Authors: K Carr
“Can we turn off the lights?” I asked, between ragged puffs of breaths.
Matt paused in his inexorably slow movement of inching the shirt over my shoulder. “Why? I want to see you, all of you.” His fingers slipped under the shirt, tracing the curve of my shoulder and his voice got deep and husky. “I’ll kiss you all better, poppet.”
I couldn’t think straight. The heat in his gaze was making my brain stutter, but the lights.
“I’m—uh—,” I started in a small voice, embarrassed as hell. “I don’t have big boobs,” I finished in a high-pitched squeak.
Matt leaned back with a frown edging along his lips, then jerked the shirt right down my shoulder. I shrieked and tried to cover myself, but he was quick and captured my free hand. That tongue of his made an appearance at the corner of his mouth and he smiled at me. Like a predator stalking its prey. I shivered, part fear, part guilty anticipation.
What the hell was I doing?
“Looks perfectly fine to me, poppet,” he drawled, before wresting the shirt off me completely and baring my upper body to his hungry appraisal. “Perfectly fine and I’m going to hell on the fast train.”
He stopped talking. So did I as he touched me lightly, running his fingertips down from my collarbone and over—in my opinion—my small breast. He was fixated on his hand slowly fondling my flesh, stroking his thumb over my nipple until it peaked into hardness. Then he cupped me in his hand and squeezed. A whimper of pleasure escaped my lips. Matt dragged his hand down my stomach, intently watching its movement over my skin, before returning it to my aching breast. I think he was getting off on the contrast of our skin tone.
Hell, it was hot watching him touch me.
Matt scooted down a bit and bent his head to begin kissing the top of my chest, progressively going lower until I felt his moist tongue circling my nipple. I let out another embarrassing whimper of pleasure and he pressed me flat into the mattress, rising over me to unleash a feverish sucking onslaught on my breasts. I was gasping out loud, fingers curled tightly in his soft hair as he thoroughly ravished my boobs before starting to kiss his way over my stomach. He was gentle, probably remembering my earlier beating. I squirmed under his mouth, wanting to make him go faster while wanting this feeling to never end.
“Matt,” I gasped when his fingers started tugging at the shorts I’d borrowed from his closet.
“What is it?” he asked huskily, leaning down to swirl his tongue in my belly button.
Oh, hell. That was nice.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, face warming with not just lust but embarrassment. “Tell me what to do.”
Matt raised his head to smile at me. “Don’t worry, Madi. I’ll do everything.”
He undid the little knot I’d made to keep the shorts up and tugged them off in one clean swoop.
Oh, my gosh
. Matt went to his knees and stared at me, all of me. I instinctively tried to cover my hairless lady bits. He grabbed my hand and I tried with my other one, but he said in a strained voice, “Don’t. Don’t hide from me. I want to see every inch of you.”
He released my hand and I let them both fall to the side, eyes squeezed shut. I was laying naked in the bed of a man, whose last name I didn’t know.
Was this the twilight zone? An alternate reality? With someone who was me but not really me?
“Open your eyes, poppet,” he commanded in a low voice. I cracked one eye open, then the other. He bit his lower lip, his gaze taking in all my naked splendour before he looked me directly in the eyes and said, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Madison DuMont. And I’m going to make you orgasm until you can’t bear it.”
I gulped loudly. Yes, I was a virgin, but I masturbated. Everyone did, it was normal. Come on, I was twenty-six years old, of course I masturbated. I’d climaxed at my own hands many times before. So why did I suddenly feel as if Matt was going to do something I’d never heard of? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
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Matt saw the flash of anxiety on her face and he reminded himself this sensual, dark beauty had never been with a man before. He hadn’t believed her at first, but he was an experienced lover and he knew a novice when he saw one. Or touched one. The way she trembled under his touch, the uncertainty in her movements. He believed her. A rush of guilt bombarded him. Was he actually doing this? About to deflower the woman he’d saved from probable rape at the hands of those arseholes? A black woman ten years younger than him? His cock screamed yes, while his conscience levied a heavy dose of reproach at him. Matt had never cared about the aftermaths of his sexual prowess. As long as both parties got off as many times as possible, it was fine. But Madi wasn’t like his usual women, she was a fucking virgin. How in the hell had she managed to remain so in this day and age? With a body as delectable as hers…it seemed impossible. Matt’s eyes travelled down her body. He’d said she was soft—she was—but she was also firm in all the right places. Looking at her naked body, he could see she was a dancer.
