls him with her – down on to the floor, covered in things she has never done before. Never will do again.

‘God, that was so good,’ he says after too long a time of harsh breathing and silence, but she has to lean in to hear it. She leans right in and presses her ear close to his mouth and wills him to say it again, but he doesn’t, and so maybe it wasn’t what she heard at all.

In a minute she knows they’ll have to get up from the gritty floor and go back to the cabin. In a moment all of this shakiness and rough breathing and vague arms around each other will be gone. The grit won’t be embedded in her skin and she’ll soon be clean and neat again.

Soon.

She turns her head and pushes her nose into his hair. It looked rough and stiff with product, but it isn’t at all. It’s silky against her skin and smells like things she’s going to forget soon.

Though that idea seems far too maudlin and silly for something that means absolutely nothing to him. He doesn’t need to remember what her hair smells like, or what her skin feels like under his hand, or what it was like to do something different, for a change. He does different things all the time. He
is
difference.

She wants to rub his difference all over her so that she will still have it in days to come, when she doesn’t know what sort of person she has become at all. This will be the thing she has to look back on, the one that makes her life look shabby and yet brighter at the same time, and for a second she is so struck by a future that will undoubtedly come to pass that she feels it stick at the back of her throat. Her eyes sting.

She kisses him. Hard, as hard as her body will allow before pain flashes through it. And oh, the joy of having someone respond! He could push her away, now, bored, and leave her
here on the floor with just her thoughts of the future to come, but he seems as hungry as she is.

It can’t end just yet, if this is all there is. His hands find their way into her hair and tighten tighten tighten until her scalp prickles; his body presses over hers until she is ground into the dirty floor.

All this flesh suddenly on flesh is too much. The memory it makes is going to hurt in that terrible bleak future, she knows. And yet she spreads her legs anyway and lets him work his fingers into her pussy, over her clit, sliding through all the wetness she made just for him.

Everything jumps and shivers at his touch, too soon after one orgasm but still greedy for more at the same time. He’s greedy too – she can feel his cock stiffening against her thigh, fat and thick enough to press more thoughts of flesh into her.

Like storing up for the winter, she thinks, and closes her eyes so she can feel him better. She rubs her pussy against his searching fingers. Rocks her thigh against his cock.

Soon he’s stiff enough to want more. And it’s not as though she doesn’t, too – she imagines him fucking her bare, spurting into her creaming pussy and making such a mess.

The thought turns molten inside her. He probably doesn’t have a condom on him. That’s what it will have to be: juices mingling and flesh as close to flesh as it can possibly get.

Delicious.

Only he has other ideas. He creeps up her body and straddles her waist, looking so lean and easy. As if she could just bend him into any shape she wanted to. His cock wags before her, just begging for a lick, and she obeys it. She pokes out her tongue and licks the glistening head, watching him arch for her and buck forward.