Drenched Page 2

  “Don’t talk.”

  He nodded frantically, though she couldn’t see him. He would have done anything she demanded, so long as he could go on touching that incredible body. Legs, ass, hips—and then, under her guiding hands, round to the front, up from her hips to her waist, over her stomach, back down to her inner thighs, up again, down again. He could hear her sighs of pleasure, feel the heave of her ribs and the press of her groin upon his. His cock was like an iron bar now beneath the damp towel, his hands were thrumming with warmth, and his head was full of the scent of her—chlorine and sun-screen, like the incense of some pagan goddess, making his heart pound. Breathing deeply, he shut his eyes, pouring all his concentration into his hands and his crotch. She writhed back against him, squirming her hips deliciously.

  “Up.”

  “What?” he whispered, his lips in her wet and tangled hair.

  “Up here.” Pulling down the stretchy fabric of one bra cup, she directed a squirt of oil over her left breast.

  Oh God what if someone comes up and sees? flitted through his accountant’s mind, half a breath before Martin let out a guttural noise entirely beyond his control and ran his hand in, taking possession of the orb, squeezing and smoothing and stroking. Lucy whimpered, but it was no protest. Her nipple, refusing to be soothed by his caresses, rose up hard and stiff beneath his warm palm, its halo puckered. He didn’t wait for an invitation to find its twin; he had both breasts now, both breasts, and this incredible golden nymph was gasping and writhing in his lap, and it was like he had won the lottery and gone to heaven and been crowned king of the universe. And he still couldn’t believe it.

  “Oh yes.” Lucy reached down to the arms of the sun-lounger, grabbed and jerked. That was when the cushioned back collapsed away behind him; a shove of her ass in his midriff sent him off-balance. Instantly his deference reasserted itself; the panicked thought that he’d done something wrong, that he was going to have to pay for his trespass. He felt those fabulous tits slip from his grasp as she rose up, wriggling into a new position and pressing him down. Somehow he found himself flat on his back, with her ass above him dark against the brilliant sky.

  Her ass, cheeks parted and thighs bracketing his head, her sex covered only by the narrowest strip of wet day-glo green.

  If anyone walks by now—

  She put her head down onto the towel and rubbed her face over the mound of his erect cock.

  “Christ!” he gasped.

  Through the thick fabric, her teeth closed warningly upon his shaft. He nearly came on the spot. Fingers slid into his field of view, pushing aside the isthmus of her bikini bottom, revealing the glistening pink folds of her pussy. They were plump with arousal already—and he’d never seen anything so wonderful, neither in France nor London nor in his private fantasies, not in all the world.

  Without consultation she dipped down and pressed her wet slot to his face.

  Martin’s cry was entirely muffled.

  She tasted of chlorine water at first … and then she didn’t. Smooth and soft and slick, not a hair on her, tart and musky and hot. When she sat up she nearly smothered him. He didn’t care. He didn’t need air: he didn’t need anything but to lick that pussy and drown in her sex. Nothing else mattered: not the possibility of being witnessed, not the insanity of the situation, not even his own straining cock. He licked her like he was giving worship, and when she came—more swiftly than he wanted, because he could have carried on joyously for hours and hours until darkness fell, or Russ and everyone came back, or he died of happiness—he felt her shake like an earth tremor, grinding her pussy mercilessly into his face as shock after shock pulsed on his tongue.

  The moment she was done she slipped away. Her bikini was back demurely in place before he’d blinked the sun and the sweat out of his eyes.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Martin.”

  “I like you, Martin. You are very nice.” She smiled, and dropped her sunshades over her eyes. All he could see was his own reflection, stretched out helplessly in supplication.

  Her bum twinkled merrily from side to side as she strolled away.

  That’s it then. Over.

  Like it could ever have been real.

  Wordlessly, he raised himself from his makeshift bed. The girl had got oil on his clothes and his papers, which were mostly crumpled beyond use anyway. Her sex juices were all over his face, the scent sharp in his nostrils. He lifted her towel and buried his face in the soft fabric, breathing sun-oil and pool-water and wild impossibility. Then he gathered up his papers hurriedly.

  The towel he kept. He needed to carry it in front of him as he sought out the privacy of his own room, because anyone he met would have laughed to see the stony jut of his erection. Back in his sanctuary, he threw his trousers at the laundry basket and lay back on the bed with the towel draped back over his groin, stroking himself off beneath the soft weight, eyes closed, until the blood roared in his ears and his cum gushed out into the cotton, jet after jet until he felt as if it were draining his heart.

  ♦♦♦♦

  Now Martin gets out of the car and walks swiftly to the hotel, ignoring the puddles that soak his expensive shoes. He has eyes only for his goal, and his heart is so tight inside his chest that each beat seems to squeeze out from within a clenched fist.

  He has to know. For ten years he’s put up with this ridiculous situation, this charade—but no longer. She has held this thing secret, a part of her life locked away from him, but now he’s going to throw open the box.

  There’s a concierge just within the porch. Perhaps he’s supposed to keep the riff-raff out, but he takes one look at Martin’s Armani coat and suit, and holds the door wide for him.

