Restraint (Xcite Romance) (4 page)

I can’t believe I really want to do them.

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you want me to, or not.’

His eyes don’t so much drift closed, this time, as slam shut. It’s like I’ve punched him, but the longer this goes on for the more I think the punches aren’t exactly hurting him. Maybe they’re making him sweat a little, and he certainly seems uncomfortable … but that’s not the same thing, is it?

I feel uncomfortable, and all I can say about that emotion is how wet it seems to be making me, between my legs. My clit is swollen and near-thrumming, and I don’t think it’s just because of the filthy words I’ve offered him.

‘Mallory,’ he says, like he’s trying to get out my death sentence. Though I have to be honest – it sound more like his own, once he’s gotten to the rest of it. ‘I really don’t find it easy to do stuff like that.’

‘I would never have guessed.’

I mean, seriously. Does he think he’s shocking me with these revelations?

‘No – I mean … I mean I’ve been in here since midnight, and I’m still in the same state I was when I got here.’

OK. OK. Maybe he’s shocking me a little. But he’s only doing so if he’s saying what I actually think he’s saying, which I doubt. Nobody could masturbate for two hours, without reaching some sort of finale. 

Nobody.

‘I find it almost impossible to … you know.’ He pauses, rolls his eyes. Finishes with something that sounds both rueful and angry. ‘Be normal.’

‘You’ve been masturbating since twelve o’clock without an orgasm?’

I can’t even pretend it’s a question. It’s much more like an incredulous statement, that seems to make my eyebrows raise high enough to touch my hairline. I mean…seriously? Seriously?

‘Pretty much.’

‘You do actually know how to go about it, right? You can’t come by rubbing your kneecap rather vigorously, just FYI.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for that. I don’t feel worse about my obvious sexual issues now, at all.’

‘Artie, I don’t think you have sexual issues,’ I say, but it’s a no go. He gives me a look that could peel paint off walls, with its near toxic levels of withering contempt. ‘OK – maybe you have some mild issues. But if you can get hard that easily, you can come that easily, too. I think you just need to relax.’

‘I got like that because I find you extremely … compelling.’

How do I tell him that those words make my heart beat a little less steadily than it did before? Because of course I know what he means. He means all the other things he can’t say: arousing and exciting and something else … something that makes his gaze go all soft like that.

‘Well, that’s an interesting way of putting it.’

‘I don’t have any other way of putting it. I look at you, I hear you talk that way, and stuff happens.’

That unsteady beating slides downwards, to meet the thrum in my ever slickening cunt. In fact, I’m so slick by this point that I can almost hear it, whenever I move. It’s not just coating my slit – it’s spread up and over my mound, to make a sticky, slippery mess.

And most of it for Artie Carter, of all people.

‘So maybe I should keep talking, until the stuff does a little more than happen,’ I say, and though he kind of shakes his head and maybe tells me no, it’s really fine, I know by now what he’s really wanting.

‘Is your hand on your cock now?’ I ask, and he squirms a little for me. Takes an age to get anything out, then won’t meet my gaze as he does so.

‘Sort of.’

‘Are you hard?’

His gaze flicks up to mine now, however.

‘Are you kidding? I can practically see everything through that nightgown, Mallory.’

My immediate urge is to put my hands over all the possibly incriminating places, but of course I don’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m the one who’s supposed to be leading this dance, even if I’ve got no idea what I’m doing at all.

‘And you like that?’ I ask, but I don’t wait for an answer. I can see some more are you kidding sorts of words bubbling up inside him, and I need to just get past that. ‘You want to see some more?’

He makes a sound that is almost definitely not a word.

‘You want to see my tits?’

And then another sound, that is even less like one. It’s sort of a little oh, followed by a little uh that can’t seem to make up its mind. But that’s OK – I can make up his mind for him. All I have to do is reach up and pull on these ribbons …

‘Jesus, Mallory,’ he says, the second he can see more than just the top curves of my breasts. By the time I spread the material open, he’s shivering just a little bit – just enough to make me feel absolutely glorious.

I didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this, when a man looks at you. Usually I’m in a leather corset and crotchless panties, before we get even close to anything like shivering and sheer lust and ohhhh I can see that free hand inching towards me. I know he’s dying to do something probably innocuous, like put a chaste hand on my knee.

But the thing is – I don’t want innocuous. I’ve somehow managed to talk a magnetically attractive and mysterious hunk into bed. Now is not the time for dainty.

