Читать книгу Dirty - Меган Харт - Страница 8

Chapter 04

Whatever I wanted. An easy thing to promise, but not so easy to request. I didn’t know what I wanted. I only knew I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Marcy cornered me by the coffee machine. “Where’d you go on Friday? You ditched us!”

“I got a headache.” The lie tripped easily off my tongue. “You two were looking pretty cozy by the bar, so I just snuck out.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer, then prattled on about her night with Wayne. The cologne he wore. The brand of shampoo he preferred. The way he liked his eggs. She stopped midsentence to stare at me.

“What?”

I’d been transfixed by her commentary, but now I finished pouring my coffee. “Nothing.”

I didn’t want to tell her I envied her. I wasn’t sure I did. I’d been in love before, with disastrous results.

“Did something happen at The Blue Swan?”

I shook my head. “No. Should it have?”

“Hell, yeah.” Marcy tossed her blond hair over one shoulder. “It should have. Definitely. But…nothing? We lost you after you went to get the drinks. Thought maybe someone swept you away.”

“Oh.” My laugh sounded forced and lame. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t look convinced, but I didn’t give her any more of the story.

Dan didn’t wait to call me the way I had.

“Hello, Miss Kavanagh. Daniel Stewart calling.”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart. How can I help you?”

“I read a good review about the film showing at the Allen Theater this weekend. I’d like to make an appointment with you to see it.”

“An appointment?” He’d caught me washing dishes left over from breakfast. I cradled the phone against my shoulder while I swirled a soapy sponge over my bowl and rinsed it.

“Yes. I believe you said you didn’t go on dates.”

“I said I didn’t date. Not that I didn’t go on dates.”

“Ah. Fine line, there.”

I imagined him running a hand through his hair, maybe wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He’d have a leather couch. Big-screen television set. Plants a housekeeper watered and plucked the dead leaves from.

I finished with my dishes and set the kettle on to boil water for tea. “I go on an occasional date.”

That wasn’t quite true. I hadn’t been on a date in a long time. Longer than I’d forgone sex, as a matter of fact.

“You’re changing your story on me, Elle. That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.” I wiped off my table and replaced the napkin holder in the center.

“Elle.” His voice reached through the phone and stroked me from head to foot. I closed my eyes. “You want to go with me to the movies.”

I leaned against my counter, an arm folded across my stomach to support the one holding the phone. I thought for a moment. “Yes. I do.”

“Good,” he said, as though that settled things. And it did.

He took me to an arty, independent film with subtitles, the plot of which I had difficulty untangling but enjoyed anyway for its lush visuals. We had dessert in the theater’s attached coffee shop, where he challenged me to a game of Scrabble in which he spelled words like “cleft” and “slick” for a triple word score. We traded limericks, and he seemed impressed I knew so many. We laughed so loudly we turned heads, and I didn’t even care. He didn’t touch me, though I wanted him to.

He invited me back to his apartment for drinks. I agreed. I wanted to see the place where he lived. I wanted to see his bed.

He served me Guinness in a pint glass and didn’t insist on using coasters, though his furniture looked new enough to require them. He settled down beside me on his leather couch as easily as though we’d spent months together instead of hours, and he asked me questions about the movie as if he cared about the answers.

I’m not completely socially incompetent. I do have to know how to interact with clients, give presentations, make appointments, shake hands and make small talk. I can do those things sufficiently, if not with ease. If anything, I would imagine people would describe me as aloof, taking my silence at times for standoffishness rather than awkwardness. I’m still the girl who sat in the front of the class, ready to answer all the teacher’s questions. I just lost most of the answers somewhere along the way.

Dan didn’t make me think too hard. He led me through the maze of conversation without hesitation, as easily as if he’d taken my hand to keep me from stumbling over a crack in the pavement. He talked a lot about himself, but not in an obnoxious way. It soothed me to hear his anecdotes of high school soccer games and college frat parties. I didn’t have stories like that. Normal stories. Hearing the tales of others fascinated me. Maybe it should have made me bitter with envy, but it didn’t, not any more than a fairy story made me envy the princess who could weave gold from straw.

Anyone who’s ever spent time with someone who seems enthralled with every word you say knows how intoxicating that can be. His eyes watched my mouth move. He listened to me, engaged me in conversation, drew forth answers that surprised me with their honesty. I told him about my house and my job, my favorite television show and the fact I love anything chocolate but not hot fudge.

All because he listened. Was I so starved for admiration his good manners seemed like more to me? No. It was him, Dan, entirely, and the fact he listened to learn about me, not as a reason to have me learn about him.

