The Things That Make Me Give In (26 page)

When she leans forward over him and puts her palms flat on his shoulders, he moans, and his eyelids stutter closed. The harder she works on him, the more he seems to appreciate it, until she’s shoving him into the mattress and blazing with thick sensations.

He still hasn’t come, but she’s sure she’s going to make it again. She can feel her pussy spasming around his cock, and her whole body goes electric. He looks so good lying there beneath her, straining and frowning and biting his lip.

His hips arch up at her and that’s all she needs. It jerks through her and sends her mindless, so much so that she squeezes too hard on his shoulders and her nails bite in. She hardly even hears him when he asks her to do it harder, but she comprehends clearly when his hands go over hers and push those biting nails down into his flesh.

Her eyes snap open and she stares down at him, still juddering and breathless.

‘Harder,’ he says, and she obeys purely because of the strange desperation in his voice and his expression.

When she squeezes her nails in hard enough to break the skin, his hips snap up and he goes rigid beneath her. She feels his cock pulse once, heavy and protracted, inside her. The moan he gives up is the purest sound of relief and pleasure she has ever heard.

Everything seems nice and relaxed and after-glowy – until he gets up suddenly and starts pulling on all the clothes she wouldn’t mind seeing off for ever. They could just be naked in this place for ever, and that would be fine.

Why he’s getting dressed so urgently, she has no idea.

‘Come back to this uncomfortable bed,’ she says, before it occurs to her that this is all there’s going to be. One fun fuck and then goodbye. It washes over her in a cold wave, once those too-hasty words are out.

But he just turns, startled, halfway through pulling on his jumper.

‘You want me to . . .’ he starts to say, but then the words seem to slip back down his throat.

‘Don’t you want to?’ she asks, and sits up just a little. It exposes most of her breasts, and to bolster her courage she thinks of his expression on seeing them. Let him see them again. Let him think of more than one fun fuck.

‘I didn’t think . . .’

‘Didn’t think what?’

‘That you’d want me to.’

She almost laughs, but his intent and faintly stricken expression stops her. He looks guilty, she thinks, but can’t imagine why.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she tries, and the guilt edges back just a little.

‘You don’t mind, then,’ he says, and immediately she runs over everything they’ve just done. Mind what? But there’s always the risk that, if she asks, he’ll tell her something bleak and horrid.

Mind that I tortured children. Mind that I wanted to tie you up and rape you.

‘I just can’t . . . seem to stop myself. If you hadn’t done it, I would have.’

Would have what? she thinks. Jesus.

And then it comes to her what he might mean, and this time she can’t stop herself laughing.

‘Do you mean . . . do you mean the nails thing? Packs, is that what you mean?’

‘It’s not funny, Kes.’

‘Oh, Lord, you
do
mean that. I thought you meant something awful! I don’t care if you get off on a bit of pain, you daft twat.’

His mouth comes open, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Is that what you mean? I barely did anything! Jesus Christ, Packs, take your clothes back off and get into bed. Start getting dressed when you want to cut off my arms and legs or show me pictures of tortured children.’

‘You’re not bothered. Not at all.’

‘Why . . . why should I be? What do you mean? Because you – what? Pressed my nails into your skin? It’s hardly
S&M Monthly,
Packs –’

He shoves his hands into his hair, both sides, and draws them back until they link at the back of his head. His forearms probably make great ear mufflers.

‘You don’t think it’s weird, at all.’

It’s vaguely worrying that his questions are coming out as statements.

‘Why would I? You didn’t do anything!’

‘So that’s perfectly normal, is it?’

‘Well . . . maybe not, but –’

He glances away. Drops his hands. There seem to be about a million words that want to come out of his mouth, because his lips keep opening and closing and working around nothing.

‘I hardly thought you’d be completely straightforward in the sack, babe.’

To her relief, he laughs at that.

‘I was more worried that you weren’t really into it.’

‘Oh, my God, no, Kes. No,’ he says, and then he shakes his head, over and over.

‘Come back to bed then,’ she says, and he does. He kisses her, and holds her so tightly to him she can’t breathe, and does.

