Читать книгу Come Play With Me: An Erotica Collection - Charlotte Stein, Madelynne Ellis - Страница 4

He says it in the middle of talking about something mundane – like quotas or reports or that meeting we all had last Tuesday. We’re just sat here at the bar, and Johnson’s gone to the toilet, and in that tiny moment that we’re alone he puts his lips too close to my ear and murmurs the words: ‘If you come upstairs with me once we’re done here, I’ll lick your clit until you come all over my face.’

They feel hot, up that close – and not just because of the content. I can feel his steamy breath, rubbing against the sensitive whorls of my ear. And I get a heated hint of his body, too, as he invades my space.

I don’t know how to react. A second ago he was Michael Turner, rather quiet and sort of uninteresting colleague. Now he’s a guy who propositions girls by using a word I don’t think I’ve ever heard a man say before. Not even in bed. Not even when the guy in question is actually touching me there.

Though, come to think of it, even that’s rare.

But this is rarer. I feel like he’s already done the deed, before I’ve even taken him up on the offer. My clit is suddenly huge, immense. It’s eating the rest of my body in pulses and tremors, and all of them make me realise something startling.

It doesn’t really take a lot to make me come. I could come like this, while staring straight forwards at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I can see him just to the left of me, toying with his glass of Scotch as though nothing was said – but then he glances up just a little and our eyes meet around bottles of absinthe and mint liquor, and I know.

I know I could come if he just breathed on me wrong. I’m primed like an engine; he’s said the magic words and kickstarted a libido I didn’t previously have. Usually I’m bored, restless, I have to work for it, push for it. I’m always on the edge and never all the way over.

But that’s not the case now. Why didn’t I notice those eyes of his, over morning coffee and dull chitchat? They’re like neon lights, lowering on the front of a predatory sort of car. Something slick and close to the ground, ready to run me down. And his mouth … oh, his mouth.

It’s like someone pressed a blade to his face. They carved those cut-glass cheekbones, and then finished off with a slash just above his chin.

Which is all just a way of saying that he’s stunningly attractive, though I’d never quite seen it before today. I guess I’d passed him by in the same manner I pass by most handsome men, sure and certain in their uninterest, only concerned with what they have to say. Maybe it’ll be something good, like today.

Though usually I’m just hoping for anything at all. From anyone, ever. A word, a sign that I’m alive. A hand on my thigh as nonchalant as a back pat, just before he slides away.

Of course, I know where he’s going. He’s headed to that mythical upstairs – the one I can’t help picturing as a bin for this bar. Beer crates on the stairs, boxes in the bare living room, naked bulbs dangling from the ceiling.

But Johnson tells me otherwise. He asks me if Michael has called it a night, and then he points to the place I was offered. ‘Maybe we should head off too,’ he says, while I reframe the place above with this new information in mind.

Now it’s not a fuck on the stairs, amidst the rubble. There’s no splinters digging into my ass, from stripped floorboards in an abandoned apartment. I think of how he seems, instead, and what the home of a man like him would be like – pristine, elegant, sharp. The way his suits are, the way his haircut is, the way he’d whispered those words in my ear.

So slick, I think.

I should be angry.

Instead, I’m walking up the stairs.

I wait until Johnson’s bid me adieu outside the bar, and go through the motions of leaving as he does so – putting my gloves on, bracing myself for the cold. And then once he’s gone I turn around and go back inside, to the red door he went through at the rear.

No one tries to stop me. No one says anything to me at all, so maybe he does this all the time. Invites a girl through this red rabbit hole, to a flight of stairs that couldn’t be more different from the ones I’d imagined.

Everything is white, bright white, and at the top there’s another door, left ajar.

Beyond, his apartment is the same. Clinical, almost, as though to take back the invitation that was so easily extended. Now I’m supposed to feel like an intruder, in the land that clean built. I’m a filthy whore who’d like her pussy licked, invading his precious space.

Though it’s not this thought that makes my face heat. It’s how he catches me when he emerges from some space-age kitchen. I’m in the process of fleeing, before any of this solidifies and turns into that thing I did one time.

‘Leaving so early?’ he says, and my cheeks nearly flame. I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, then compounded my error by vacating the scene of the crime. Now I have to be punished, I suspect, though his and my ideas of punishment differ greatly, it seems.

I think of spankings, or maybe a brutal fuck bent over his couch. He thinks of the promise he made me, and kneels down to shove my dress up over my hips. No talking. No asking. I’ve never been so bare before any kind of discussion has taken place.