‘Put your hand on your cock,’ I tell him, but he surprises me. His voice is hoarse and it’s lost all its shape, and yet he still manages to get words out. He still manages to tell me, shakily:

‘It’s already there.’

While my clit swells and aches and begs to be touched. Would he flip out completely, if I just slid a hand between my legs? It seems only fair, considering what he’s now obviously doing. He’s obviously masturbating, beneath the just ever so slightly shifting shape of the sheet.

‘Does that feel good?’ I ask, and he turns his head against the pillow in answer. ‘Does it feel good to stroke yourself, like that?’

‘Hmmm,’ he tells me, while that hand speeds up, underneath the covers.

‘It looks good. Makes me want to strip the sheets off, so I can watch you pumping your big dick – because you are big, aren’t you? I felt you, earlier, all thick and stiff and just about going on forever.’

‘I think I’m …’ he tries, but barely gets any further. ‘Maybe I am.’

‘Does it feel big in your hand, right now?’

‘Yes. God yes.’

‘And you’re all slick, too, right – is that lube I can hear, making that slippery sound?’

He moans, this time, in response. Eyes closed, upper lip making that mean, mean line.

‘Or are you so turned on you’ve made a mess all over yourself?’

More moaning, as alien and thrilling to me as a fuck somewhere public – though of course I know why. It’s because it’s obvious what that moan means, this time: he’s saying yes, without using the actual word.

‘Ohhh that’s so dirty,’ I tell him, but my doing so doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. On the contrary – the word dirty appears to make him shudder all over, and once he’s gotten through that he actually starts just kind of … rocking, on the bed. As though he’s fucking up, into an imaginary pussy.

‘That feel good, baby?’ I ask, even though I don’t need to. He’s panting, now. His free hand has made a fist in the bed sheets, and after a moment of this exquisite tension he actually opens his eyes, and looks at me.

Of course he keeps them narrowed down to lust-fogged slits, but that’s not the point. The point is that he holds my gaze, and keeps right on jerking at the cock I wish to God I could see, while I talk him into orgasm.

‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘Come for me.’ 

And that seems to be all it takes. As soon as the word come is out there he arches forward, that hand near straining at the fistful of bed sheet he’s gotten. Mouth open around sounds that are clearly trapped inside him, eyes devouring me greedily as the pleasure breaks.

And breaks. And breaks.

Seriously – this thing goes on forever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man come in quite the same way before, all unrestrained and desperate for it. He even says my name once that sound-trap lets go, and he doesn’t say it quietly.

I could almost believe he wasn’t as silent as the grave inside, at all.

Chapter Four

I THINK I EXPECT him to be back to the way he was before, the morning after. As though maybe I just dreamt all of the things that happened in the hot tub and in his bed, and now I’m going to see the real him again – cold and aloof and ready to hate me in new and interesting ways.

But he isn’t, at all. In fact, he’s so much the other way that for a moment I’m the one who feels nervous. If he keeps on being this relaxed and oddly attentive to me, James and Lucy are going to figure this out. I mean, James did see us getting awfully close, in the hot tub. And Artie is asking me if I’d like some more coffee, with my muffin.

It’s almost an innuendo, and one I don’t want them to work out – though I’ve got no idea why. It’s not like it’s embarrassing, that I spent last night winding my former worst enemy up into an orgasm that went on for about an hour. Or that he sort of tried to kiss me, afterwards, all soft and fumbling and not the way he seems at all.

God. God. I’m going weak-kneed just thinking about it. I daren’t look at him, because what if, you know? What if he does turn back into a jerk, suddenly, and I’m just left stranded on this weird island marked he called you gross, not that long ago?

It makes me a little prickly around him, though I don’t mean to be. And once I realise I’m behaving that way, I do stupid stuff to make up for it. I say things I wouldn’t have even said before, in my insane efforts to make him like me.

Such as:

‘Oh that’s a really cute music box.’

I mean, it is cute. This whole little antiques shop we seem to be stood in is cute, and we’re all having a stupendously cute time, driving around villages and eating ice-creams and doing all the things you’re supposed to, on vacation. But even so, it sounds weird and false and like I’m trying too hard.

Plus every time I talk to him now, I just flash back to a dozen little rude images. Like the way his knuckles had turned white when he’d gripped the sheet, and how soft his mouth had gone, when his orgasm overtook him. It makes me blush and I’m pretty sure he can see it, but that’s not what I find myself concentrating on.

Instead, I can’t help marvelling at how close he suddenly gets to me, or how weird it feels for him to be so sweet and sincere about something stupid I’ve said. 

