Читать книгу Dirty - Меган Харт - Страница 9

Chapter 05

I had time to regret my decision the next day when I got out of the cab in front of my house wearing the same clothes I’d worn the night before. I’d showered, brushed my teeth, washed my face. But there could be no mistaking the crumples for anything other than the sort of wrinkles your clothes get when they’ve been tossed without ceremony on the floor because you’re about to get well and thoroughly fucked.

“Hi, Miss Kavanagh.” Gavin waited on his own porch steps this time, but as they were scant inches from mine it made little difference. “I thought you might need some more help today with the dining room.”

What I really wanted was to fall face-first into my pillows and go back to sleep. I gave Gavin a narrow smile as I put my key in the lock. He was already behind me.

“It’s so early,” I told him. “Don’t you have anything else you’d like to be doing today? It’s a gorgeous Saturday.”

“Nah.” He watched me fumble with my lock, which sometimes stuck on humid days. “Need some help with that?”

“I got it.” I didn’t. I was tired and he was crowding me, peering over my shoulder to look at the stubborn lock.

“Gavin!”

We both turned. Mrs. Ossley came out onto their front porch, her hands on her hips and a frown contorting what would have otherwise been a pretty face. She stopped when she saw me with her son. Her gaze swept me up and down. I owed her no explanation for my clothes or early-morning return, but that didn’t stop me from feeling I wanted to give her one. Her frown gave way to an insincere smile.

“Gavin,” she said, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “Leave Miss Kavanagh alone. You have to get ready to go.”

Gavin backed away from me a step, but didn’t go next door. “I don’t want to go.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I don’t care what you want to do. Dennis has been talking about this all week.”

Gavin didn’t move toward her, though his entire body seemed to shrink in on itself. “I hate the Civil War, I don’t want to go to the Civil War Museum. It’s going to be boring.” He looked at me. “Besides, I promised Miss Kavanagh I’d help her paint her dining room.”

“Miss Kavanagh,” his mother said through her teeth, “is perfectly capable of painting her own dining room.”

“Yes, Gavin,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze without looking away. “I am. You should do what your mother says. You can help me after I get home from work this week. I’ll be taping off the moldings.”

He muttered and grumbled but hopped down my two concrete steps and took the ones to his house in one stride. He pushed past his mother without a word. She didn’t look at him as he went inside.

We looked across the narrow gap between our porches. She didn’t seem much older than I, despite having a fifteen-year-old son. She still smiled, and at last I relented and smiled at her with as much sincerity as she’d given me.

“Have a good time at the museum,” I told her, finally fitting my key into the lock and opening my door.

“We will. My fiancé, Dennis, is taking us.”

I couldn’t have cared less about her fiancé, but I nodded at her anyway and started inside my house.

“Gavin spends a lot of time with you,” she said, stopping me.

I turned to face her as I took my key from the lock and put it in my purse. “He likes to borrow my books. And he’s been very helpful with my renovations.”

She glanced inside before looking back at me. “I have to work long hours. I can’t always be here for him.”

I couldn’t tell if she was explaining herself to me out of guilt or warning me off. “He’s always welcome to come over here, Mrs. Ossley. I appreciate his help.”

She looked me up and down again. “I’m sure you do.”

I waited for her to say more and when she didn’t, I repeated my hopes they’d enjoy the museum, and I went inside. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment. We’d never shared more than a wave in passing before, even though we’d been neighbors for five years. I supposed there were better conversations we could have had. Then again, there could have been worse.

I didn’t care to ponder on it too much. My bed called me, and I went to it to seek a few hours rest before I got on with the rest of my day.

There was no hiding from Marcy on Monday. She took one look at me and squealed like she’d been stuck with a cattle prod.

“Ooooh, girl! You’ve done it!”

I kept my eyes on my reflection as I carefully applied sheer lip gloss and powdered my nose. “Done what?”

