The Willing (20 page)

He laughed. "I don’t think anyone's said that to me before."

"Losers," I said and bit his shoulder lightly.

I tried not to get too caught up in the slide of Oliver's fingers over his cock, though I helped him along by slicking up his cock and he actually, honest to God, mewled at the sensation. He was plenty distracted as I circled the rosebud of his anus, but he came to himself abruptly as my fingertip slid in, past the ring of muscle.

"You have to relax," I reminded him. "It'll feel good, I promise."

Oliver nodded hastily, but it took a moment before he was loose enough for me to work my finger in a little deeper. I shifted to my knees between his legs, a position I think aroused more than unsettled him. "Just breathe," I encouraged.

"I'm glad we didn't do this during one of our sessions," he blurted out. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean." My heart was pounding in my chest and it took all I had not to kiss him right then and there. I think I was too proud to let him see how much that stray remark affected me.  

I worked my finger in with short, shallow strokes, letting Oliver grow accustomed to being penetrated before I even considered adding a second. Lubricant helped ease the strain on his body, but I didn't want him to feel any kind of burn. That meant a lot of preparation: time well spent, in my opinion, if it meant Oliver emerged from the experience wanting to do it again. I kept waiting for him to tell me he wasn't gay, or offer some kind of macho defense for his enjoying anal play, but none came. When I slid in another finger and begun scissoring them in and out, his toes curled against the bedding.

"Okay?" I asked, crooking the digits as I pressed inward.

Oliver couldn't speak. He only nodded, eyes squeezed tightly shut as one hand traveled to his chest to pinch at a nipple. I thought about trussing him up and decorating his chest with clothes pins. He'd love it, I thought. With his appetite for pain and his eagerness to please me, we could have so much fun together.

After a few moments of stroking at his sphincter, I pressed the heel of my palm flat against his perineum and drove my fingers deep, deep into him. The reaction was immediate. Oliver practically jerked against my hold, his eyes snapping open. "Oh—oh,
fuck
." I did it again, grinning shamelessly as it earned me the same response. It would be harder to aim accurately with the strap-on, so I concentrated on giving him a taste of prostate stimulation while I still could.

By far the best thing about it was watching Oliver's cock twitch against his belly whenever I touched that soft, fleshy bump inside of him. He couldn't help it, couldn't control himself. His pleasure was literally in my hands.

"Please," Oliver begged, "I'm ready."

"How would you know?" I teased.

"Jo—" My name on his tongue was a whine, a supplication. I relented.

The dildo was not much thicker than my two fingers, but I still applied a liberal coat of lube before I even considered penetrating Oliver with it. He watched me don the harness and tie the straps. Next time, I thought, I'd make him take it into his mouth before I put it inside him.

"Turn around," I murmured as I crept back onto the bed. "It'll be better for you."

"Uh-huh," Oliver mumbled. "You just want to fuck me into the mattress." I loved hearing him talk dirty, but I enjoyed seeing his smile even more. He was finding this exciting: not just the act itself, but being with
me
like this. Why did it feel like the moment was so fragile?

I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be afraid of as I eased into him. Oliver moaned, his shoulders going stiff with tension. "Relax," I urged. "It's a weird sensation, I know, but it'll pass."
You'll love it
, I thought. I had yet to meet a guy who didn't, if they just gave me a chance to do it right.

Whatever his flaws, Oliver was pretty accommodating in bed. He took direction well and I when I said relax, he ceased trying to fight the intrusion of the dildo inside him and just went with the flow. The cock was malleable enough that it bent and arched to follow the shape of his insides. It was also just long enough that it nudged his prostate without actively pressing against it when we came to a still. I could feel his ass trembling against my thighs, his whole body radiating heat.

"How's that feel?" I punctuated the question with a tentative thrust. Something must have gone right because Oliver let out a string of curses, his fingers knotting in the sheets.

"Again," he begged.

I obliged, rolling my hips back and into him again, letting the fake cock do most of the work. Its plastic base protruded through the harness, rubbing tantalizingly against my clit with every press. I didn't mind that the harness pinched my labia together, I was too busy getting off on the delicate, not-enough strokes and the sight of Oliver's muscles coiling tight as he began meeting my thrusts halfway. 

