Читать книгу The Pleasure Principle: A steamy standalone romance - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 7

Chapter Two

The gravelled driveway crunches beneath my feet as I make my way along it, clutching the sides of my jacket together with one hand. I don’t really understand what just happened in there, apart from the fact that Cal’s infamous sex parties aren’t rumour, they’re true. He was so comfortable with it, so confident, able to stand there and watch and enjoy it. Me, I ran away.

I’m still not sure how I feel about what I saw. I’m not sure how I want to feel about it. I should feel shocked and disgusted, I know, but hard as I try, I can’t seem to make myself. I have an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, one I’m trying not to examine too closely, because if I do I suspect I might discover that it’s regret.

I stumble a little on the gravel, but right myself before I can fall. More people are making their way along the street towards the house. I can hear their inebriated voices, the laughter that’s a shade too loud, and I drop my gaze in that way cats do, like they can make themselves invisible if they don’t look at you. Given the way this evening is going, I shouldn’t be surprised when they stop. When one of them calls to me. ‘Verity!’

Fantastic. Just fantastic. What better way to end this than by running into my ex? ‘Hello, Will,’ I say. And that’s all I say. I don’t say any of the things that are swirling round in my head, like thanks for ruining my life, you bastard, or trash anyone else online lately?

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought a party at Cal Bailey’s house was your sort of thing,’ he smirks. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t have thought you’d get an invite. Is that why you’re leaving so early? Did you get kicked out?’

He’s so smug, standing there in his rugby shirt and on-trend jeans, making me feel even more hideous. I’m desperate to say something cutting, but I can’t seem to find the words.

But someone else does. And that someone is Cal. He moves in beside me, close to me, close enough for me to catch the faintest trace of his aftershave. ‘Hello, Will,’ he says.

‘Cal.’ Will grins at him, and that grin makes me feel sick. ‘I heard you’re throwing a party tonight.’

‘Nope,’ Cal replies. ‘Not tonight.’

I stare up at him in disbelief. All the lights in the house are on and music is blaring through the open front door.

I see Will look up at the house. His brow creases, his mouth opening as if he wants to say something, but he isn’t quite sure what. ‘Sounds like a party,’ he says. There’s an odd tone of desperation in his voice, as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels.

‘Just having a few friends over for drinks,’ Cal says. ‘Nothing major. I’d invite you in, but we’re keeping it low-key, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ Will replies. ‘Sure.’

Then he looks at me. I feel every muscle in my body go tense, feel the ring of steel that forms around my head every time I so much as think about what he did start to tighten. And all the while, Cal is stood next to me, smelling all spicy and masculine, and knowing too much. God, this is humiliating. ‘Right,’ I say, my voice all squeaky. ‘I’ll just be going then.’

‘I’ll walk you home,’ Cal says. He slings an arm over my shoulders. A heavy, strong arm that pulls me close into his body, which is both hot and hard, though his jumper is beautifully soft and clearly cashmere. ‘See you around, Will.’

The movement of his big body propels me forward. When I stumble, he moves his arm from my shoulders to my waist, keeping me upright, keeping me going. I can feel Will’s gaze burning into my back.

When we reach the end of the street, I swallow down the lump in my throat and force myself to speak. ‘You don’t have to walk me home,’ I manage. I can’t be near him, not right now. Not when my head is such a mess of emotions, and my mind keeps playing that scene back at the house over and over. Not when it’s putting me and Cal on that sofa, doing unspeakable things to each other as strangers watch from the shadows.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘But I’m going to anyway.’

‘Really,’ I tell him. ‘It’s fine. I don’t live far.’

‘I could do with the fresh air,’ he replies.

‘What about your guests?’

‘I think they can manage to get drunk and fuck without me.’

I don’t know what to say to that. I mean seriously. Is there a response? Maybe there is, if you’re one of those sophisticated, witty women, the kind that lives the Cosmo lifestyle and wears Louboutin’s and has a special drawer just for sex toys. But I’m not one of those women, not even close. I’m the kind who wears brogues and vintage dresses because Topshop scares the hell out of me. I’m the kind who has sex under the covers with the lights off and then lies there afterwards, wondering why she can’t enjoy it.

We walk on in the dark until we reach my front door. I fumble in my bag for my keys, find them right at the bottom, buried under all the detritus, the chewing gum wrappers and lip balm and pens. ‘So,’ I say brightly, nervously. ‘This is me. Thanks for walking me home.’

I turn, try to put the key in the lock, but my hands are shaking and I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I feel like the air is pushing down on me, like the world is closing in, like I’m standing on the edge of a major disaster. One wrong step and I’ll tumble into it, head first.