‘That is cute,’ he says, and when he does he actually puts a hand on my back. I feel every inch of it practically prickling through my jersey, and though he isn’t looking at me I know he wants to. He’s paying far, far too much attention to a music box, for someone who looks as suddenly lust-stoked as he does.

Of course the second I see that expression on his face, I glance behind myself. Though I swear when I do it, I’m not thinking of anything untoward. I just want to see how many people are in here and possibly looking at us, before I do something innocent like … I don’t know.

Slipping my hand around his waist?

‘Mallory.’

Or slipping a hand over his ass.

‘Yeah?’ I ask, but it’s disingenuous of me to do so. I know why he’s just kind of hissed my name, and it’s not because he spotted a beautiful china set over by the window. It’s because once I’ve gotten my hand on his ass, I can’t seem to stop myself squeezing, a little. But seriously, who could blame me? His ass feels amazing, under those neat wool trousers he’s wearing. It’s firm, but not too firm, and big in that weird way he has just about all over.

Like he really, really enjoys eating, but doesn’t let himself indulge too often.

‘The shop assistant is right over there,’ he tells me, but when I glance behind us again she seems about a million miles away – and besides. It’s not like I just grabbed his junk.

Even if that’s exactly what I then do.

‘Oh my God,’ he says, but it’s not the words that get me. It’s the way he snaps his hand down over my wrist, the second I get a handful of the heavy bulge between his legs. Plus, he just keeps right on facing forward, like he’s trying to shield whatever it is I’m doing but doesn’t quite want to move away from it. 

‘I can’t stop thinking about your cock,’ I murmur, and then he definitely doesn’t want to move away. He even sort of leans down a little, so he can hear the things I’m saying better.

Though naturally he acts as if he isn’t doing that at all.

‘We’re in the middle of an antiques shop,’ he tells me, but I can’t help noticing that he isn’t exactly moving my hand away. He could if he wanted to – he’s at least twice as strong as I am – but he doesn’t.

Instead he simply stands there, paralysed, while I fondle something that’s definitely not quite soft, any more.

‘Is that good?’ I ask, even though I know it is. I can feel him thickening beneath the press of my hand, and when I run my thumb over the swelling head of his cock he can’t seem to help pushing into my touch. ‘Feels good to me.’

‘It does?’

‘God yeah. Feels amazing – look how hard you are, already.’

He winces, but come on. It’s not like he can deny it. He’s so stiff he’s pushing out the front of his trousers in an incredibly lewd sort of way, and if I were to do something cruel right now … like, say, turn around and leave the shop … he wouldn’t be able to follow me. He’d have to just stand here, facing rows of ceramic ducks, waiting for his big dick to make itself somewhat presentable. 

Which isn’t something I want to happen, any time in the near future.

‘I just want to take it in my mouth.’

‘Oh Jesus not in here. Don’t do anything in here, OK?’ he says – as though he actually believes I would. He actually thinks I’d get on my knees and suck him off in the middle of an antiques store, though in all honesty …

He’s not far wrong.

‘You don’t want me to go down on you?’

He almost turns his face to look at me, then, before realising that might be a bad idea. Far better to continue focussing on the ceramic ducks, while I make long, rude strokes over his completely stiff dick. 

‘Not in here,’ he says, as fierce as a whisper will let him be. Of course, the actual words he uses leave me an absolutely massive opening, but I at least applaud him for effort. He got the right tone, if not the right protest.

‘So maybe somewhere else?’

He does look at me, then. Eyes all lost and lust-streaked, lips parted as though just waiting for me to kiss them. He’s just waiting for me to reach up, and find those lips with mine. 

‘How am I supposed to answer that?’ he asks, but I can hear the subtext beneath the words plainly. He wants to say yes. Hell – maybe he wants to say more than yes. He just doesn’t know how.

‘I could give you some options,’ I tell him, because that seems kindest. Then less kind, when I follow it with: ‘You could suggest we go back to the car, get in the backseat. No one would notice if I just put my face between your legs and –’

‘OK, OK – stop. Stop.’

‘Are you sure you want me to? It doesn’t feel like you want me to. You’re all hard and swollen … I bet if I kept going you’d just come right here.’

‘Christ.’

‘Do you want me to put my hand inside?’

‘No, no ... let’s just go back to the car, OK? I want to go back to the car.’

I can’t help grinning when he says it – even if he catches it immediately and tells me no. No, that’s not what he meant. He doesn’t want a blowjob in the backseat at all.