Marcy was touching up, too, though she’d brought a fully equipped tackle box into the bathroom. She had every color of eye shadow known to man and some I was convinced came from an alien planet, all with matching lip and eye pencils, blush, foundation and powder. She had so many lipsticks laid out the counter bristled like a coral reef full of tubeworms. She shook one at me.

“You’ve gone got yourself a man.”

Her words took me aback, so I smeared instead of smudged. “I beg your pardon?”

She raised a plucked-to-perfection brow. “A man, honey. Don’t deny it. You’ve got the FFG all over you.”

I shook my head, laughing. “What’s FFG?”

“Freshly fucked glow, honey,” she said, lowering her voice in deference to the bathroom acoustics, but only for a moment. “Spill it.”

“I don’t have anything to spill.” I swiped the sponge from my compact over my nose and cheeks, then tucked it and my gloss back in the small emergency kit I keep in my purse.

“C’mon. I told you about Wayne.”

She was right. The bonds of feminine friendship did require reciprocation. And truthfully, I wanted to talk to someone about Dan. Marcy, sad to say, was my only friend.

“His name is Dan Stewart. He’s a lawyer. I met him at The Blue Swan.”

“I knew it!” She didn’t seem to mind that I’d lied to her before.

Marcy owned more brushes than Picasso, all shapes and sizes and kept in a rolled-up leather case. She whipped out one now and used it to dab at the lipstick. I watched, fascinated as she drew in her lips like a paint-by-numbers picture.

“So he’s got a good job. Big deal. Has he got a big dick?”

I coughed and blushed. I don’t know why. I’ve heard worse. Said worse.

“It’s adequate,” I said.

“Oh,” she said sympathetically, blotting her lips on a square of tissue. “Small?”

“No! Marcy, good Lord!”

“Adequate? C’mon, Elle.” She turned to face me. “Cut? Uncut? Long? Short? Thick? Thin? What?”

“Jesus, Marcy. Who looks that closely?” I bent to scrub my hands.

“Who doesn’t?” She began packing away her box of paints and powders.

“He has a very nice penis,” I told her. “Aesthetically pleasing and fully functional.”

She rolled her eyes. “Spare me, would you? You’re acting like this is no big deal.”

I pushed open the door to the bathroom and started for my office. She followed. She didn’t stop at my doorway, either, but came right in and made herself at home.

“Have a seat,” I offered wryly. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Give me one of your diet sodas,” she said. “I know you hide ’em in that minifridge.”

I handed her a can and settled behind my desk. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yes.” She cracked the top open and drank, not seeming to care she was ruining the lips she’d just worked so hard to paint.

“Shouldn’t you go do it, then? Instead of interrogating me about my sex life?”

“Who’s interrogating?” She cried. “I’m just asking.”

I had to laugh at her. “Marcy, we had sex. It’s no big deal.”

She frowned. “Sugar, that’s just sad. It should be a big deal, otherwise why bother?”

She had a point, one I’d made for myself when I’d sworn off the act altogether. “It was worth the bother, all right?”

“So he was good.”

“He was good, Marcy!” I shook a pen at her. “You nosy bitch!”

She put a hand over her heart and looked wounded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I sighed, resigned. “He took me to the movies, and we went to his place, after.”

I didn’t mention the dance club or the bathroom at La Belle Fleur. Marcy oohed, anyway. She leaned forward on her seat.

“Did he put the moves on you right away, or did he pretend he wanted to show you his soda can collection?”

“I think we both knew why I was going back there. And he doesn’t collect cans, at least that I can tell.”

“Phew,” she said. “Because that’s total turn-off.”

I laughed again and shook my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marcy drank some soda, then set the can on the edge of my desk. “Elle, if you don’t mind my saying so—”

“Would you stop if I did?”

“Hell, no.”

I waved my hand. “Then by all means, carry on.”

“I think it’s good you got out.”

Her words touched me, and I smiled. “Thank you, Marcy.”

She nodded, then winked. “So you’ll be seeing him again.”

My smile dimmed a bit before I answered. “Yes.”