And it gets worse. He looks up at me with this shark’s grin on his gorgeous face when he sees my panties: plain cotton, humiliatingly girlish. And once he’s judged them suitable, he hooks two come-hither fingers into the elastic.

Then drags them down. Slowly, slowly, as though my shivering shame and uncertainty are worth savouring. And I can tell he is savouring it, too, because he doesn’t look at my newly exposed pussy, sparsely furred and already gleaming with the evidence of my arousal. He looks at my face as he inches them down, then once they’re on the floor he lifts my feet to free them.

Which has the bonus of spreading my legs. Once my feet are back on the ground, they’re noticeably further apart than they were before – and he’s still staring, too. He holds my gaze long after he’s leaned in to plant an open-mouthed kiss on my split sex, all wet and warm and too much, too much.

I don’t know what to do with it. I can’t watch someone watching me, as he slides his tongue between my swollen lips and licks whatever he finds there. I just can’t. He isn’t even tender about it, holding back until I can take it, delicately forging forward when I urge him on. He grasps great handfuls of my ass and holds me there. He mashes his face right into my spread slit, and once he’s as deep as he can go he licks over my slippery hole like he’s searching for a way in.

Which he finds, easily. Of course he does. He’s so greedy I’m surprised he hasn’t lost his way down there, so eager for more that he’s forgotten the breadcrumbs to get back. It’s like he’s drowning inside me, and when I make a startled sound he only forces himself deeper down.

He finds my clit and really rubs it, in a way I didn’t think was possible with that particular appendage. I thought it had to be a thumb, for it to feel like that – or maybe some sort of toy of the kind he most likely has. He’s that kind now, I see.

He’s the kind who forces me to stand still while he works his tongue back and forth over my clit, until I’m moaning. I actually moan, even though we don’t really know each other and haven’t properly spoken before now.

Our first real words to each other are cries of stunned pleasure and feral grunts of satisfaction – the former from me, the latter from him. Of course the latter’s from him. I can practically see the triumph in his gleaming eyes, as though this is all some strange sex-based revenge for wrongs I didn’t know I’d done to him.

He’s going to give me orgasms until I’m sorry for dressing him down in that meeting one time – even though I never actually have. We acknowledged each other at the photocopier, once. We saw each other in the bar downstairs, and conspired in the awkward camaraderie of colleagues who don’t really know each other.

And it all somehow led to this.

‘Oh, God, I’m coming,’ I say, because I have to. It’s so shocking that voicing it is a requirement, not an option. My legs are trembling, trembling, trembling and it’s kind of like he’s twisting something, lowdown in my gut. And then he takes my so-swollen clit between his teeth and that’s it.

I make a noise like an animal dying. I grunt the way he did, five seconds ago – guttural and unfettered, full of a kind of satisfaction I’ve never felt before. This is what going over the edge easily feels like. This is what pleasure is.

Something that makes you sob, even though you don’t want to.

Though it seems that he isn’t satisfied with this. I’ve not given enough. I’m not the kind of mess he was hoping for. He wants to reduce me to rubble, I realise – which of course only gives credibility to that whole revenge-based idea.

But the thing is … it doesn’t feel like revenge, when he carries on making these wet, nearly unbearable circles around my clit. It feels like he’s simultaneously bringing me down from the most gut-punching orgasm of my life and winding me back up into another.

It’s almost good. It’s almost not. It’s just right on that glancing edge, perfect and blissful and nearly too much.

Seriously – where has this genius been my whole life? Why have I settled for less, when I could have had this? I mean, for God’s sake – I nodded my head at him, over the copy machine. Which now seems like a crime punishable only by death.

From incredible orgasms.

‘Stop,’ I tell him. ‘Stop.’

But of course he doesn’t. He’s on a mission, now, to make me collapse – and I know it is a mission. I can feel his fingers really digging into my ass, to keep me where I am. And when I manage to wriggle my hips he stays with me. He keeps his tongue on my clit, pressing now in this rhythmic, unsettling way that sets my nerves jangling.

It’s not going to be long, I know. I can feel a different sort of orgasm building at that point of connection, so intense it’s like burning. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to take it, but when it finally starts to break he keeps me rooted to him – like some unsteady tree that’s somehow grown right out of his face.

I’m more connected to him, I realise, than to my last three boyfriends. There’s nothing between us. No whisper of material, no veil of propriety or personal space. He’s right up against me, right there with me, and, once he’s done, that feeling doesn’t go. He stands and steps back, but I can still see me all over his face.

And I can feel that hunger for me burning right out of him, too raw and real. This is what sex is, I think, but of course I can’t actually say. It would seem like the kid who wasn’t paying attention in class suddenly raising their hand to tell everyone that maths is about numbers.

