Black Lace Quickies 3 (11 page)

Then she heard the footsteps behind her on the path and she realised she was wrong. She tried not to change her rhythm lest it scare him off, keeping to a leisurely pace as she veered off through the trees and on to the hockey field. Despite the chill of the night, her blood pulsed warmly inside her, fizzed in her ears in the silence. She was having trouble not turning around.

What was he expecting of her, she wondered. She had a dread feeling that she would make the wrong move and lose him, kill the moment. She strode up towards the goal, the goal that only yesterday she had been defending as the man looked on. All that seemed like light years away. When she had still been Tristan’s girl. The body that Tristan wanted to fuck. Another notch on his bedpost.

She thought again of Tristan’s dick, his smooth pale dick like a swatch of silk in her hand. The way he’d presented himself to her. He thought he was sex on a stick, that guy. He didn’t know the meaning of the word.

She shrugged off her coat and scarf, began to unbutton her shirt and then grew impatient and
pulled
it up over her head, tossing it to the ground beside her. Before she could tell herself otherwise, she had turned to face the man. He was only steps behind her now, his face contorted with longing. Full on, she could see now that he wasn’t old enough to be her father, but must have had a good fifteen years on her. She held out her hand. He looked at it, and she could almost hear his brain ticking over.

‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t tell. It’ll be our little secret.’

He scrunched his face up, as if weighing up her words, deciding whether he could trust her. ‘Not here,’ he whispered finally, glancing up at the moon, as if it were some all-seeing eye.

‘Then where?’

He pointed back in the direction of his shed.

‘No.’ She stepped forwards and encircled his wrist with her hand, pulling him over towards a mass of bushes. Her coat and shirt remained on the grass behind her.

He took off his donkey jacket as they reached the flower bed and made to throw it down on the earth, but she pushed his hand away.

‘No,’ she said again, still more forcefully. And then she slipped off her remaining clothes and shoes and laid herself down.

He stood looking over her. ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

She nodded. ‘Absolutely. Now just fucking get on with it, will you, I’m freezing my tits off.’

He snorted, repressing a laugh. ‘Bossy little madam, aren’t you?’

She smiled. ‘Just take your clothes off. Or do I have to do it for you?’ At this she sat up and lunged for him, pulling him back down on to her by his tired brown sweater and then pulling it up over his head. Beneath it was an equally worn navy T-shirt that she tore off him too. In the halfdark she could see the fur of his chest, of his shoulders. She pressed her hands against it, the fuzz of it. It felt comforting. There was a ripe smell about him: sweat and onions and nicotine and lust, and that comforted her too. There was something so irrepressibly male about it.

She lay back, spread her legs. ‘Lick me,’ she commanded.

He smiled, as if he still couldn’t quite believe his luck, and then brought his face down to her. She arched her back as she felt his tongue jab inside her, once, twice, and then plunge right into her and stay there, exploring the walls of her. The melting feeling returned.

‘Don’t stop,’ she murmured. ‘Just don’t fucking stop.’

He came up for air, and she saw the lower half of his face glistening. Straining upwards, she licked his chin and around his mouth, her tongue rasping against his beard growth, tasting her own slightly sour juices on his skin. Then she lowered herself to the ground again, and pulled his head back down. This time his tongue flicked at the
nub
of her clitoris, and she felt herself jerk like a puppet, at the mercy of new forces. It was uncomfortable, almost unbearable, and yet she didn’t want it to end. Her hands opened and closed like avid claws, convulsively, tearing up the soil beneath her. Her legs spasmed peculiarly, almost comically. A couple of times she came close to pushing him away from her but realised she couldn’t. She was on the verge of tears, even while she was shouting out with joy.

‘I want you inside me,’ she said, not knowing where she found it in herself to order this grown man about. He raised his head, smiled down at her, then pulled her legs wide apart and placed his clenched fist up against her pussy.

‘Relax,’ he whispered.

She smiled. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘Perfectly relaxed.’

He unfurled his hand, pushed three fingers inside her and waited, watching her face. She had half-closed her eyes now, and her head was pushed back, chin jutting up, in a swoon. ‘More,’ she whispered. ‘Go further. Harder.’