He’s waiting for her next time, she knows. There’s that fearful, excited look on his usually so impassive face, and it’s not a surprise that they don’t make it to drinks and
casual conversation at the bar. She just walks right into the Fox and Badger and he looks at her in that expectant way, and then somehow they’re in the grotty bathroom.

He says, ‘What are you going to do?’

Which makes her fearfully excited.

She unbuckles his belt quickly while his mouth slants over hers. He backs her into one of the stalls, door creaking, closed in immediately by the narrow space. The cold of the porcelain bowl bites into the backs of her calves briefly, before she shoves him forward against the now shut door.

Of course, it’s a flimsy thing and it protests, but it only has to hold him until she has his belt in her hands. Then he steps forward, and holds out his crossed wrists.

‘I’m a dangerous killing machine,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what I might do.’

‘Behind your back,’ she replies. Talking means that she doesn’t have to laugh, which she suspects he wants to too – but then again, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe some part of him really thinks that.

That skirting awareness settles over her again at the thought. Sexy punishments are fun. Real ones are not. It could be OK that excitement is overriding the awareness of that line, but it also might not be.

Which is even more exciting.

She lashes the belt around his crossed wrists – now obediently tucked behind his back – and laces it through the buckle. Then draws it taut in one snap. The leather whistles and protests.

So does he. Though it’s really more of a hiss through his teeth when the hard edges cut into his flesh. She goes to loosen it and says ‘less’, but he nudges her with one big shoulder.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, that’s perfect.’

The line, she thinks. The line.

But more than that is the need to do what he didn’t want her to do the night before. Now, with his hands tied and the pain
obviously buzzing through him, he doesn’t stop her. He lets her crouch down and shove his jeans down to his knees – of course he does, he has no choice! – and free his already stiff cock, and, when she hesitates, he pushes his hips forward. The tip of him kisses her lips.

Sometimes you’re tied, only not. She’s betting that he likes being put under guard, but likes the ‘only not’, too. Any time he can just thrust forward and fuck her waiting, greedy mouth. He could probably get his hands free, too, but she doubts he’d be as aroused if he thought about that much.

She rakes her fingernails down his thick thighs and he gasps. His cock leaps and stutters, so she takes him in hand. Squeezes, not quite hard enough to hurt.

‘Oh, yes, go on,’ he says, but he says it in a tone she’s never heard before. A shaking, disturbed sort of tone, rippling with arousal. It swells her cunt to think of him so turned on.

‘Do you want me to suck you off?’ she asks and he bucks in her unmoving, teasing hand. He’s looking down at her, but she has never seen his expression so open, so full of waiting and longing.

‘Go on. Go on.’

She licks him first. It had almost come to this when they were young, and she remembers lying in bed at home, imagining the taste of him as she stroked herself. It’s not at all bitter, though, but sweet.

And she isn’t a girl any more, so it’s not difficult to get things right. When she lets her teeth graze over the length of him, ending on a soft conciliatory suck, he arches against her. A word comes out from between his gritted teeth, but then the door of the outer bathroom bangs and he has to keep his thoughts to himself.

They both pause and listen for the intruder – the door to the stall isn’t bolted. But then there’s the zip of a fly and a cough, and it’s OK to carry on.

He bites his lip when she does, and jolts his hip at her, but
all that does is force his cock further into her hot, waiting mouth. She watches him look heavenward for inspiration, but nothing up there is as inspiring as her hand working him as she sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks.

The belt buckle clinks against the door as he jerks, unable now to stop himself fucking her mouth. She thinks about what he said – about being dangerous – and imagines him over her, crushing her with his hips and his weight and his too-big cock pressing uncaring past her lips.

The thought is enough to make her push her hand past the waistbands of her skirt and her knickers and search out her aching clit. Her left hand is sloppier on his cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. She sees him look down at her and then he looks away just as fast and tries to bite down on a brief, hoarse ‘Oh, fuck.’

He does the same as he did before – the shocked open mouth, the sudden rigidness of his body. Something like a sob. And then he comes richly, thickly, in her mouth.