Cal is stood right behind me, and I have to get rid of him, but I can’t even get the bloody key in the door. I can feel hot tears pricking at the back of my eyes, and I blink hard and fast, trying to hold them in. I want to enjoy sex, I think to myself. I want to enjoy it, like those women back at his house. But I don’t know how.

‘Here,’ Cal says, reaching past me. ‘Let me.’ He takes my key, slides it easily into the lock, turns it.

‘Thanks,’ I say, as I reach for the handle, but his hand is there first. He doesn’t open the door, though.

‘Verity, wait a minute.’

Then his hand is on my shoulder, and he’s turning me round, and I don’t even try to stop him. God, he’s got good hair. And great shoulders. And his mouth is all sort of soft, and I really want to kiss it. And if I hadn’t been given two stars on ratemyshag.com, maybe I would.

‘I have to go,’ I say, fumbling behind me for the door handle.

‘Will is a dick,’ he says. ‘You know that, right? Everything he put on that website was complete crap.’

I stop fumbling as my stomach goes into freefall and my face burns with the humiliation. ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I tell him. I want the whole thing to just disappear. I wish I could take the past month and completely undo it.

‘Just tell me one thing,’ Cal says. ‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘Is it true that he never made you come?’

I laugh, then. ‘I don’t know what you were reading, but it clearly wasn’t the same thing as me.’

‘So he did make you come?’

‘Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me? Is that what this is?’

‘I just want to know. It’s not a difficult question, Verity. Either you came or you didn’t.’

‘I didn’t, okay?’ My whole body seems to have gone rigid, and I can’t seem to stop myself from shouting. ‘But it had nothing to do with him. He was fine. It was me. I’m completely useless in bed.’

‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, I’ll have to do something about that.’

‘What do you mean, have to do something about it?’

‘Exactly what I said.’

I don’t really see him move, but suddenly he’s stood on the edge of my step. He’s so close to me in height, maybe half an inch shorter, but he’s strong and broad, and there’s nowhere for me to go except back against the front door. I grab for the handle again, but I can’t seem to find it. My fingers stumble over the gloss painted wood. ‘What do you think you’re going to do? I laugh again. It sounds dry and nervous. ‘Persuade me to go to bed with you and then show me it wasn’t me, it was him?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

He lifts up a hand, brushes the back of his knuckles over my cheek. The contact feels like an electric shock. My heart is pounding, and I make that sound again, the one I made back at his house when I saw those three people on the sofa. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I can’t,’ I whisper. ‘Not with him, not with you, not with anyone.’

‘Did Will tell you that?’

This is all getting to be too much for me now. He’s too near, and I am way too close to being persuaded. I want to be persuaded. And I want Cal to persuade me. But the thought of failing with him is more than I can bear. My hand finds the door handle behind me, and I pull it. ‘Never going to happen,’ I tell him. ‘So don’t even bother trying.’

I shove the door open, spin my way inside my house, and shut the door in his face. I stand there inside my little hallway, in the darkness, with a rock in my stomach and an ache between my thighs. I close my eyes. I want to scream, or cry, or break something, preferably against a delicate part of Will’s anatomy.

I’m so tired of hating myself. I’m so tired of feeling inadequate. And I’m frustrated. And I’m horny. And I think Cal Bailey just offered to have sex with me. I open the door. He is at the bottom of the steps, hands tucked in his pockets, moonlight glinting off his hair. ‘Persuade me,’ I say.

He turns, and my knees wobble just a bit. ‘What?’

‘Persuade me,’ I say again, before I lose my nerve for the second time. ‘Do whatever it is that you do to get women to go to bed with you.’

‘Usually I just show up,’ he says.

‘You’re going to have to try a bit harder than that, I’m afraid.’

‘How much harder?’

I think about closing the door. ‘A lot harder.’

‘What do you want, Verity?’

‘I want sex,’ I blurt out.

‘Is that all?’

I nod vigorously. Because suddenly, it is. I don’t want to be romanced, to be seduced. I don’t want to be fooled into thinking that someone cares when they don’t. I don’t want to think it’s anything more than it is. I just want to get rid of this hot ache between my thighs. I want some new memories, ones to paint over the ugly, heavy, sore ones that Will left behind.

‘OK then,’ he says. And then he’s climbing the steps to my front door, stepping into my hallway, closing the door behind him. ‘Where’s your bedroom?’

I point to the stairs without thinking, but I don’t move towards them. ‘Not there,’ I say. Not in my bed, with the lace and the scatter cushions and the pretty brass bedstead. It’s not the sort of room you have casual sex in. Plus I can’t remember if I left my underwear to dry on the radiator or not.