We found a rhythm together, the two of us compensating for Oliver's lack of experience and my inferior stature with plenty of enthusiasm. I thought at first that Oliver was doing all the moaning, but then I realized some of the needy sounds that echoed through the bedroom were my own.

"So beautiful," I kept saying, "you're so beautiful." Nonsense really, but no less true for being spoken by a woman halfway out of her mind with need.

I barely even noticed my orgasm until I was spiraling through it. My hips moved of their own accord. Fingers gripped Oliver's thighs hard enough to bruise, as if I could get enough of him. It wasn't so far from the truth. I wanted to climb into his skin and hold him close. I wanted to kiss his mouth.

When I came, it was like every cell in my body ignited into flame. I felt my orgasm in my clit, inside of me and then spilling in a violent, roiling heat all through my body.

I noticed Oliver's hand working furiously between his legs as an afterthought and couldn't even muster any shame for dereliction of duty. Instead, I collapsed over his broad back and kissed the wings of his shoulders as I whispered encouragement.

He came quickly, his release soiling the sheets. I held him for a long moment before I withdrew the plastic cock and untied the straps from around my legs.

Oliver was grinning at me as I fell beside him at last, exhausted and sweaty.

I couldn't speak, so I just burrowed against his warm body. Only last night, we'd lain together a safe distance apart, nervous like strangers. Now I had Oliver in my arms, his softening cock nestled against my belly, and I couldn't shake the thought that this was a stolen season. I wasn't supposed to have him. It was too much good after a string of bad luck.

Exhaustion ate at my pessimism. I couldn't muster the energy to move, so I just let my eyes droop shut and inhaled Oliver's cologne as his soft, slow breaths lulled me to sleep.

Chapter twelve

I only remembered the contract in the shower, once Oliver had left to dress and see to some work. Water cascaded down from the tropical, chrome showerhead, the steam fogging up the glass walls. I was grateful for the thrum of rushing water because it drowned out my curses.

How could I have been so stupid?

By breaking the contract I'd signed with Oliver, hadn't I just kissed a hefty salary goodbye to? He had grounds to fire me if he wanted.

I rinsed quickly, shutting off the water as I stepped onto a terrycloth bathmat. Everything in Oliver's house was luxurious and soft, but in that moment, all I saw was the threat of destitution looming over me.

Oliver counted his wealth in mergers and assets. Me, I just had a mortgage on my first and only adult apartment. I couldn't afford to lose it.

I'd finally gotten the thing I wanted—sex with Oliver had been amazing and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to repeat the experience—but I was now in danger of losing my job because of it. Not that it was much of a job to speak of. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was less than kind. Or maybe that was just the lack of makeup. I wasn't used to seeing myself as I was: bare, unadorned, my shorn hair shiny with shower water. I wondered belatedly if Oliver had noticed that my breasts were slightly lopsided yet; if he even cared for details.

The man who let me take him last night didn't seem to notice my very obvious, very present flaws. I wondered who would be waiting for me this morning: that guy or the one who hired me in the first place, all bluster and threats.

I found Oliver downstairs in the dining room, a clean white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a pair of frameless glasses perched high on his nose. "Hi," he said, grinning as he noticed me wearing one of his shirts.

"Hi back. Is this okay? I couldn't stand putting on that ridiculous get-up again." I didn't want to look like a hooker right then.

The thought occurred to me that Oliver might've wanted to see me gone now that we'd dispensed with whatever tension there was between us. If so, I'd have to head up and don my miniskirt all over again. I shouldn't quibble; I had worn worse things as part of my job, some of them so uncomfortable they left scars.

"Looks better on you than on me," Oliver teased and hooked a finger through the lowest button of the shirt to tug me closer to him. I went and somehow landed in his lap, my bare thighs on either side of his, toes curling into the plush, Persian carpet. Oliver smoothed a hand down my ass; he knew how to distract me.

"We need to talk," I said, striving for a pre-emptive strike before I lost control and we ended up making out like teenagers—or worse, christening his dining room table.    

"Oh? Sounds ominous..."