  Martin goes to the hotel bar, all leather armchairs and dim chandeliers that hardly register in his narrowed vision. He orders a twenty-five year old single malt, and nurses it for half an hour, because he wants to give Lucy time to settle in. Then he pays for a bottle of champagne to be sent up to Room 112 and strolls out, tight-lipped but not cool. His nerves are fizzing with agitation.

  He’s up the stairs onto the first floor well before the bell-boy arrives with his trolley and ice-bucket, but he sits in one of the plump upholstered occasional chairs in the corridor, pretending to consult his phone screen, until the lift door opens and the young man appears.

  “Ah,” he says. “Perfect timing,” and pulls out his wallet. It’s all about confidence. And money. Martin knows what money can do.

  The bellboy’s lifted hand falters, and the discreet knock he was preparing dies. He accepts the hefty tip with a nod and thanks, and eagerly opens the door with his passkey for the esteemed guest. Martin takes command and wheels the trolley into room 112 himself.

  ♦♦♦♦

  “I want you to take you out to dinner,” he told her, the day after their first tryst. Since that encounter she’d shared no more than a few casual words with him, in company, though he thought her smile had a special subtle warmth. He felt it was up to him to take charge of the situation; to show her what he was made of.

  “All right,” she said, her fabulous green eyes narrowing to almond shapes of amusement. Martin’s heart swelled.

  “Tonight?”

  “Not tonight. It’s a Friday—I never date on a Friday.”

  The rebuff took him off-guard. “You’re, uh, religious?” he blurted—which was possibly the stupidest thing any man trying to tie down a date could ever have uttered, he realized a split second after he’d said it.

  Her smile broadened a fraction. “No.”

  “But …” He cleared his throat, aware that his dominance of the conversation had been punctured. “Not tonight though.”

  “I always spend Fridays alone.”

  “Tomorrow?” He hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

  “I’d like that.”


  He barely held back from whooping.

  So on Saturday night he took her out to a tiny one-table restaurant. She wore a long dress in a shimmery pewter-colored fabric that clung to her body from breast to ankle, and they ate exquisitely simple food on a terrace overlooking vineyards. Their conversation was easy; she seemed keen to draw him out of his habitual accountancy shell, probing delicately at his past, and was interested in everything he had to say. His career was taking off, this sojourn with Russ only one gilt highlight. More nervously, Martin admitted that he had a failed marriage behind him, though no children: the breakup a result of the long hours he worked and his focus on his business. Lucy seemed unphased, to his relief, and sympathetic. When he turned the focus around, she was casually reticent—though he realized that only in retrospect, months later—and acted bored by the prospect of talking about herself. She’d grown up in France and the Low Countries and her family were scattered all over Europe: that was all he found out that evening—or indeed any time after. Too well-off to need real work, the nearest thing she had to a job was some freelance underwater photography projects she’d undertaken, about which she talked with elegant enthusiasm. She liked to swim, as he knew, and read, and travel. She’d “just met” Russ “at the Cannes Festival,” and been invited to his house-party. She described herself as “lazy, really,” which he found hard to believe.

  By the end of the meal he knew himself completely besotted.

  After the second glass of dessert wine he kissed her. They kissed for some time, and he put his hand on her thigh. The metallic fabric felt unexpectedly harsh, like tiny scales, and he longed for the smooth skin he knew lay beneath.

  “I would like to make love to you,” he breathed, his cheek brushing hers.

  “Would you now?” There was a tease in her voice. He didn’t quite know how to respond.

  “I mean …”

  “Yes?”

  “What we did the other day …”

  “What about it?”

  “It was incredible.” Why was this not going the way he’d imagined? “You’re … amazing.”

  “You think that entitles you to more?”

  He withdrew a little, trying to read her expression, but unable to see anything past her faint, challenging smile. “Not entitles,” he said, though to be completely honest he’d thought of no reason she would refuse him tonight. He’d wined and dined her, after all, and done everything right this time. That was what his ex-wife had told him that women liked—an old-fashioned romantic seduction.

  And there was chemistry between them. He was sure of that. The way she laughed, and the way her eyes played over his face, and the warm invitation of her kisses … he could feel the heat between them. Even now her nipples were pushing up against the fabric of her dress. He brushed one with the back of his finger, and felt the drawing in of her breath.

  The vocabulary of romance was dusty on his tongue, but his words sincere. “You’re so beautiful … I’ve never met anyone like you, Lucy. You make me want crazy things.”

  She arched a brow, and he quailed as he realized that his pitiful efforts were getting nowhere. Yet her eyes were dark with appetite. He scrabbled for the key that would unlock the cage and release it again.

  “I gave you exactly what you were looking for, by the pool. You want it again, I can tell.”

  The tip of her tongue peeked into view, sending his heart into overdrive. “What do you want, Martin?”

  “I want to make love to you tonight.”

  “What do you really want?”

  He could scarcely speak. “I want your beautiful body under mine. I want to kiss every inch of you. I want to feel you come again, this time with me inside you.”