I was in the middle of a sentence when he leaned in to kiss me. The contact startled me. I hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t had time to turn my face. His mouth was soft and warm on my lips. I tasted salt from the popcorn. His hand came up to touch my face, strong fingers on my cheek.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kiss him on the mouth, that gesture more intimate than taking him inside my body. I turned my face, broke the kiss, didn’t finish my sentence.

“No?” He asked, breath hot on my ear.

“No.”

He slid his hand down to caress my breast. “But this.”

I turned my head to look into his eyes. “Yes.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Got harder. His hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair. He pulled, tilting my head back and exposing my throat.

“And this,” he said, pressing his lips to the spot where my pulse beat, beat, beat, skipping.

His teeth grazed my skin, and I gave a little gasp. “Yes.”

His mouth trailed lower, to the jut of my collarbone. His fingers tightened in my hair, and I gasped again at the mingled pleasure/pain. He sucked my skin between his teeth, the tip of his tongue circling against it. His other hand found my breast and he thumbed my nipple erect. His hand slid lower, between my legs.

“And this.”

“Yes…” The word sighed out of me.

“Stand up.”

I did.

“Take off your clothes.”

My hands went to the buttons on my shirt. I slid them from the holes, my fingers trembling. Fear and fierce desire can almost feel the same, sometimes. I slipped off the shirt, let it fall to the floor in a way I’d never done if alone.

I wanted to see his eyes fill with desire, hear him hiss in a breath at the sight of me. Dan watched me, his face unreadable. I flushed, heat creeping up my throat to paint my cheeks. I wanted to put my hands on them to cool them. Instead I undid the button and zip on my skirt and let that puddle to the floor, too.

I wore fine things beneath my clothes, panties and bra of black lace and satin and flattering cut. The bra pushed my breasts together, creating creamy-skinned cleavage. The panties rode low on my hips and cut high in the back to reveal the curve of my ass. The black looked darker against my skin, pale from being kept out of the sun, and I knew he could see the darker triangle of the hair between my thighs.

I stood in front of him, trying not to shake, though the desire that had made my fingers tremble now made my legs want to buckle. I’d been naked in front of men before. Had let them look at my body, judge it, praise or find flaws with the curve of belly, the jut of my hipbones, the weight and shape of my breasts. For them, I’d worn my body the way I wore my clothes, as something practical to be used for a purpose. A function.

In front of Dan, I’d become more than hip and thigh and cunt. He looked at my body knowing my real name, the way I drank my tea, the sound of my laughter. My nakedness came from what he knew about me, what I had let him know, those tiny, irrevocable intimacies I never share with anyone.

“The rest. Take those off, too.” His voice had grown thick, proof of his desire, and it gave me courage.

This part I knew. How a glimpse of pink could render a man mindless. We all have the same parts, us women, yet every man I’ve ever been with has looked at me as though he’s never seen a naked woman before. There is power in our bodies that men don’t have, secret and hidden places they yearn to explore over and over. Women’s bodies hold the mystery of blood and life, not just pleasure.

I reached behind me to unhook my bra, the movement thrusting my breasts forward. I watched him watch me as I let the straps fall down my shoulders. As I let the cups fall away to reveal my flesh.

He leaned back against the couch, his cock pushing at the front of his khaki pants. I wasn’t the only one flushing. Red tinged his cheeks, too, and he licked his mouth as he watched me.

“The panties.”

I hooked my thumbs in the sides of the lace and eased them over my hips. I did it slowly, enjoying the look on his face as he focused. I parted my thighs and cocked my hip, slid the fabric down my ass and over my thighs, then let them fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them and stood, at last, completely naked.

“Fuck,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair. “Turn around.”

I did, one rotation.

“Touch yourself.”

The request surprised me but I was already complying. I held my breasts, my nipples responding to my touch as quickly as if my hands were his. I slid my thumbs over the tight buds, then ran my hands down my sides, over my belly, down my thighs. I put one hand over the hair between my legs, cupping my center and pressing the heel of my hand against my clit.

“Fucking hell, you’re hot.”

My flush grew deeper, more blush than flush this time. His praise thrilled me and eased the fear that always accompanies being naked in front of another.

“Elle,” Dan said, “tell me you want me to fuck you.”

Simple words to describe an act with so much variation.

“Oh,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Dan, I want you to fuck me.”

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more. I will never forget the feeling of standing naked in front of him that first time. How he looked at my body as not pieces, but as a whole, woven together by those small things about me I’d allowed him to know.