The first sudden spurt wrenches an orgasm from her, too. The grimy tiles beneath her knees, the unseen person beyond the door, his swelling pumping cock and the sweet taste of him.

When she sinks against his thigh, cheek to the rough hair and firm flesh, she hears the man beyond the door call out, ‘Are you all right in there, mate?’

Maybe it’s some sort of downward spiral, but it doesn’t feel like it. His kisses are warm and wet in the back seat of her father’s old car. Parked where they used to go and almost laughing about it. Mostly he just wants to kiss, and pull her jumper over her head.

She lights a cigarette while he unbuttons his jeans, eyes on her now bare breasts, head going back once his hand is on his jutting prick. She whispers in his ear for him to do it, go on, let go, and at the last second the cigarette burns close enough to
the tender skin of his throat that he comes, while not meeting her increasingly more worried gaze.

There are two things he wants more of: pain and a lack of eye contact. He says he isn’t embarrassed about it, but she knows he is. It’s why he wants her to blindfold him, before she does more of what he likes best: biting.

He likes to be bound, and he likes to be bitten, and he likes his eyes covered. At first it had only been his hands pressing hers over his eyes, but now it’s progressed to scarves and ties.

She can’t say it isn’t exciting. It’s all very exciting, even as they’re getting close to the line.

When she wraps the scarf around his eyes, winding it like a maid dressing her lady, he shivers all over. He had said to her after the first time he pressed her hands over his eyes, ‘When one sense is covered, the rest are alive.’

And she imagines going down that path, and melts. She almost says to him, as he sits before her, completely naked, that it’s her turn, now. She wants him to do it to her.

Even though she knows he won’t want to. Any hint of inflicting pain on her, any tiny restraint imposed on her body, and he squirms. He doesn’t even seem to like his weight upon her.

But she likes it. It’s almost like the allure of the forbidden, now. Now, as she bites at the curve of his shoulder lightly.

‘Harder,’ he says, and she obeys.

She bites him all over, up and down, leaving marks like red bracelets. He squirms, but she has learnt well what that means. Not stop, but go. Harder, more, be cruel. When she pushes him back on to the bed and nips him at that tender place between throat and shoulder, his slick-dipped cock bobs up against her belly.

She’s fairly sure he could come just from all this punishment.

But she doesn’t let him, not yet. First she wants his blind hands all over her, to find her places without knowing what
he’s finding. He dips an exploring finger into her belly button and ghosts just under the curve of her left breast. His touch is so gentle, as gentle as anyone could ever want it, but it’s not enough.

She wants to feel his nails the way he feels hers. And his mouth on her, biting and biting. She tests him out – just a press of his hands harder against her – but he backs off immediately.

He doesn’t back off quite so hard when she drags his nails down her thigh, and at the same time kisses the tip of his cock. And then licks, and presses his hand firm against her ass.

‘Squeeze,’ she says, but he doesn’t obey until she promises more with her mouth. When she licks and then backs away for the fourth time, he sits up and flexes his fingers around great handfuls of her ass.

It feels firm and delicious, that grip. It feels like the cold mystery she had always imagined lying at the heart of him.

‘Bite me,’ she whispers. ‘Bite me, and I’ll lick you until you come.’

But it seems that a demand like that is one step too far, and he rips off the blindfold quite suddenly. Stops holding her so firmly. He looks irritated, she thinks, but something else lies beneath the irritation. Something vulnerable and unsure.

But it’s OK, she thinks, because she is sure.

‘Fuck me, Packs,’ she says. ‘Hold me down and fuck me, and I’ll do whatever you like.’

‘I’m not going to –’ he starts to say, but then she takes the blindfold from him and covers her own eyes, and nothing else comes out. She hears him hiss and tut, and for a moment wonders if he’s about to storm off.

But then his hands clasp her wrists too tight for comfort, and things draw back from the line or cross the line or something, something that makes the line what it was not before.

‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘Fine, if this is what you want.’

He turns and tosses her as easily as if she were made of nothing, and then her face is in the pillow and he’s between
her thighs. It isn’t exactly what she had wanted, but it comes close to what she thinks he might need. He needs to know that something doesn’t go away just because you stick close to its opposite.