‘Then where?’

‘In here,’ I say. I grab his hand, pull him into the living room, towards the huge overstuffed armchair that I got cheap after someone got biro on it.

‘Slow down,’ he says.

But I can’t, I can’t. The ache between my thighs is too much, and I have to do this before I lose my nerve completely, before I collapse into a sobbing heap and cry all over his cashmere jumper. You see, the problem isn’t that Will rated me a two. It’s that I think he might be right. And if I think about that too much, I’ll never have sex with anyone ever again.

I push Cal back into the armchair. He collapses into it, sprawling back with his thighs wide and his big hands resting on the padded arms of the chair. My dress is loose and lets me straddle him without difficulty. His thighs are hard, warm, the white leather of the chair cold against my bare knees. I pull my bag off my body, toss it to the floor, then shove my hands between us and start tugging at his flies.

He catches my wrists. ‘Verity,’ he says softly. ‘What’s the rush?’

I tug my hands free, pull off my jacket, throw it in the general direction of my bag. I’m hot, so hot. ‘I just want this, that’s all,’ I say.

And then my fingers find his erection, and the room seems to tilt slightly on its axis. Surely that can’t be right. I open my hand over it, grope around the general area. I lean back, fumble open the zip, unfasten the waistband of his jeans and tug them out of the way.

Oh. Apparently it is right.

I sit there dumbstruck for what seems like an age, until Cal leans to the side and switches on the lamp on the table next to us. The glow from the bulb is gentle, perfect mood lighting, casting shadows across his face and highlighting his stomach and his massive cock. ‘Something wrong?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I squeak. ‘Everything is fine.’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Good.’ Then he eases his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, and sort of pulls them up and over, and I see his erection in all its glory. In all its long, hard, I didn’t know they came that size glory.

‘God, that’s a big cock.’ Those words must have come from me. They can’t have come from anyone else, because there isn’t anyone else here. I can’t stop looking at it. ‘It’s very long.’

‘Is it?’

‘It must be at least eight inches.’

‘At least,’ he says. I can hear the laughter in his voice, and that makes me realise what an idiot I’m making of myself. ‘Are you going to take your dress off?’

‘No.’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we’re not having that sort of sex,’ I tell him. I’m still staring at his erection, at the thick vein that runs along the underside, at the shape of the end part, and the dark hair at the base. It looks so soft, and it’s the colour of mocha, and before I can stop myself, I touch it.

‘Then what sort of sex are we having?’

I jerk my hand away. ‘Do you have a condom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then shut up and put it on.’

He puts a hand on my thigh and holds on to me as he lifts his hips, reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, which is made from battered black leather. He flips it open, then tugs out a foil square, a gold one. ‘Do you want to do it?’

‘No,’ I say, and I sort of snort. As if I could.

‘Fine,’ he says. He sounds suddenly resigned, and the temperature of the air seems to drop a good ten degrees. Suddenly I realise how unsexy this is, how forced, but his hand is sliding down my thigh and moving under the hem of my skirt, and I can feel it, strong and warm against my thigh. He fingers swirl a gentle pattern against my skin, over and over, not touching my pussy but close enough for me to want him to.

My body goes all tight and strange. I watch as he bites into the corner of the foil, rips it away, then rolls on the condom one-handed. There’s something unexpectedly erotic about watching him cover himself so shamelessly, as if he’s saying I’m going to fuck you, and more than that, I want to fuck you.

And just like that, I’m persuaded. I can’t stop myself from putting my hands on his shoulders, which are like a pair of wooden ceiling beams. He’s a member of the rowing club, and I’ve seen him down on the river a few times, sitting in a skinny boat and tugging on an oar. It always looked a bit silly. It doesn’t seem silly now. This is what I want, I think to myself, as he moves his hand to the back of my thigh and lifts me. I reach in between us, tug my knickers to the side. I want to fuck you too.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks. His voice is rough, low, wandering over my skin like a second pair of hands.

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Completely, utterly sure. This is what I want, what I need. Quick, meaningless sex with Cal Bailey. Something to ease the ache between my thighs, to show me that I’m not a two, I’m much better than that, and I’m just as uninhibited as the girls I saw back at his house.

The hand under my thigh lifts me higher, and he moves his other hand between my legs, his fingers finding the soft, slippery folds of my pussy. I grip his shoulders tighter. He starts to caress me, to stroke me, and for a second I lose my breath. It scares the crap out of me. I can’t go down that road. I won’t. I let go of his shoulder and grab his wrist. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, not that. I don’t want that.’