He was on his feet without hesitation. His hands on my hips pulled me against him as his mouth found my throat. He kissed me there, then on my shoulder, then bent his knees to reach the tops of my breasts. His hands roamed my skin, cupped my buttocks, pressed the small of my back, traced the edges of my shoulder blades.

“Put your arms around me.”

I did. He put his hands under my thighs and lifted me. It was sudden and took me unawares. I am not a small woman and he not a large man. It didn’t matter. I wrapped my legs around him, the fabric of his oxford shirt rubbing my clit deliciously enough to make me whimper.

He took me to the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him, I don’t know how. I could only hang on and pray we didn’t end up on the floor. He didn’t drop me. He laid me down on the bed as skillfully as if it had risen to meet us. He covered me with his body, kissed me all over. Every place but my mouth, because I had told him no.

Together we worked the buttons on his shirt with far less grace than I’d used on mine. One flew off and spanged against the wall. Another refused to come free and tore the hole until it slipped out. His skin beneath was smooth and covered with crisp, curling hair over muscles that shifted under my fingers as he tore his arms from the sleeves. Then his hands were on me again, sliding up and down, and my hands were on his belt buckle, tugging. He reached to help me, his teeth biting into my shoulder when I reached inside to grasp him.

I gasped at the bite and tightened my grip involuntarily. He gasped too and gave another muttered curse. He sat up to push down his pants and the boxer briefs beneath, rolling onto his back to get them past his thighs and down his legs. He kicked them off, one foot at a time, and I watched his body become revealed to me.

I could say his body was perfect and every part of it beautiful, because it was. Not because he had no flaws, but because I wanted him so desperately I couldn’t see any.

He rolled on top of me, skin to skin. He was hard where I was soft. Rough where I was smooth. Straight where I curved. Man and woman, puzzle pieces, meant to fit.

He took my nipple between his lips and I arched beneath him. He laved it with his tongue, then suckled gently. It tugged within my womb, and my cunt spasmed. His hand slid between my legs. His fingertip, unerring, found my clit and circled it. He dipped down to my folds and brought slickness from inside me to smooth his touch.

I put my hand on his head. His hair was soft and long enough for me to grasp and tug. Pleasure made me pull too hard, and he muttered ouch against my breast.

I loosed my grip but kept my hand in its place. He moved to the other nipple, offering it the same treatment. Every tug he gave sent another spasm through my insides. My clit swelled under his touch. I felt it grow, felt the blood rushing to that small bundle of nerves from all over my body. I floated in that pleasure, gave myself to it, welcomed the oblivion of ecstasy.

His mouth grazed my ribs. His tongue swept my skin, tasting me. He murmured against me, words I couldn’t understand but didn’t need to.

His cock stretched hot along my thigh. He rubbed it against me, his hips pumping slowly. I thought of how he’d feel thrusting inside me and moaned.

“Damn it, you’ve got a sexy voice.”

I looked down at him, uncertain if I’d be able to form a coherent sentence. “Hush.”

He grinned up at me, his hand moving, moving, making me shake. “You do.”

Compliments embarrass me. I shook my head a little. My hair spread out around me on the bedspread.

He looked at me again with that same odd expression of query and acceptance; a man being handed a gift he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve but taking it without hesitation.

“Elle,” he said. “I’m going to watch your face this time, and I’m going to be inside you. Do you want that?”

I nodded. My fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes.”

He left me for a moment to reach inside his nightstand drawer, and I was grateful I didn’t need to insist, or get up to get my purse, too far away in the living room. I reached for the condom, but he shook his head.

“I need to do it.”

He must have seen a question in my eyes, because he smiled. “I don’t want to finish before we’ve started.”

His honesty made me want to be honest with him. To give him something real. But I had given him enough already with inconsequential revelations he didn’t realize he was so privileged to have.

I got up on one elbow to watch him, glad for the chance to see him. Like the rest of him, his cock was near perfect. Pretty, even, of average length and girth and color but somehow lovely. He slipped the condom on, stroking the latex down to the base. Thus shielded, he leaned in to look into my eyes.

He positioned himself on top of me, using his arms to keep from crushing me. His cock nudged me, and I parted for him and tilted my hips to allow him entrance. He rubbed the tip along my folds, pushing in a little before reaching between us to guide himself all the way inside.

I moaned when he did, and he did, too. He stopped when his cock hit my cervix. I had a hand on his biceps and felt him trembling. He put his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a moment before he opened them. Then, without taking his gaze from mine, he began to move.