  Lucy’s nose wrinkled a little. “Kiss my ass,” she said with cold amusement, rising to her feet. For a moment he was staring up, his mouth agape, as she towered over him. Then she stalked away to the terrace balustrade, her high heels clicking on the tiles, and stood in silence with her back turned to him. She wore four-inch heels like daggers, and the cleft of her bare back was an exclamation point of contempt.

  Martin was too stunned to react, for a moment. He’d never felt he really understood women, but this was obtuseness taken to another level. His face burned like she’d slapped him. Pushing back his own chair, he rose, swallowing hard.

  Where had all this come from so suddenly, he wondered? Had he said something wrong? Or was she deliberately trying to provoke him? Did she want him to march up behind her and turn her with brutish hands and kiss her hard until she broke down into submission, like some 1950s silver screen tussle? Was that what women liked?

  The mental picture made him churn inside. His shirt was sticking to his skin. He closed on her, his eyes raking the body that rejected the touch of his hands. Under the slinky dress her bottom was as round and high as a boxing glove brandished in his face.

  What do you really want, Martin?

  He did what he really wanted. He sank to his knees and lifted his face to the incoming blow. He pressed his face against each firm bum cheek and mouthed her fervently through the thin metallic dress.

  He kissed her ass, as ordered.

  Lucy sighed.

  His hands found the hem just above her ankles. The dress was subtly rough, an old snakeskin; her bare skin was satin-soft beneath. Every inch, all the way up, her dress ruched in his hands. The swell of her ass cheeks at the apex of her thighs made his heart thunder. No narrow strip of cloth veiled her modesty this time; beneath that dress she went without panties.

  The discovery made his cock leap.

  His lips and tongue brushed those curves, tasting the sweet scent of her skin with each kiss. He nuzzled into the tight cleft and was rewarded when Lucy bent forward over the ivied balustrade stone. Her bottom was like a full moon, filling his sky, and her vulva hung beneath it as if that moon wept a secret tear. With one hand he petitioned her thighs, and she shifted her stance wider to oblige. He tucked the gathered dress over her hip and she even helped him by holding it there. Then he was able to get both hands on her cheeks and spread them to reveal the treasures within. To touch them.

  Fingertips. Tongue. She was so exquisitely soft, and this time the scent of her was pure sex.

  When he reverently kissed the dusky whorl of her ass she shivered from head to toe.

  When he bent and licked her from clit to asshole, she moaned under her breath.

  I win, he thought, joyously. This is how I win.

  It was hard licking her pussy from that angle: his neck muscles protested at craning his head back so far, and his jaw ached. He didn’t care. The pain felt like some necessary part of what he offered her; a part of her pleasure, and a part of his. Nor could he be discreet: he ate her noisily, with wet kisses and gusty gasps. She lifted her ass higher and bent over the stone further, thrusting her bottom onto his face, rubbing her pussy up and down with each bounce of her heels. He was slicked with her juices from forehead to chin.

  He didn’t care if they were seen from the kitchen. He didn’t care that the waiter might step in at any moment to clear the glasses. All his need was to eat her: to eat her and to make her come.

  Then she did.

  He thought he would drown. He thought he would never breathe again, nor have any need to, his mind sliding instead into a place of green waters and long weed, flickering like a fish into the glimmering dark. This woman was an ocean and into her sunless deeps he fell, mile after mile, down to his true home.

  She pushed him back at last and stepped away from his reach, but still held her dress up to bare her thighs as she turned to face him. Air hurt his lungs. Lucy’s eyes were bright, her cheeks a little flushed, and she was breathing fast. Martin knew his own face was much more of a mess and his own chest was heaving. His lips too felt swollen, burning with her musk.

  She had taken him somewhere he’d never been before
. A new world.

  “Dirty boy,” she growled, grinning. She lifted one foot and put the tip of her toe on his chest. Her balance was perfect of course, and the spike of her heel hovered over his heart.

  Martin nodded, shaking now. He could see the gold faux-lizardskin straps of her terrifying shoe and the arch of her instep and the pout of her shaven pussy—and there were no words in his lexicon for the ache of his need.

  “Let me see your cock,” she ordered. The husky element of her voice was very marked.

  He obeyed, kneeling there on the tiles of the terrace in his best suit. His length bounced out from his open fly, indignant with neglect, and he felt his cheeks flush deeper as she appraised him.

  She laughed. “What’s an accountant doing with a hard-on like that?” she demanded, letting her toe trail down his torso until her stiletto heel brushed his erection, fencing delicately with the stiff length.

  He was too ashamed to answer. Ashamed that his cock was harder than it had been in years.

  “Do you want me to hurt you, Martin?” A shift of her foot pressed her sole against the underside of his bare cock, and set the point of her heel against his balls. He could feel the steel tip through his trousers. His heart was hammering so hard that he could barely breathe.

  “Please don’t,” he mouthed.

  Her laugh was like bubbles rising through champagne, and then her lips pursed. “Play with it.”

  “Uh?”

  “I want to see you come, dirty boy. Right there. On your knees.” Her eyes burned. “In front of me.”

  His nod was more a convulsion, mirroring the twitch of his cock. As he lifted his hand to the task she withdrew her foot, giving him space to undo buttons and heft his ball-sack out too. The sight seemed to please her.