Soon his entire hand was inside her, and he stopped again, reading her face for a signal. She looked up at him, remembering the care with which he handled his plants, the way he caressed their leaves with his fingertips, urging them to trust him. She trusted him. She nodded.

He began to rock his hand gently inside her, moving slightly from one side and then to the other. She was still now, palms pressed down
against
the soil, breath stopped. And then a flood tide opened within her, and the contractions started, and for a time she lost all contact with the earth beneath her.

When she woke up he was gone, but he’d draped his coat over her, and her own. It was still only half-light, and sounds from the road were scant, so she guessed she’d only been asleep a matter of minutes, perhaps an hour at the most.

She sat up, pulled away the covering and looked at her bare legs, at her lips still glistening in the dawn, at the smearing of blood on her thighs, mingling with the crust of mud. She lay back, just for a moment, and felt the dewy soil against her skin.

‘You dirty, dirty girl,’ she said and laughed.

She stood up and got dressed. When she passed the shed, the door was closed and the storm lamp was out. She folded his jacket and placed it on the ground outside, wondering whether he would be back to watch her the following week. Then she remembered the hockey season was over.

‘Goodbye,’ she shouted as she made for the gate, not waiting for a reply.

Candy Wong’s short stories have appeared in numerous Wicked Words collections. She also writes as Carrie Williams and her first novel,
The Blue Guide
, was published by Black Lace in August 2007.

Cooking Lessons
Teresa Noelle Roberts

I STUDIED THE
ingredients that Zak had assembled on the counter. Tomatoes in a bowl, already peeled and chopped. Peanuts. Two kinds of chillies, one in a can, the other soaking in water. Allspice berries. Small, hard reddish seeds labelled
ANNATTO BERRIES
. Cloves. Cinnamon sticks. Olive oil flavoured with garlic.

And a bar of bittersweet chocolate.

I started singing, ‘One of these things is not like the other …’

Zak laughed. ‘I thought we’d make Mexican chicken with red mole. The chocolate is the secret ingredient. Trust me.’

‘We’ was being generous. This was my third time having dinner at Zak’s. The first two times, he made the kinds of meals you’d pay big money for in a restaurant and I helped by chopping vegetables and doing other things that didn’t require much in the way of real cooking skills. ‘Of course I trust you. You are the master chef and my guide in all things culinary.’

‘Stop. You’re making me blush.’ He was smiling,
and
while he did turn a bit pink, it was more what I’d call a flush, the slight change in colour that shows a fair-skinned redhead is feeling good about life.

From that brief description, you probably picture freckles and light eyes and a full name along the lines of Zachary O’Connell. Actually his name is Itzak Meyer. Amend your mental picture to include brown eyes, ivory skin with a warm undertone and thick curly hair a deep, rich red that you’d never call auburn or carrot. Add a Caravaggio saint’s sensual mouth, which seems out of place with a tall, big-boned Eastern European build and a face created to study the Kabbalah by flickering candlelight. I’d fallen for him while watching him eat a particularly decadent chocolate-marzipan torte at a mutual friend’s party. The luscious mouth and blissful expression sparked my interest; watching the passion and precision with which he cooked stoked it. He liked things hot and spicy and complex. This I took as a good sign.

There was one problem. Zak’s culinary boldness didn’t extend into other areas. Some guys move too fast. He was the other sort, the guy who’s clearly interested, but so determined not to be pushy that a girl ends up having to take matters into her own hands. That was my plan for the evening. But I didn’t want to rush things either. For one thing, a sauce that combined chocolate and spices was just too intriguing to miss. I
wasn’t
the cook that Zak was, but I liked good food.

‘So, molé,’ I said, hoping it sounded casual. ‘Where do we start?’ I put my hand on his arm, looked up at him and leaned in more than was necessary. He echoed my movement so we were definitely in each other’s personal space. A little closer and we’d be wrapped around each other.

So far so good.