He’d said he wanted to fuck me, but that one word can mean so many different things. Dan moved inside me with slow deliberation, every stroke smooth. I put my arms around his neck to bring his mouth back to my neck. He obliged me by kissing me there. I tilted my head to offer him more, and he took it. He pressed his teeth to the spot he’d bitten but didn’t bite this time. His tongue smoothed the spot.

He slid his hands beneath my rear to tilt me against him and change the angle. His pelvis bumped my clit with every thrust. The intermittent pressure pushed me higher. Made me wetter. Delicious friction, no need for lubrication, our bodies worked exactly the way they were meant to.

Skin on skin. Cock in cunt, a perfect fit. He moved. I moved. He gave, I took. I hooked my legs around his thighs, urging him against me.

He murmured my name. I answered with his. Connecting. We were connecting, and even in the oblivion of pleasure I could not forget who I was with. I didn’t want to. It mattered to me what mouth kissed me, whose hands stroked me, whose penis filled me.

It mattered, suddenly, that it was this man, and the mattering made my body stutter. I froze. My heart, already pounding, skipped a beat.

A woman’s orgasm is such a fragile thing, dependant as much upon her mind as on her clitoris, and though my climax had been swelling inside me, ready to spill over, I lost it. My body shifted, my thoughts atangle with self-discovery. I had let him in.

He couldn’t know, of course, that because I had told him my true name and the way I drink my tea, sex would suddenly become so complicated. I had let him fuck me in a bathroom stall, after all. He couldn’t know that sex was something I did and intimacy something I did not. Dan could not have known those things, but he looked into my eyes at that moment anyway as if he did.

“It’s all right,” he told me, as confident in that as when he’d ordered lunch for me. “Elle. It’s all right.”

He rolled me so carefully we didn’t part and then was beneath me. He adjusted my legs and put my hands on his chest. My fingers curved around his ribs. He put one hand on my hip. The other slid between us, his thumb pressing my clit.

“Move,” he whispered. “Move the way you want to.”

And though I’d stuttered, though the moment I’d almost lost had less to do with sex and more to do with fear, I did as he said. I moved. I rocked against him, finding a pace that satisfied me and brought me back to where we’d been.

He helped me, shifting when I shifted and easing his thrusts when I changed the angle. He moved his hips at my guidance, and even when his breath became ragged he kept his thrusts smooth.

I let my head fall back to feel my hair tumble down and stroke the top of my ass. I wanted to lose myself again, to give up to the same sweet nothingness, but though my body filled with pleasure, I couldn’t find it.

“Come for me,” he whispered. His thumb stroked me as he helped me rock against him. “I want to watch you.”

I shuddered. I opened my eyes. My body knew better than my brain. He looked at me, and I at him, and I gave him what he wanted.

Everything drew tighter, knotting, until I unraveled. I cried out. My fingers dug into his skin. His thumb ceased moving and stayed still, the pressure enough to keep me surging. He thrust harder, faster, both hands moving to pin my hips. He grunted when he came, so close behind me it was almost simultaneous.

We lay together in silence, after, not touching. Sweat cooled on my body, but it felt good. I felt good.

At least for a little while, before I began to calculate how long I’d have to wait before I could get up to leave. I listened to his breathing deepen. Maybe he’d fall asleep, and I could sneak out.

He let out one small, entirely adorable snore. I got up and padded to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, where I used the toilet and the sink. His washcloths were thick, plush and blue, to match the paint and shower curtain. I used his mouthwash, sniffed his cologne, admired the surprising cleanliness of his floor and counter. He had a rubber duck in his bathtub, and I marveled over it for a minute. The hint of whimsy.

Still naked, I came out of the bathroom to find his eyes open.

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever been with who practically counted the seconds until she could leave.”

“Really?” I asked from the doorway. “I’ve been with plenty of men who’ve done it.”

I went to the living room to pick up my discarded clothes and put them on. I’d slipped on my panties and was hooking my bra when he came after me.

“Why don’t you date?” He asked from the doorway. He’d slipped on boxers printed with a pattern of marching jellybeans, and I was vividly reminded of meeting him at Sweet Heaven.

“Dating complicates things.” I slid my arms into my sleeves and did up the buttons. I put on my skirt, zipped and buttoned it, tucked in my shirt. I smoothed the wrinkles.

“How do you figure that?”

“Dating,” I said, “implies a level of emotional connection for both parties to either create or work toward creating.”