“Geez. You sound thrilled. What’s the matter, he chews with his mouth open? What?”

I shrugged, studying the folders of work piled high on my desk. “No. He has very pleasant manners.”

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Very pleasant manners. An aesthetically pleasing penis. You’re regressing, girl, let me hear you say he’s a great fuck and fun to be with.”

There would be no resisting her. I knew that by now. Yet I gave in to Marcy not because she could be an insistent, nosy bitch, but because I’d never have admitted my thoughts out loud had she not pushed.

“I like him.”

“So what’s the problem?” She looked concerned. “That’s a good thing.”

I shrugged again. I had my reasons for not wanting to like him. For avoiding relationships. They were shitty and pathetic reasons, but I had them.

“You don’t have to marry him.”

“Heaven forbid,” I said, startled at the thought. “Good God, no.”

She held up her hands. “Just saying. What’s wrong with going out, having a good time, getting laid?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just…” I shrugged. “It’s not really my thing.”

“Maybe you should rethink what your ‘thing’ is,” she advised, getting up. “’Cuz to be honest, honey, I don’t think it works so good for you.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I replied.

“Sarcasm,” Marcy said loftily, “is the defense of the guilty!”

With that, she swept from my office in a cloud of Obsession and left a sweating soda can to stain my desktop.

I had the bus ride home to think about what she’d said and what Dan had promised. No attachments. The idea was appealing, though ridiculous. People can’t just fuck. They can’t. One or the other gets caught up in emotion, someone gets hurt. We’re not meant to separate sex from love; there’s a reason why euphoria occurs in both situations. Sex and love nourish each other. You can argue it’s humanity’s way of establishing family groups and guaranteeing creation of the next generation, but the simple fact remains: the more often two people engage in sex, the more likely it is that one of them will fall in love.

How many times would it take, I wondered. I stared out my window at the streetlamps, counting them as I always did. The number never changed. I defined my life by numbers. What number of times would I take Dan inside my body before one of us felt that first pang of emotion?

And would I be able to stop if it were me?

It wasn’t that I’d never had a boyfriend or never been in love. I had been, once. A long time ago. Head over heels, madly, passionately, devastatingly in love with the boy I thought might be my knight in shining armor. Funny thing about that shining armor, by the way. It tarnishes pretty fast.

By the time I got home, I had determined I was not going to see him again. There could be no point in it. It was useless, a satisfaction of the body that could lead to nothing but dissatisfaction of the mind. I knew it without a doubt. I wouldn’t call him, I wouldn’t see him, I wouldn’t… wouldn’t…would not.

By the time I got home, my mother had called three times and left messages so long they’d filled up the tape on my machine. And I, unable to hate her, found myself even unable to ignore her. I listened to her tirade, and then I picked up the phone.

“Who’s this?” She sounded querulous. Old. I had to remind myself she was only in her early sixties and far from an invalid. “Ella?”

“It’s Elle, Mother. Please.”

“We’ve always called you Ella.”

Then she was off on her rant, and I didn’t bother correcting her again.

“Are you listening to me?”

As if I had a choice. “Yes, Mother.”

She gave a low snort into the phone. “When are you coming home for a visit?”

“I’m very busy at work. You know that. I told you.”

I listened with half an ear while I drew water into the teakettle and took out a microwave meal from the freezer. I grabbed one plate. One glass. One fork. Set one place at my table, which was big enough to seat four but never had. I didn’t have dinner parties.

“I want you to take me to the cemetery, Ella. Daddy can’t do it, he’s not able to make the drive.”

The fork clattered against the plate. “Mother, I told you before. No.”

There was, incredibly, a long silence in which I heard nothing but the sound of her breathing. “Elspeth Kavanagh,” she said at last. “The least you can do is put a rose on his grave once in a while. He was your brother. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Ella? He was your brother, and he loved you.”

The kettle screamed, saving me from the effort. With shaking hands I turned off the gas and poured the water into my mug. It slopped, stinging my hands. I hissed in pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“I burned myself on some hot water.”

