Читать книгу Tell Me More - Janet Mullany - Страница 7

HE STUTTERED AN ANSWER—SURE, YES, YEAH—and jingled his keys in the fidgety sort of way men do, particularly young, hyper guys, and led the way outside. We both fumbled around with the lock and the alarm, jerking our hands away when we made contact with each other.

I hoped Jason was as nervous as I was.

Once outside the fresh air hit my exposed and overstimulated pussy with a cold burn and I clamped my legs together. Another icy caress as I climbed into the front seat of Jason’s pickup and then I squealed as the cold vinyl of the seats hit my thighs.

“You okay?” Jason looked at me with concern.

“Yeah, I’m cold.”

“I’ll turn the heater on when the engine’s warm.”

“Thanks.”

We set off, me very conscious of every bump and ridge in the road, which seemed to address my clitoris with a blatant reminder of what I was about to do. As we neared the all-night drugstore in town, Jason slowed.

“Do you, ah, have, ah, you know, should I …” He looked uncertain. After all, from his point of view I hadn’t exactly spelled out what I wanted him to do. Maybe he thought he was giving the radio station’s eccentric squealing masturbator a ride home after which we’d say good-night to each other and he’d drive off with a merry toot of his horn.

I’d be tooting his horn for sure.

“No, it’s fine, I have, uh, you know,” I replied fluently. Unless he wanted to buy himself a toothbrush? I think I had a spare somewhere. “Thanks for asking,” I added.

We arrived at my house before the truck had reached anywhere near normal temperature, and I eased myself from the seat, relieved that my skin did not separate from the vinyl with a loud, rude sound. Once again the shock of frigid air hit my crotch and I scuttled for the front door, with Jason behind me.

He stood very close to me as I inserted the key into the lock, not touching me, but close, and it would have been damned sexy if he hadn’t been wearing a down jacket. There might actually have been some contact. But I got the door open and lunged for the lights and the thermostat.

Brady appeared, mewed and collapsed on his side in front of Jason.

“Is your cat okay? He just fell over.”

“Yes, he does that to people he likes.”

“Cool.” Jason bent down to pet him.

“Let me take your jacket,” I said, the perfect hostess, and relieved Jason of his jacket—he put his gloves carefully in the pockets, which I thought was rather sweet. He hung his messenger bag on the rack next to his jacket, removing his cell phone.

“I have to …”

“Oh, sure.” I left him to make his call, wondering who it was to. Not a girlfriend, I hoped. Or his mother, which would be even worse. I went into the kitchen to feed Brady, who transferred his affection from our guest to me, weaving around my legs as I tipped kibble into his bowl.

Jason came into the kitchen. He didn’t offer an explanation for his call, which was none of my business anyway, and looked around. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” The perfect asexual inner hostess kicked in at this point and I asked him if he’d like something to eat—I swear the words just popped out of my mouth—while in the back of my head the slutty hostess shouted, Get him upstairs! Remind him you’re not wearing panties! Unzip him!

“Uh, no, I’m fine.”

I found myself gazing at the banana in my fruit bowl on the kitchen table—Freud would have had a field day with me—and reminded myself sternly to think about the matter at hand. While I attempted to figure out my next move, I picked up the container of cat food to replace it in the cabinet.

And then, proving that one of us had some sense, he came up close behind me—I could feel his warmth, and the nudge of his erection against my butt. His hands slid up my sides. “You are so hot,” he whispered.

I grabbed the edge of the counter, weak-kneed as his mouth moved over my neck, warm and tickling. I turned my head to kiss him, whimpering a little as his hands cupped my breasts. His mouth was nice, gentle and sweet.

I turned in his arms. “Let’s go upstairs.” The slutty hostess had won the fight.

I led him upstairs, enjoying the swish of the taffeta skirt and the assertive clip of the high-heeled shoes on the wooden stairs, and into my room.

He was right behind me, breathing fast. I wondered if he could see up the skirt and decided that as soon as I could I’d bend over in front of him, or part my legs accidentally.

“Okay, Jason.” I turned and he almost bumped into me. “You may undress.”

He gave a huge grin, which made me think that maybe I hadn’t sounded like as much of a dominant bitch as I’d intended. “Sure.” He took off his shirt. Nice chest, a scatter of hair; not superdefined, but pleasant to look at.

I reclined on the bed, one leg outstretched, the other bent, with my wrist resting on the knee. I wanted to see whether he’d angle himself to look up my skirt.

He did, taking a couple of steps towards the end of the bed, ostensibly to put his shirt on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The bulge in his jeans, which seemed to be more or less permanent—or had at least been there in the twenty minutes or so since our first encounter at the radio station—seemed even more prominent. He bent to unlace his boots and kick off his socks, then put a hand to his belt buckle.

Show-off. Delicious show-off.

He snapped the button of his Levi’s and unzipped, sliding the jeans down his legs and kicking them away. He wore gray knit boxers that clung to every contour and ridge. Very impressive.

He hooked a thumb into the waistband and looked at me. Then he looked up my skirt again and swallowed.