“Okay, Matt,” she whispered, brown eyes staring up at him with tentative trust. He felt like a heel, but his cock was shouting louder than his conscience. He shoved his misgivings aside to drown in the raging lust clamouring to be let out his body. He wanted to taste her so badly. The sight of his pale hands on her silky dark skin was magic. He liked the contrast of their skin tones, he liked it a lot. Matt slid down and positioned himself between her slender legs, then eased them apart with his hands while she watched him from wide eyes and stiffened up like a board.
“Relax, poppet.” He moaned. “I promise this will feel nice.” He no longer cared that he used that term of endearment. It didn’t matter that they barely knew each other. Tonight, she was his, and he would make her forget about what had almost happened. He would make her forget everything but him.
He had planned to start slow, to ease her into the feel of his mouth and tongue on her most intimate flesh. He had planned to start kissing up her legs, driving her crazy with want until all she wanted was release, but when she opened up for him and the intoxicating scent of her desire wafted over him, that plan went out the window. Matt slid his arms under her shaking legs, eyes drawn to her glistening flesh, moisture seeping out of her body as a result of his touch…Christ, she was wet for him and it drove him crazy with lust.
He licked her, one long swipe of tongue, and savoured the taste of her. He wanted more and he was going to get it. Matt began to move his lips and tongue over her, watching her arch off the bed with a breathless groan that was becoming more and more desperate as he gripped her thighs tightly and ran his tongue over and around that nub of nerves between her legs. He delved his tongue deep inside and she jerked, frantically grabbing at the sheets and writhing beneath him. He kept up this sensual assault on her flesh until he could hear her gasping out over and over, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” That changed soon enough to “Don’t stop, don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t stop—please. Don’t stop.”
His cock was rigid; he watched her squirm with pleasure, knowing he was doing this to her. Fuck. He wanted nothing more than to plunge himself deep inside her but, first, he would show her how good oral sex could be. He would make her come, then do it again, maybe once more on top of that, and then he would make her orgasm from penetrative sex. Matt had a moment’s worry about the inevitable pain she would feel, but he would be as gentle as possible.
His cock throbbed, crying out for release. He ignored his own body’s urgings. Tonight it wasn’t about him. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t care about his pleasure. His only concern was hers. She was making loud incoherent sounds that had him groaning in mutual pleasure. His fingers were digging into her thighs, his tongue searching for more of that honeyed ambrosia which he couldn’t get enough of. And, then, her whole body jerked continuously, uncontrollable spasms that had her screaming out his name before she went completely limp. Matt smiled against her quivering flesh and turned his head to press a moist kiss on her inner thigh. She didn’t move. He squinted up her amazing body. Her head was flung back, nestled between the haphazardly strewn pillows and her eyes were shut.
“Madi?” he called teasingly. He straightened up and her legs flopped to the sides. Alarm thundered through him as he crawled up her body and grabbed her face. “Madi? Jesus Christ. Wake up!” He shook her hard and got no response. Matt scrambled halfway across the huge bed, mind racing with terrible thoughts. He should’ve taken her to the goddamned hospital. The media would crucify him if this ever got out. Forget the media. She was unconscious in his bloody bed. He had to get help. He grabbed the portable phone on the bedside table, beginning to punch out 999 when he heard it: that soft, weird, little snort she made when sleeping. She’d done it for most of their car journey here. He assumed it was her version of snoring.
“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered as he put the phone back and twisted over to observe her. She was fast asleep, passed out from her orgasm. Matt felt a shaky smile curl the corner of his lips, relief quickly taking the place of the intense worry he’d been experiencing. She was sleeping, it was fine. His erection had withered away at the first signs that something had been wrong. Now he knew she was only sleeping, the sight of her sprawled wantonly over his bed had his blood stirring hotly in his veins. He let out a frustrated groan and caught a glimpse of his alarm clock. Three thirty.