And she was off again, with the best way to treat burns, and how I should have someone there to make sure I did it right, and someone there to take care of me. Because so obviously I couldn’t care for myself. I ended the call as fast as I could. I looked at the tea, the food, the single plate.

“I know who he was,” I said aloud to the empty room.

Dan answered the door with tousled hair and sleep in his eyes, which widened at the sight of me. It was the black vinyl raincoat and the stiletto shoes. The red lipstick and black eyeliner. I knew what I looked like. A parody of a teenage boy’s wank fantasies.

I closed the door behind me. “Hi.”

Dan smiled. “This is a surprise.”

It is immensely satisfying to watch a man get hard at the sight of you. He wore flannel sleep pants, slung low on his hips. They tented admirably when I slid open the coat to reveal the little I wore beneath.

“How about this?”

He blinked, his gaze taking me in, toes to thighs to hips to breasts to throat to mouth and at last, to my eyes. He stared at me. My breath caught, my bold act more act than bold. For an instant I thought he’d fail me. That he’d ask me to sit down, offer me a drink. But only for a moment, because he gave me exactly what I wanted with his next words.

“Take it off.”

I dropped the coat to the floor. I wore black thigh-high stockings and matching black lace bra and panties. Clothes from the back of my drawer I hadn’t worn in ages. Power clothes, to make me feel sexy. They worked. Watching him watch me tightened my nipples.

“Get on your knees.”

I did. He put a hand on my head, his fingers gentle and tangling in my hair. He nudged his hips forward, pushing flannel-covered cock toward me, and I reached for him. I touched him through the soft fabric, stroking, and his instant sigh of pleasure shot desire straight between my legs.

“Put me in your mouth.”

He made it so easy for me to do what he wanted. I wanted that. I craved it. Having it made easy for me to not have to decide. I rewarded him with my acquiescence. He took away the responsibility, and I shivered with delicious, illicit joy. There is so much freedom in not having to choose.

I slid my fingers into the waistband of his pajama bottoms and slid them over his hips, then his thighs. Slowly, slowly I drew them down to his ankles. I let my fingers caress the sensitive backs of his knees. I studied his skin, the pattern of hair, darker than that on his head, the lovely thickness of his penis, standing at attention for me.

There are women who think getting on their knees for a man is demeaning. That putting a penis in their mouths is dirty, disgusting, a chore, a bother, something to suffer through, tolerate, an act to be borne instead of relished. In some cases I understand why they might find that to be true, but I pity them, nevertheless. They don’t understand how much power they can wield from their place at his feet. How much they can gain by giving him pleasure. I looked up, meaning to speak, and the look on his face stopped me.

He put a hand on my hair. “You are so beautiful. Do you know that?”

I don’t like the word beautiful. It’s used for vases, horses, houses and flowers as much as it is for humans. Beautiful is a flattering lie.

I shook my head a little. “Shhh.”

His fingers smoothed along the top of my head, then down my cheek. “You want me to say something different?”

“I want,” I said, and pressed my cheek to his thigh, “you to tell me to suck your cock.”

His hand twitched on my head, and he groaned a little at my words. “Elle…”

I smiled. I kissed his thigh, nuzzling the hair, softer on the inside and higher up. I brushed the soft weight of his testicles with my lips, earning another soft gasp from him. “Say it.”

“I want you to suck my cock.”

I took him in my mouth, an inch at a time, steadying myself by holding on to his thighs. His grunt was reward. The way he pushed forward into my waiting heat another. The way he whispered my name as he stroked my hair yet a third. I took him all the way in until my lips brushed his belly and then drew out again, pausing at the head of his penis to offer a bit more suction. Then down again, slowly, breathing through my nose and concentrating on discovering every ridge and line along his length.