‘You don’t want me to touch you?’

‘I just want to fuck,’ I tell him. I just want to fuck Cal Bailey and make him come, and then I’ll know I’m not a two. I’m not interested in chasing my own orgasm, there’s no point. I reach between us, get hold of his cock, hold it firmly as I move myself onto it. The thick, hard head pushes against me, and for a moment I’m not sure I can do it. God, he’s big.

It’s like ripping off a plaster, I tell myself. You’ve just got to get a grip and do it. So I take a deep breath, and I force myself to stop thinking, and I sit on his cock. My fingers dig into his shoulder in shock as I realise quite how big he is. Oh, god. I can feel him right inside me. I can’t move. I can’t even decide if I like it.

But I don’t have time to waste thinking about it. I get hold of those shoulders again, hold tight, and then I rock forwards, lower myself back onto his erection, trying to find a rhythm without putting too much of my weight on him. I’m skinny at the moment, but I’m still six feet tall. I’m hardly small and dainty. It mattered to Will. I don’t want to know if it matters to Cal.

‘Easy,’ he says. His hands are still under my thighs, and he feels so strong, so steady. He’s like a rock sat there in my soft leather armchair, and for a moment I almost convince myself that it doesn’t matter to him. Then he moves his hands up to my waist, my skirts gathering around his wrists. ‘Don’t do that,’ he says, when I try to tug it down. ‘I want to look at your pussy.’

My pulse kicks up a beat. ‘Why?

‘I like looking at pussy,’ he says. ‘I like looking at pussy that’s got cock in it, especially if it’s mine. And I’d particularly like to see my cock in your pussy.’

‘Oh,’ I manage, as those words, and the way he says them, so easily, so casually, sends a lightning bolt of arousal shooting straight to my clit. I squirm against it, trying to calm it down. ‘Are you sure about that?’ I keep tugging at my skirt, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let me have my way.

‘Verity,’ he says, looking at me. ‘You either want to fuck, or you don’t. Which is it?’

‘I want to fuck,’ I blurt out. ‘I want to.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Then let’s fuck, shall we?’ And with that, he lifts me off his knee. His cock slides out of me, all the way out. I can feel my pussy clinging onto it, the sensation entirely unexpected, as he moves me away.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Fucking you,’ he says, as if it’s obvious. He reverses our positions, plonks me down on the chair, pushing my dress up and pulling me forwards until I’m slumped in a completely undignified position. ‘Open your legs.’

My body obeys him, it does, even as my brain screams out no, not like this, and I think about all the ways in which this could go wrong. It’s so much harder to fake it in this position.

‘Wider,’ he says, as he puts himself between my thighs. His erection is right there, sticking up, and it looks so bloody rude. ‘Come on.’

I can’t seem to speak. There are plenty of words inside my head, but I can’t get any of them out of my mouth. I simply stare at him, mute, as he wraps a hand around the base of his big cock, puts the other one on my right knee, and finds the entrance to my vagina with far too much ease.

He slides in enough to make me squeak. ‘There’s that noise again,’ he says. ‘Are you loud when you come, Verity? I bet you are. I bet you’re a screamer.’

Before I can respond with acute denial, he pushes my knees back and, well, fucks me. It’s not gentle or dignified or even vaguely polite, the way he grabs my thighs and holds my legs back, the way he thrusts so deep into me that our bodies slap together, the way it makes me so wet that I’m sure I’m going to leave a puddle on the floor.

‘Scream for me,’ he says. ‘I know you want to. You’re tight as fuck. Come on Verity, get loud.’

Not a two, I tell myself fiercely. Not a two. I turn my head to the side, close my eyes, and moan. Not too much. I don’t want it to sound fake.

‘Tell me you like it,’ he says. The armchair is creaking with the weight of his thrusts and the weight of me, and with each one, he pushes me further back into it, until I’m as far back as I can go.

‘I like it,’ I say. I try to get purchase on the leather, but it is too soft and my hands are too hot. I have to hold on to something, though, so I grab at Cal Bailey. His jumper isn’t enough, so I wrap my hands around his neck. That’s better. His skin is warm, smooth, strong. Still not enough. I shove my fingers up into his hair.

He groans, plants his hands on the arms of the chair, his weight keeping my knees back, and suddenly we’ve gone way past enough. I can feel the rub of his cock inside me, the friction, and the pleasure pain ache in my clit. I’m so frustrated I could scream, and when he fucks into me again, I do. Not with pleasure, but with irritation, with resentment for this body that is too big, too unwieldy, and won’t work as it should.