There were meetings scheduled from eight that he couldn’t cancel. He needed to sleep if he hoped to be up at five thirty. Matt eased off the bed and made his way out the room. Downstairs he locked up, turned the lights off, then returned to his bed and the snoring woman in it. He hesitated when it came to turning off his bedroom lights. He wanted to watch her, didn’t know why he did and, frankly, at this second, he didn’t care. The overhead lights went off but the bedside lamps stayed on.
Matt hovered between sleep, knowing he was nothing like what a true hero should be, but feeling like one anyway. He’d beaten those bastards off and brought her somewhere safe. That unsettling protective urge he’d felt since meeting her reared up. She turned in her sleep, snuggling closer to him and he pulled her into his arms. God, she was a tiny little thing in comparison to his build.
Tomorrow he would leave work as early as possible. She would probably sleep most of the day anyway. He would come home early and properly introduce himself to her. Then he would bring her back in here and finished what they started. Matt fell asleep with the biggest smile.
I WOKE UP with the worst headache and my body crying out in pain, disoriented and not sure what had happened last. Then, I remembered.
“Oh, shit.” I jumped up, regretted it the instant I did and sank back onto the numerous pillows. I was alone in the bed, extremely thankful to be alone in the bed, and mortified over my behaviour last night. Where was he? The room was quiet.
Oh shit, shit, shit.
The last memory I had was of Matt going down on me and giving me the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced. Had I freaking passed out?
Oh, the shame.
A knock sounded lightly on the door and I pulled the covers up to my neck. He knocked on his own bedroom door? Weirdo.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened and a white-haired man popped around it with a covered tray. I screamed—he frowned—I screamed louder.
“I have brought your breakfast, Ms DuMont,” he managed to shout over my screams.
I screamed again. Who was this old white dude with the tray who knew my name? What the fuck was going on in this place?
“Ms DuMont! Ms DuMont, please stop screaming.”
“Who are you? Where’s Matt?” I yelled, clutching the sheet to me and looking around for a weapon. The guy was old and he’d mentioned something about breakfast, I think, but he could be a ninja master or a British spy fully capable of killing me. And no one would question it. I could see the headlines now: Black female intruder killed during home invasion in upscale Kensington property. I’d be killed and the papers would paint me as the bad guy, and this man would get a pat on the back and say shit like, “I thought she had a gun” or “I was in fear for my life.” Shit like that happened all the time back home in the States.
“Mr Bradley is at his office. He instructed me to ensure you ate. It is ten thirty in the morning, and you should be out of bed.”
“Excuse me?” I did not like the undertone of censure in the old man’s voice. No, I didn’t like it one bit. “Who are you?”
“My name is George and I work for Mr Bradley. He has instructed me—”
“To make sure I eat. I heard you the first time.” I cut him off bad-temperedly. I was naked under satin sheets with this George in a stiff suit judging me silently. Bite me.
“Well, I was not certain. You were screaming so loudly I’m surprised you could hear yourself.”
There it was again: that censorious tone. I ignored it and asked, “Did you say ten thirty?”
“I did, Ms DuMont,” he replied dryly. “I’ve sent your clothes to the drycleaners and they should be back within two hours. Would you like me to procure garments for you to wear in the meantime?”
I gulped, grateful no one could tell when us black folks blushed. “Um, you sent my clothes to the drycleaners?”
He nodded, eyes crinkling around the corners. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to glower at me or smile. “Yes, Ms DuMont. They were in the kitchen upon my arrival, and I assumed they were in need of cleaning. It is my job to anticipate the needs of my employer.”
I tried to hold my head up high. No wonder he was judging me. The thong I had worn under my dress wasn’t one that implied a woman of propriety.
“I’m a virgin,” I spluttered, and pulled the sheet up to cover my mouth. What the fuck was wrong with me? I might as well get a megaphone and stand atop Big Ben screaming out my inability to get laid.
George eyed the bed and me in it before nodding in an extremely slow and patronizing manner. “Of course, Ms DuMont, but that is none of my business, and your eggs are going cold. I shall leave your tray here.” He marched over to the table. Was that a high coffee table? In a bedroom? Why hadn’t I noticed that last night?
“I will return in thirty minutes with garments for you. I assume that is enough time for you to eat and shower?” Reproach, reproach, reproach. George was dripping with reproach.