I wanted this. The taste of him. The sound of his breath getting faster. The feeling of the muscles in his thighs trembling beneath my fingers as he pushed his hips and put himself down the back of my throat the way I’d put the shot of whiskey he’d bought me the first day we met. I wanted this because in doing this I could think only of this. Of cock, of balls, of thighs, belly, moans, thrusts, of the salty, slippery taste of semen on the back of my tongue as his pleasure mounted.

“Elle.” He murmured my name. “Elle, baby, stop. I’m going to come.”

I didn’t stop. I drew another moan from him as I used my tongue on the tender divot on the underside of his prick. I added my hand at the base, moving it along with my mouth so that he was never left without sensation. I used my other hand to cup his balls and stroke my thumb along them.

He pushed into me so hard it would have choked me had I not been gripping him so tight. I tasted him and his orgasm throbbed against my tongue. He gave a low cry. I took all he had and waited another moment or two until he’d finished, then pulled away from him with a last, gentle suck to end it.

I got to my feet. In my heels I could look directly into his eyes. He blinked, his hand finding my upper arm and holding it as though to keep himself from wobbling.

“Wow,” he said at last. His eyes cleared.

I wiped my lips with my thumb. “Can I get a drink of water?”

“Yeah, sure.” He pointed to the kitchen.

I walked across the living room and knew his gaze followed the sway of my hips. The water from his faucet was cold and quenched my thirst. It felt good on my cheeks, too, and on the back of my neck. When I turned from the sink, he was behind me.

“Thanks for the drink,” I said.

“You’re welcome.” He’d pulled his pants up, though they still slung low enough on his hips for me to see a hint of pubic hair.

“Well.” Mission accomplished. I’d managed to erase the conversation with my mother long enough to make it easier to put from my mind. Not to forget. That was likely impossible. But far enough to at least ignore. “I’ll be going.”

He snagged my arm as I tried to pass. “You’re leaving?”

I looked at his hand on my arm, then at his face. “I thought I would, yes.”

“Why?”

I smiled. “Because I’m done.”

Dan smiled, too, this time with a bit of a harder edge. The way he’d looked the last time I tried to leave. “What if I’m not?”

I gave a pointed glance to the front of his bottoms. “I think you are.”

He smoothed his hand over my hip. “I don’t think you are.”

I tilted my head. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“You didn’t come at all,” he said, inching me closer.

“If I don’t care, why should you?” I let him pull me next to him. His hands massaged my lace-covered ass.

“Elle, did you come over here just to suck me off and leave?”

“Yes.”

He paused in stroking my butt to peer into my eyes. “Really?”

I nodded.

He looked surprised, and I took the opportunity to step away from him and head for my coat.

“Elle, wait.”

I turned, one arm already in the sleeve.

He caught up to me. “I don’t want you to leave. Stay here with me for a while.”

“I’m not exactly dressed to play Parcheesi.” I slipped the coat on the rest of the way and started on the zipper.

“You’re really leaving.”

“I’m really leaving, Dan.”

“No.”

I turned to look at him. “Most guys would love it if a scantily clad woman came over in the middle of the night, gave them a tremendous blow job and left without expecting anything.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“You…you didn’t like it?” I covered up the hesitation in my voice with a quick cough and avoided his eyes. My cheeks burned. Without seduction to shield me, I felt foolish.

He came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder, pulling me back against his chest. “I loved it,” he whispered into my ear. “But I don’t want you to leave just yet.”

I shivered at his breath on my ear. When his lips touched my skin a second later, I bit my lower lip. His touch felt good, and I did want it. I wanted his hands on me.

I’ve never made excuses for liking to fuck. Never allowed what happened in the past to prevent me from accepting the pleasure my body brings me. Much had been stolen from me, but I haven’t allowed that to be taken.

“You don’t want to leave, do you?”

His hands came around my front. His fingers slid on the slick vinyl, and he held my breasts. I couldn’t feel more than the weight of his hands. The material prevented any more delicate stimulation. In another moment, though, he pulled down the zip, and cool air once again caressed my skin, already sweating though I’d only had the coat closed for a short time.