It seems obvious, now. But I’ve been in the slow sexual group for far too long to actually say so. Instead I let him kiss me with his glossy mouth, stunned by the taste of myself but unable to say that, too. Other girls … they’ve probably tasted themselves a million times. They’ve kissed like this: open-mouthed and ravenous, the rhythm of it so much like sex that I have to stop and check we’re not actually doing it.

And they probably have men turn them around all the time, to bend them over things.

‘Put your hands on the table,’ he says, and, God help me, I do, I do. I can hear him unbuckling and unzipping, and even that doesn’t make me hesitate. I just want to feel him unleash some of that hunger, in something other than my direction.

I want to see what it’s like when it’s turned around on him. Will he moan the way I did, grunt the way I did – will he pull me back onto his cock in a desperate sort of way? I don’t know, I don’t know, and that’s the kicker.

I’m fumbling blind through a forest of him, unearthing each delight along the way. Never sure if it’s going to be something thrilling or frightening, right on the edge that’s now as sharp as a knife.

And then I feel him, condom-covered but still somehow dangerous and dirty and oh so good, sliding and sliding through my slit. And I hear him, too – oh, the sound he makes when I spread my legs wider in this agitated sort of way, wanting more but not sure how to say it. How do you ask for more from someone you’ve barely spoken to?

By rubbing yourself against him like a rutting animal, it seems.

He doesn’t even have to say anything in response. He gets the message loud and clear, and rubs right back against me. I’ve practically mapped every inch of his cock with my tender, swollen lips by the time he finally eases his way inside, though it’s different once he’s there. Bigger, thicker, forcing and spreading me open in a way that makes me gasp.

‘OK?’ he asks, but that’s all I get. That one chance to tell him I can’t take it, a second before he fucks into me again. And then again, hard enough to almost sprawl me over the table. Hard enough to send a deep, heavy sensation through my belly and out of my open mouth.

I have to wonder: did he really think I was going to say no to this? Oh, God, I can’t even say no to it when he jolts into me over and over, hands so tight on my hips I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m going to come again, I know, but I can’t accept it.

It’s just too easy.

He makes it too easy. He moans my name, breathlessly, and pounds that gloriously thick cock into me, and right when he’s on the brink, right when he’s shuddering and losing himself the way I already have, I lose it too.

I draw patterns in the wood of his table with my fingernails. I shout the name I’m only partially sure is the right one, and strain to get more of what he’s giving – this intense, pulsing sensation, so unrelenting it’s almost like pain. It makes me want to struggle against it, as much as it makes me want more.

And then it’s over, and the choice is made.

‘Again,’ I tell him. ‘Do it again.’

But he just laughs into my back – against the material I’ve soaked through, while surviving this ordeal – and asks me if I’m trying to kill him. ‘I knew you’d be the death of me, you dirty little minx,’ he says, though none of it’s unkind. The laughing, the comment that suggests he knows me better than I know him … it’s not cruel.

It’s more familiar than anything else. This is the part where we’re supposed to relax and enjoy each other’s company, maybe lie on a bed together and while away some time. Only we’ve done it backwards, so now we’ll have to make introductions. Flirt, gently, until we’re comfortable with each other.

And then hold hands, as we ascend the stairs.

Luckily, he’s made a good start. We’re holding hands now, though I’m not sure when he took hold of mine. And I don’t know when he started talking, either, first in exhausted fits and starts, then a little more, as we straighten our clothes. ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that to you,’ he says, and instead of being silent, this time, I respond with the things I’m thinking.

‘I didn’t know you were paying attention,’ I say, while he eyes me steadily.

Of course I realise then that he’s not putting his clothes back together. He’s taking them off, while we do this thing in reverse.

‘Really?’ he asks, then does a little more than reverse things. He reframes it entirely, like piecing together a movie from someone else’s point of view. ‘All those heated glances over the copy machine? Asking me if I like sugar, lingering too long at my desk? What kind of person wouldn’t pay attention to things like that?’

Me, apparently. I didn’t pay attention. I called those things mundane and ordinary, and all along they’ve been anything but. They were really signs I should have read, signals I should have been able to decode. When he said, ‘Would you like a drink?’ he really meant: ‘I’m going to talk about your clit to you in about five minutes.’

I should have known.

But out here on the edges it’s always hard to see things clear. Up is down, left is right. A dull little comment is actually an invitation; a glance in someone’s direction a promise.

When I really think about it, we’ve probably been dating for months.