I told myself it was better to be blunt. If I didn't ask, I'd spend the coming days living in fear of eventual reprisals. "What happens now, Oliver?"

"What do mean?"

It wasn't easy, keeping my hand from reaching to trace his thick, tight-knitted brows. I was glad he didn't move his hands from my hips: if he had, I might have given up on speech altogether and focused on more pleasant things. "I mean where do we go from here? Are you going to fire me?" I swallowed hard. "You know you can."

Oliver's glasses caught the light, momentarily blinding me. "Do
you
want me to fire you?" He didn't ask like a lover, there was nothing cajoling in the question.

I thought about him naked and trembling beneath me, the soft, smothered echo of his moans when I pressed the fake cock into his ass. "No," I said and was a little bit surprised to discover that it was the truth. I didn't want to stop coming here. I didn't want to stop having sex—if that was what he was asking for.

My work as a call girl aside, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so good in bed with a man. Maybe it dated as far back as Hunter, maybe a little bit before that. Oliver and I were compatible in ways I'd struggled with other lovers. He took orders well; he gave in just when I needed him to. And I loved his hands on me.   

The lines of worry etched onto his brow eased a little as my answer registered. "Good. I don't want to fire you, either."

He bent forward then and I met him halfway, without any prompting or hesitation. I needed neither to return his kiss. His arms circled my waist as he pulled me tighter against his belly and I rocked my hips against his—not with purpose, more as something of a delicious aftertaste. We'd already had our fun. He must have been exhausted. I certainly felt pleasantly lethargic.

"I admit I wasn't expecting to find you sitting down," I noted, smirking a little against his mouth.

Oliver was quick with an answer: "Ah… you forgot I enjoy pain."

I felt a pang of worry take seed within me at the quip. "Are you in a lot of, um, discomfort?" Should I have gone slower? Given him more time to adjust? I'd had anal sex from the other end, too, and I knew that patience before and during went a long way towards making the whole experience more bearable in the aftermath.

It took me a second to realize Oliver was only teasing me. "Asshole," I accused, swatting lightly at his shoulder. "Don't do that."

He kissed me again by way of apology. It wasn't enough, but I could be magnanimous in a pinch—particularly when he was kissing me like that, all tongue and teeth, uncoordinated as if he'd forgotten how to do it properly. I enjoyed the thought that we were in the same boat, struggling to stay awake in the middle of the day because we'd spent the morning tiring each other out.

Oliver's fingers made to touch my bare ass and I drew back with a tut. "You've got work to do."

"I can do it later," Oliver protested.

"I have to get home sometime," I shot back, grinning. "We go another round, I might as well move in."

Wow
, I thought,
I really have no filter today.

The shock I felt at the nonsense spilling from my mouth must have showed because Oliver took it in stride: "We should work on an incentive-based system. I work an hour and then we make time for some play?"

"No, then I go home," I countered, still wishing I hadn't put my foot in my mouth. Now everything I said seemed to have an edge of defensiveness. Being his live-in fuck buddy was the last thing I wanted. Sure, it might have been nice to share this enormous penthouse and enjoy all the comforts Oliver's wealth afforded, but I'd never been anyone's kept woman and I didn't intend to start now.

I told myself our arrangement was another matter; it was fee for services rendered, nothing more. I almost believed it.

Oliver relented, pecking my lips one last time, almost as if he couldn't get enough of kissing me. It was a pleasant thought. My ego certainly wanted it to be true.

"There's satellite TV in the other room, if you want to watch Chinese soap operas. I'd love to tell you I've got a fully stocked kitchen, but..."

"I was thinking I could just screw around on your tablet while you work," I interjected. "You know, keep you company?" It was a pretty pathetic suggestion, but Oliver's face practically lit up at the sound.

"I'd like that," he breathed. He only held the tablet back a fraction longer than necessary until I granted him another kiss.

To this day, I still didn't know exactly what it was Oliver did for a living. I knew it had to do with profit margins and acquisitions, but the tomes of paperwork around him made it seem decidedly unglamorous. His laptop was a gargantuan thing with an eighteen inch screen, hardly top of the line. His flies were plastic and beige manila. He even used a pen with a hotel logo, which I realized he'd most likely liberated during a business trip abroad.