His fingers skidded along my damp skin, and this time when he cupped my breasts, the sheer lace tugged and pulled my nipples erect. I leaned back against him while he nuzzled my neck. His chest was broad, his skin warm against mine in the places we touched. His hands moved over me without haste. He slid his fingers along the lace of my panties, and my hips pushed forward into his touch.

“You smell so good.”

I sighed and turned my head. He kissed the side of my neck as his fingers circled against me. His other hand slid inside my bra and rolled my nipple. I shivered at the dual sensation, and he must have felt it because his teeth came down on the curve of my shoulder and he bit me gently, making me moan.

“I love that sound,” he whispered, kissing the mark he’d left. “You’ve got the sexiest voice. You make everything you say sound like it tastes good coming out of your mouth.”

I blinked and turned my head to look at him. “What?”

He smiled. “Just seeing if you were listening.”

I didn’t have a reply. Most compliments take me aback. I know my strengths. I figure other people do, too. Anything else is flattery or insincerity.

He looked at me, his hand not ceasing in its slow seduction. “You don’t like that, either?”

I put my hand over his to stop the motion, but though I wanted to pull out of his arms I stayed still. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” He passed his thumb over my breast. “That?”

“No. Say things like that. You don’t have to.”

He looked thoughtful and turned me a little so we weren’t craning our necks. “I want to.”

I shook my head a little. “Why? I’m already here. You’re already going to get what you want.”

He frowned and let go of me. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Is that the only reason you think I’d say something like that?”

We stared at each other, both of us frowning. I straightened up and adjusted my bra strap, which had fallen over my shoulder. My cheeks heated as he looked me over, and this time it wasn’t from lust. His gaze finally rested on mine.

“Elle,” Dan said. “If you don’t like me saying that sort of thing, then I guess I won’t. But telling you to suck my cock’s okay?”

I smiled a little. “Yes.”

“Just like fucking you in the bathroom was okay but not asking you on a date.”

“Yes.”

He ran his hand through his hair, spiking it higher until I itched to smooth it. He took a deep breath and looked back at me. “And you can come over here anytime you please dressed like something out of my ninth grade wet dreams and get me off without letting me return the favor.”

“Yes.” I smiled a little wider and put my hands on my hips. “Though I haven’t left yet.”

He studied my face for a minute longer. “Come here.”

I did, obedient, acquiescent, my heart skip-tripping again. He put his hand on the base of my skull, fingers tight in the back of my hair. He tugged my head back, then took a finger and traced the line of my throat, ending in the hollow of my collarbone.

“You like it when I tell you what to do.”

I murmured in assent. The fingertip trailed lower, over the swells of my breasts and down. He touched my navel briefly, then slid his hand back between my legs. My arousal had faded with our conversation, but now it began to return.

“Why?”

“Because I think all the time,” I whispered. “And sometimes it’s nice to not think anymore. Sometimes it’s nice to just…do.”

“Or be told what to do.”

“Yes.”

His fingers slid back and forth over my panties, between my legs and up to stroke my clitoris. His other hand kept me still as he looked into my face with such intensity I wanted to look away.

“Has it really been three years since you fucked anyone?”

Stung, I pulled away from the hand in my hair and stepped back. “Yes. Why would I lie about that?”

“Why does anyone lie about anything?” He made no move to come toward me.

“Yes. It was three years.”

“Come here.”

I almost didn’t. But then I did. It took two steps. He grabbed me a little harder this time, and I winced though he hadn’t really hurt me. He pulled me close to his body and put his hand between my legs again.

“Are you going to tell me what you like, or am I going to have to guess?” He asked, stroking me. “Do you like to be tied up? Spanked? You want nipple clamps and hot wax?”

“Hot wax?” I tried to pull away again, but he held me fast. His gentle stroke, stroke, stroke between my legs never erred. Heat bloomed beneath his fingers and spread.

Dan smiled, eyes ablaze. “No hot wax?”