Dan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”

I sighed. “I don’t have time for that.”

He made a low noise of disbelief. “You mean you don’t want to have time for it.”

“Semantics.”

He watched me look around for my purse but made no move to help me find it. “You said you did go on dates, sometimes.”

I shot him a smile. “Sometimes. Not for a long time. And a date is not dating. Dating implies more than once.”

“Ah.” He looked bemused. “Which leads to the emotional corruption.”

“Connection—” I looked up. He was teasing me. “That, too.”

“How long has it been since you went on a date?”

“Not counting our appointment?”

He held up a finger. “That was an appointment, not a date.”

“Right.” I didn’t have to think hard. “Four years, eight months, three days.”

I found my purse in the moment of silence my answer had created. I rifled through it, checking for car keys and cab fare. When I looked up, Dan was staring at me.

“How long since you’d had sex?”

“Three years. Give or take.”

“Are you counting from tonight or the time in the bathroom?”

“I’m counting from the time on the dance floor.” I zipped my bag closed and slung it over my shoulder. “Because… that was sex.”

He watched me get ready to leave. His expression didn’t tell me if he was shocked, angry or admiring. At last he ran a hand through his sandy hair, spiking it, then passed the same hand across his mouth.

“Good night, Dan.”

His words caught me with my hand on the knob to his front door. “You want to see me again. I know you do.”

I turned to look at him. “More than once, you mean?”

“You’ve already seen me more than once,” he pointed out.

“So then I should say no.”

I didn’t want to say no. The sex had been fantastic. More than that, his company had been comfortable. Dangerously so.

“I don’t date.”

“I’ll make another appointment.”

“Why?” I asked, point-blank. “You’ve seen me come with you inside me. What’s left?”

I think I really shocked him then. I meant to, anyway. I wanted to chase him away from me.

He stood up straight and glanced to the bedroom before striding over to me. He was tall enough so we didn’t stand eye to eye, but not so tall I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. His face had gone hard, and though I shouldn’t admit it, the sudden sense of danger, of wondering if maybe I’d pushed him a little too far, sparked a thrill through me.

“You’re smiling.” He wasn’t. “Do you like to play games, Elle? Is that it?”

Some men like to use their size or their fists to intimidate women. Dan looked angry, but he didn’t touch me. I didn’t move, didn’t retreat. He put a hand on the door frame next to my head.

“I didn’t get you off good enough?”

“That’s not it. You were very good.”

He didn’t look pleased at the compliment. “Not good enough for another round?”

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to fuck you again,” I said matter-of-factly. “You asked me if I wanted to see you again.”

“You can’t do the first without the second, Elle.”

He was fast. Clever, without being arrogant about it. I liked that. Liked him.

“If you want to fuck—” I began.

“Is that what you want?” His voice dipped lower. “Just a quick fuck?”

“No,” I said. “Sometimes I like them to be slow.”

He put his other hand on my hip, pulling me step by reluctant step against him. “I can give you that.”

He was hard again. I felt him on my belly. I put my arms around his neck and let him press me close along his body.

“Can you?”

He nodded, solemn, hands cupping my ass now to rub me against his erection. “I told you. Whatever you want.”

“It won’t work, you know. It never does. People get attached—”

He laughed. “I won’t get attached.”

I smiled. His bare skin was warm beneath my hands. “Nobody thinks they will. But they always do.”

“And that’s why you don’t date.”

“That’s why.”

He rocked me against him, slowly. “Because men get attached to you.”

“Some have, yes.”

“And you don’t?”

I splayed my fingers on his shoulders, my thumbs stroking the ridge of his collarbone. “I did once.”

He bent his head to run his mouth along my neck. “But other than that, you’ve broken the hearts of scores of fools who got attached to you.”

“I don’t like to think so, no. I’ve tried to avoid it.”

“Why? It doesn’t get you hot, thinking of all those broken hearts in your wake?”

“No.”

“Because…you’d feel guilty.”

“Yes…” The word became a hiss as his tongue stroked my skin.

“And that’s why you don’t date.”

“Haven’t we gone over this?” I looked at him, pushing him away a little to see his face.

“Don’t worry, Elle,” he whispered, pulling me closer again. “I won’t get too attached.”

How can I explain exactly how he made me feel? Even now, looking back, I can remember everything about that moment. The feeling of his hands on me. The scent of him, cologne and sex. The way his mouth curved at the corners and the way the first hint of stubble glinted on his cheeks. I hold a perfect picture of him in my mind: Dan in that moment. The moment he convinced me to stay.