I slid off the bed and unzipped the skirt, leaving me in my heels and stockings and the silk halter-neck top. I reached into the bedside cabinet drawer for a condom and walked over to him, conscious again of the sexy sway the shoes gave me. I ran my finger down the underside of his cock, through the cotton knit.

He moaned.

I pulled his underwear down his thighs and he stepped out of them, his cock bouncing slightly as it was freed. It was gorgeous, rigid and curving, a drop of pre-come welling at the tip.

He smiled, but his breath came fast. “Can we …”

“Sure.” I pushed him onto the chest at the end of the bed. It had a padded top, kind to the knees. I knew. This was how I wanted him. I stood astride his thighs and kissed him, not the gentle way he’d kissed me, but deep and carnal and wet, while his hands roamed over my breasts and thighs and butt. One hand slipped between my legs and his breath hitched when he found how wet I was and it was my turn to moan as he took a finger to my clit.

I sheathed him in the condom and placed one knee beside him, easing him into me. He gripped my hips hard. “Go slow,” he said, then looked embarrassed. “I mean, I don’t want it to be over too soon. I want it to be good for you.”

“'S okay.” I was very close to coming, as though I was a pot that had been about to boil when Jason had interrupted me at the radio station and now had full heat beneath it. My body had forgotten about the intervening embarrassment and awkwardness and now wanted to go back to where we’d left off. But Jason inside me, that unexpected, delightful presence curving inside me, jerking a little as I moved—I wanted to hold the moment, concentrate on the gorgeous slide and retreat as we fucked.

He untied the halter-neck top and let it fall, lifting a breast to his mouth to suck the nipple. The sensation shot to my clitoris. “Keep doing that. Harder.”

I ground myself on him and came so hard it hurt.

“Christ! I felt that.” And he thrust up as I gripped him, his eyes dark and wide, and shuddered as he came.

I collapsed on his shoulder, coming back into the present and becoming aware of my breathing, his breathing, the rapid thud of his pulse, the scent of our sweat and bodies. He sighed and nudged me. “Jo, I’d better …”

The condom. Of course. He reached to kiss me on the lips—a friendly sort of gesture, for which I was glad—as I untangled myself from him. I crawled onto the bed, leaving the shoes behind, and slid the stockings off. I resisted the temptation to ask him what he’d like to do next, in case he suggested we watch MTV or say he wanted to sleep. I was pretty much wide-awake and I wanted him again.

“Was that okay?” he asked, settling onto the bed next to me.

“Better than okay.” I wondered how experienced he was.

“Cool.” He grinned. “I’ve wanted to do that since I met you.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. No, I’m not.” He touched my breast, making small circles around the nipple, and gave a small sound of satisfaction as it stiffened and darkened. “You’re gorgeous. Sexy. I can’t believe I’m here with you.”

His cock stirred. I reached down and took him in my hand, squeezing gently. I sat up and ran my hands over him, exploring his planes and surfaces. He twitched away as I kissed his nipple, then settled back, sighing. I kissed his belly and thighs, deliberately ignoring his erection, while he stroked my breasts and shoulders.

“Tell me what you want,” he said after we’d kissed awhile.

I reached for another condom.

“Don’t you want more foreplay?” he said earnestly, as though I wasn’t conforming to some textbook of female erotic behavior.

“Sometimes I like hours of it. Right now I want to be fucked.”

“Okay!” He took the condom and rolled it onto himself, then pushed me onto my back, eager to show me what he could do. And for an exercise in stamina, it wasn’t bad, lots of nice sweaty thrusting and flexing and groaning from both of us.

“Have you come yet?” he asked after a while.

“I don’t come like this.” I rubbed my foot up and down his back.

“Shit. Why didn’t you say?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t enjoying it. I am.”

“What should I do?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing.”

“But I …” His hips were moving again. “I want you to …”

“Jason, just shut up and fuck me, okay?”

He stopped, shocked, and then grinned. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

I was a bit worried about his lack of vocabulary for a couple of seconds before he started fucking me in earnest, and hurtled to a climax before collapsing on top of me.

“That was … that was great,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “What would you like me to do now?”

My mind wandered off onto some stuff I’d read somewhere about dominatrices who made their submissives do the laundry or clean the bathroom, but it seemed like a waste of good manpower. I had this gorgeous, unstoppable young male in my bed, all puppy eyes and eagerness, willing to do whatever I wanted, and—

“Jason, I hope you don’t feel I’m using you.”

He looked up from my nipples—very enterprising, while I was thinking of a reply, he had taken the initiative to start kissing his way down my body. “No. I like you. I think you’re …”

Oh, please don’t say I’m hot again. It’s flattering but—

“You’re nice. Like, when we had those third graders tour the station and you showed them around. You were really cool with them. They liked you.”

“Oh. Thanks. I like you, too. And that—oh, that’s nice.” Perhaps everyone’s vocabulary shrank when the sex was good enough. Jason lapped and nibbled at my thighs and my clit, and I came to his supple, energetic tongue, surprised, pleased, thrashing around.