“Yes, George,” I mumbled, then remembered my manners. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ms DuMont.” He disappeared behind the closing door.
I slumped back on the bed and tried not to wail. I should be in the studio dancing, not lying about in a well-to-do white man’s fancy bed in his fancy house. George would think I was a slut; he’d tell the neighbours Matt had brought a prostitute home, because I was sure that was what he was thinking. And Matt had a butler? Or a P.A? Or whatever the hell George was. Fact was, I’d shamed myself. I needed to get out of here. I crawled off the bed; I had to after my first attempt to launch off it resulted in serious pain across my abdomen. I would never be able to go through my routine today. Dante would be pissed. I shrugged into Matt’s shirt, found the discarded tie and looped it around my waist. The running bottoms went back on, too. I would get my shit and get out of here. This would be my dirty little secret, never to be thought of again.
On my way to the door, I got a nice whiff of eggs. I minced over to the table and lifted the cover. Mmm, scrambled eggs and they weren’t wet. I hated wet scrambled eggs. How did George know the way I liked my eggs? My suspicions that he was a ninja master reared. I could see him with a long white beard to match his hair becoming one with nature and all its forces. I tried a bit of the eggs. Then had another forkful, then wolfed it all down like a ravenous beast. There was bacon, too, but I was trying to cut down on meats. Hell, I ate the bacon after staring at it for half a minute. And the small glass of orange juice washed everything down nicely. With the tray in my hand, I made my way downstairs, forgetting which way to the kitchen.
“George?” I called out softly. Feeling like a trespasser, I balanced the tray on one hand and started knocking on doors. How big was this place?
“George?” I pushed a heavy door open and faced an empty room. There was nothing more than a grand piano and accompanying seat. Fancy schmancy.
“Is there something I can help you with, Ms DuMont?”
I was halfway up in the air when the voice came from behind me. The tray clattered to the floor and the nice china plate smashed. The glass shattered. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me up.
“I’m so clumsy. Oh, let me get that.”
“There’s no need, Ms DuMont,” George said coldly. I jerked back, shocked by his tone and calculating appraisal as he took in my borrowed attire. “Is there something you wish me to do for you?”
“No, not really. I was bringing the tray down and I got lost, then you scared me—”
“I apologize, Ms DuMont. I didn’t intend to startle you.” The crisp black suit he wore matched exactly with his demeanour. Polite to a fault, but cutting. He didn’t sound genuinely apologetic. I need to get away from these snobby white people, and fast.
“I wanted to know if you could call me a cab. I have to go.”
“Mr Bradley gave me the impression you were to await his return,” he replied in that snotty voice of his. His face was lined with wrinkles. I wanted to think it was due to him smiling all the time, but it didn’t seem likely.
“I have to go to work, and I can’t stay here waiting for Matt.”
George’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly when I’d said the word ‘work’. The judgemental s.o.b.
“I’m a ballet dancer, you know.” I was in a huff as I bent down to pick up the stupid tray. “Not some sort of loose-morals woman. I own seventy percent of a dance studio, and we’re doing great. So don’t look down your nose at me.” I started picking up the broken pieces of china and glass and plopping it on the tray.
“Ms DuMont, I must insist you cease at once. I shall take care of it in a moment.” George sounded alarmed as he bent down in an attempt to pry the tray away from me.
“Stop it.” I yanked it back. “I’m fully capable of cleaning up my own mess, and it’s appalling having someone waiting on someone else. Plus, you look like what? A hundred? Are you sure you can straighten up?”
His bushy grey eyebrows waggled. He was going to blow his top if the red stain creeping up over that starchy collar of his was any indication.
“I beg your pardon?” The pitch of his voice increased slightly.
Yep, he was going to blow his top. I continued picking up the pieces, had gotten most of them before I straightened up. George straightened up, too.
“As you can see, Ms DuMont,” he said with those shaking eyebrows. “I’m quite able-bodied and far off one hundred years old.”
“My mistake. I do beg your pardon.” I think it was my best rendition of a stuffy British accent yet.
George did a quick intake of air. Gloved hands clenching at his sides. Was he serious? Gloves?