But he gets one anyway.

I can’t seem to stop myself, once we’re sat in the car and he’s trying to talk to me about something innocent, like the weather or the woods we’re parked next to or how long I think James and Lucy are going to be. It’s like he’s goading me with mundane details, until all I want to do is grope his gorgeous body and kiss his gorgeous mouth – both of which he lets me do, without complaint.

He just sort of sprawls back against the seats, lips all wet and soft and open. Body like a taut wire beneath my exploring hands … until I get to his still hard cock. After which he just turns into a loose, unsteady mess, hips jerking up before he wants them to. One big hand going over my wrist like it did in the shop – only different, this time. Less like a restraint, and more like something telling me to go on, go ahead, do what you suggested.

He can’t make the words, but he can do other things, instead. Like pushing his tongue into my mouth, once I finally manage to force the kiss into something deeper, and wetter. And when I start unzipping his trousers, he helps me with the belt. He actually helps me, like maybe he wants me to do this to him.

Though him feeling that way makes some sort of sense, once I’ve managed to get his hard cock out into the open. I’m not even sure if hard is the word for it, really, because I’ve never seen anything like it before. The skin around the swollen head is so taut it’s almost shiny, and as I watch, a bead of precome wells in the slit at the tip. I even get to chart its progress as it slides down over his frankly glorious shaft, though clearly I do so for far too long. After about an hour of my mesmerised staring, he actually sort of sits up straight and makes to put everything away again.

‘Sorry,’ he says. No really – he says sorry. As though he just flashed me in the back of this car, against my will. Instead of what actually happened, which is basically me drooling all over his big, stiff prick. ‘It’s gross, right?’

Gross? Did he really just say gross? It’s so far from gross it’s practically in another time zone. I mean, it’s not just the size of it – which is skirting close to something druids might pray to – but the perfect proportions. It’s not thick at the base and thin at the top, the way some guys are. He doesn’t kink to the left, or have that droopy thing going on that some big ones do.

His cock is thick and satin smooth and absolutely delicious, which explains why I don’t wait another second to lean down and lick it, from root to tip. 

Of course he immediately goes rigid. Then after I’ve tried something even ruder – like maybe lapping at that little trail of precome, all the way up to the slit – I feel him twist in his seat, as though he’s going to stop me. He even puts a hand on my shoulder, in the universally accepted gesture for I’m going to push you away now.

Only he doesn’t. 

‘Ohhh God – there are people right over there, you know. I can see them out the window,’ he says instead, so matter-of-factly that I’m momentarily startled into answering him. 

‘You want me to stop, then?’ I ask, but for once he doesn’t go with the expected. He just shakes his head a single time – no – as he carries on looking at the people who might possibly catch us. That hand on my shoulder more like a prompt, now, than anything else.

He actually wants me to do this. He wants it so badly that when I bend my head and lick over that slippery slit, again, he bucks his hips. Moans for me, in a way that runs right through my already heated sex.

And both things make me want to reward him.

‘You like that?’ I ask, only this time I don’t wait for an answer. I don’t wait for him to struggle towards the words, fumbling and embarrassed. I just take the head of his swollen cock in my mouth, and suck until he’s got no resistance left.

‘Yes,’ he gasps for me, and then even better: ‘You get me so close so fast.’

It’s like a revelation from him, I think. Like he can hardly believe that idea, even though it’s pretty plain. He’s so excited that his balls feel like hot coals under the press of my palm, and when I get him just right … when I suck hard and rub my tongue over that sensitive ridge on the underside, as I do …

‘Yeah, just like that,’ he tells me, breathless and wanton suddenly. Cock swelling in my mouth, that hand on my shoulder now somehow in my hair. He’s going to do it, I know, but I want one thing from him, before he does – and it doesn’t take much to get it. All I have to do is work and work on that big, stiff thing until his hips are almost off the seat. Until everything feels wet and messy and he’s right on the edge, right there …

‘Tell me,’ I say, and he does it automatically, without thinking.

‘Suck my cock,’ he gasps, but I don’t need to. He’s already coming all over my hand, in great wrenching spurts. He’s already giving into it, in a way that almost turns me inside out. I actually feel my clit pulse once, heavily, to hear him talk like that and behave like this, as if his orgasm passes through me, once it’s done with him.

Though of course it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough, now, because I’ve got this very real and very big problem, it seems.

I’ve got absolutely no restraint, when it comes to him.