“I’m hard again,” he said, almost apologetically. I wasn’t aware he’d deflated at any point, and I had a feeling I’d come across the used condom in the bed pretty soon.

“Then let’s do something about it.” I handed him a condom and watched him roll it on, kneeling above me. “And I’ll go on top.”

“Will you come like that?”

“Almost definitely.” It was sweet how concerned he was with my orgasms, when I, or any other woman, could out-orgasm him, or any other man, until the cows came home.

And I did. Or at least, until the arrival, not of any cows, but of my new tenant.

“I guess this is it,” Patrick said.

Elise leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’ve been so great about it all.”

“Hey, stop it. Next thing you’ll be inviting me back in and then we’ll start all over again.”

“You’re right.” She stepped out of his arms and he felt as though he were ripping up inside. It was a definite physical sensation, a weird tingle down his arms, adrenaline maybe, or a heart attack. He waited. Was he about to drop dead on his soon-to-be ex-wife’s—or rather, his own—doorstep?

Damn, she’d get his life insurance. The merry widow.

“Yeah. Okay.” He took his glasses off and pinched his nose, hard, to force the tears back. “I couldn’t find the drill. It’s somewhere in the house. It doesn’t matter. I’ll buy another. You need to have one.”

“Do I?”

In Elise’s world there was always someone with a drill, always someone to look after her and protect her and do things for her. Him, her father, her brothers, even Patrick’s friends—God, if he thought any of his friends were screwing her or wanted to screw her, or coming around with their big drills at the ready, he’d kill them, but they’d be insane not to want to screw her….

“Patrick, just go, please.” She looked waiflike and frail, clinging to the front door. She was as tough as old boots.

“I changed the furnace filter.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

He nodded and trudged to the truck he’d rented for the move.

He drove round the corner, parked and cried for a good two minutes. Well, he thought, blowing his nose, at least he hadn’t cried in front of her.

She hadn’t cried in front of him, either. Shit, he should have torn the house apart and found the damned drill. He’d always despised couples who got into deathly, expensive fights over household items when they divorced, televisions or favorite bits of furniture, but now he understood that irrationality. He couldn’t even bear to think what it would be like if the disputed property were a pet or a kid, but this marriage had none of the above, a thought that did not cheer him particularly.

He put his glasses back on and shoved the truck into Drive, stomping his left foot on the floor in the way he always did driving an automatic, and drove to his new apartment.

He rang the doorbell several times and eventually Jo opened the door. She wore sweats and pink slippers and her hair was on end. She looked sleepy and mussed and sexy. (Yeah, and ten minutes ago he’d been crying over another woman.)

“Sorry I woke you up,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. Come on in.”

He didn’t want to come in the house, but he did to be polite, and she gave him a set of keys.

“I’ll move the pickup,” she said.

Funny, he wouldn’t have thought she was the sort of girl to drive a pickup, and sure enough she wasn’t. A kid wandered out of the house, with “I got lucky” written all over his face—Christ, he was young—and moved the pickup. He introduced himself as Jason, asked what Patrick liked in his coffee and went back into the house. He came out again as Patrick backed the truck into the drive.

“She said I should help you.”

“Thanks.” Exactly how many boyfriends did Jo have?

She wandered out again with mugs of coffee for them both, which she offered with a vague, satisfied smile—heck, now he was paying attention, he saw she had “I got lucky” all over her, too, but for some reason on her he found it endearing—and then she went back into the house

“Cool. IKEA,” said Jason when they got to the flat boxes in the truck. “You want some help putting these together?”

“And what happened next?” Mr. D. asked, when I told him the story at work.

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of something along the lines of a hot threesome surrounded by cardboard boxes.”

He laughed. “Not until now. So how did you get rid of Jason?”

“He said he had work to do. It was easier than I expected.”

“And do you think you’ll do it again?”

I tucked the phone under my chin as I replaced CDs on the shelves. “We work together and it could get awkward. I enjoyed it, but it was a bit like having a well-trained puppy around—he was so eager and happy to please me. If I’d asked him to be rough or selfish—and I did, remember?—he’d defuse it by being acquiescent. Quite unintentionally … I don’t think he was jerking my chain.”

“Another dog metaphor?”

“Or a bitch metaphor, but you’re too polite to say it. I guess that’s why I have a cat—you never really know what they’re thinking, although the answer to that is probably nothing at all. But back to Jason—I’d always thought I’d enjoy a hot young stud who was hard all night long, but his erection never went away, and it was boring. I wanted some variety, some textural interest.”

“Did you think about me when you were fucking him?”

“No.” I put the last CD on the shelf. “I thought about telling you about it. When he curled his tongue around my clitoris and put his fingers inside me, I thought, Mr. D. will enjoy this. Did I tell you I kissed him and tasted myself?”

“Go on.” His voice had a dreamy, throaty quality.

“Are you hard?”

“God, yes. Tell me more.”

And I did, and heard him sigh and groan and give a low laugh.