“Which way to the kitchen?” I asked curtly. With a ramrod-straight back, he brushed past me and marched away. I marched right after him. I was back in the first hallway and could see my shoes propped neatly by the living room door. George stiffly opened a door and revealed the kitchen.
“Thank you,” I said, fuming. I stormed over and placed the tray and its cover on the uncluttered surface of the island. I spotted my license and snatched it up, then marched out of the kitchen without another word. George followed.
“Ms DuMont, I must insist—”
“No way, buddy. Either call me a taxi or leave me alone so I can get out of this lunatic asylum.” I stomped over to grab my shoes and headed towards the door. My purse was on the little table. Perfect. Money, house keys, cell phone and Oyster card. If he didn’t call me a taxi, I would walk to the nearest tube station and ride the underground away from this nightmare.
“Ms DuMont, please.”
It was the faint traces of panic that made me pause in my grand exit. I spun around and saw George hurrying towards me.
“If I have offended you in any way, I am truly sorry, but Mr Bradley is under the impression you will be here when he returns.”
I was distracted by George’s red-stained cheeks, wondering if he was going to have a sudden heart attack. He did look one hundred. That distraction meant he was able to slip past me, easily done in the large hallway, and position himself between me and the front door.
“Why are you standing in front of the door?” I asked shrilly.
“Ms DuMont, if you can calm down for a moment, I can show you the way back upstairs—”
“I’m calling 911,” I warned, dropping the straps of my heels from one hand and fumbling through my purse. This was turning out to be the craziest twenty-four hours of my life. “You can’t hold me against my will.” Cell phone in hand, I keyed in the security code and waved my iPhone in a threatening manner at the red-faced George.
“Ms DuMont, if you would but—”
“Nine.” I pressed the screen. “I’ve pressed the first number, George. You better let me pass or the cops will be here in minutes. Minutes. I’ll tell them you’re keeping me here against my will. You’ll do serious time. Think about it. A man your age—ha—you wouldn’t last a day in prison. And I’m an American citizen. That’s an international mess waiting to happen.”
“Ms DuMont.” George was trying for authoritarian now. “I suggest we go into the kitchen where I can make you a calming cup of tea and we can have a pleasant discussion—”
“First ‘one’, George,” I warned after pressing my screen again. He was acting as if I was the crazy one. “All I have to do is press number one once more and the cops will be here. How are you going to explain this? If you step away from that door right now, I won’t press charges.”
He tilted his head sideways and surveyed me closely, before saying with the barest hint of amusement, “Seeing as we are in the United Kingdom and not the United States, I’d suggest you hang up and re-key 999, Ms DuMont.”
Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten that. I chewed my bottom lip. “Thanks for the reminder, but don’t think I won’t do it if you continue to hinder my escape from this madhouse.”
“I will call you a taxi if I must, Ms DuMont,” he cajoled, his whole demeanour changing into a ‘hail well met fellow’ sort of vibe. “But what would you have me tell Mr Bradley about your departure? I fear he would be most disappointed in me for failing to ensure you were here when he returns. I’ve worked for the Bradley family all my life and never once failed to carry out my duties,”
Oh my God.
He was trying to play me.
“So, it would be a great help to me if you would but return upstairs while I procure proper clothing for you and you await Mr Bradley’s return.”
I knew he was trying to manipulate me, but on the off chance Matt did get angry with him…
“Do you have a pen and paper I can use?” I asked nicely. George didn’t look like he trusted me not to escape as soon as he went looking for pen and paper. Then, he beamed at me.
“Of course, Ms DuMont, right here.” He skipped—it looked exactly like a triumphant skip—over to the table in the hallway where he opened a drawer. “Pen and paper as per your request.” He rested a pad of lovely stationery and pen on top of the table, with him between me and the door.
“George, here’s the deal. I’m going to write Matt a nice, long letter, stating that you are in no way, shape or form responsible for my leaving before he returns. I do have to get to work.” I ended on a pleading note.
George glanced at me from head to toe. “Then I shall call you a cab at once, Ms DuMont.”
“Thank you, George. You’re a nice man after all, and I don’t really think you’re a century old.” I flashed him my brightest smile and he looked startled for a second, then a small smile spread across his face.