‘Well, first we taste-test the chocolate.’ Zak popped a square into his mouth, then broke me off a piece. I could almost see him thinking through how to give it to me. I was delighted when he held it up so I could eat it from his hand.

Naturally, I took the bait. I made eye contact the whole time, nibbled the tips of his fingers as I took the chocolate, and then licked them to make sure I got any melted bits. It was fine bittersweet chocolate, not that I would have expected anything less from Zak, but it didn’t taste nearly as good as he did. By the time his fingers were clean, I felt as melted as the chocolate had been.

He made an exaggerated ‘cool me down’ fanning motion. ‘Oh yeah, that’s good. And the chocolate wasn’t bad either. Where were we?’

‘We’d just gotten started.’

I hoped he’d pick up on the suggestion, but he was either clueless or hungry and determined to make this meal. I opted to believe the latter. ‘We need to roast the peanuts and the spices, and then grind them. If you’ll chop the chillies that
are
soaking, I’ll start that.’ I don’t think I imagined that he sounded a little flustered, or that he was a little more flushed.

The peanuts went into the oven, a pile of spices into a dry skillet. Meanwhile, I went to work on the chillies, removing the seeds and stems and chopping what was left into fine pieces. They were ancho chillies, not super-hot, but with a rich, smoky, raisiny aroma that the chopping released. From the stove, the fragrance of spices and nuts filled the air, tempting my taste buds and tickling my nose. I could recognise clove and peppercorns, but roasting peanuts smelled surprisingly wonderful, and other aromas – annatto and allspice, I guessed – added complexity. Delicious.

Zak came over behind me. ‘You can do big chunks,’ he said, leaning over my shoulder. ‘We’ll be putting them into the food processor.’

I set the knife down and leaned back as if stretching, knowing this would bring me into contact with his body. He didn’t pull away, so I wrapped my arms around him and cupped his butt, despite the awkward angle. ‘Thanks for inviting me over.’

He slipped his arms around me. ‘My pleasure.’ The contact was lovely, but not enough. Feeling him against me, I immediately flashed to how wonderful it would be if I were leaning on the counter and he was pushing into me from behind, hitting all the right spots, gripping my
hips
decisively as he moved. I wriggled a little at the delicious image and he pulled me closer in a way that suggested his thoughts were heading in a similar direction.

Unfortunately at that point we both noticed the aroma of spice was getting more intense. I’d already learned from an earlier adventure in Indian cuisine with Zak that spices burn easily, so I wasn’t offended when he wheeled around to pull the skillet from the heat. Disappointed, but not offended. ‘That was close. The peanuts should be ready now too.’ He pulled them from the oven and set the tray on the counter. ‘We should let it all cool before we grind it.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’ll give us a few minutes.’ And then I kissed him.

When you catch someone off-guard with a kiss, you expect a second or so of confusion – more than that and you should probably stop kissing and start apologising. I figured Zak, being shy, might need a little extra time before he relaxed.

He didn’t. He took me in his arms and returned the kiss as if he’d been waiting his whole life to do so. The sheer force of his pent-up desire came through on his lips, his hands on my back and ass, the heat of him against me. And I don’t mean that in a he-hadn’t-had-a-date-lately sort of way. This felt personal, and it burned straight into me, hot as chillies and sweet as chocolate. I buried my fingers in his hair, tried to pull him even closer. I didn’t realise that I’d instinctively
started
grinding my pelvis against his until I felt him getting hard against me.

I was wet already, and that caused flooding. There were about a thousand things I wanted to say to him, but that would have meant using my mouth for something besides kissing. And there were about a thousand things I wanted to do and with him, all crowding into my head at once (frankly, some of them had already been camped out there for a while), but they could all wait a while so we could enjoy the moment.

He didn’t rush, either. He kissed with the patience of a man who made bread and the passion of one who’d drive a hundred miles to get the perfect ingredient, and I realised that what seemed like caution might have been a matter of waiting for the right moment. He wasn’t doing anything but holding me and kissing me, not attempting to rip off my clothes or anything, but the word
kissing
covers a lot of territory. Nibbles and licks and sucking my tongue and lower lip. Gentle mouth-caresses and fierce kisses that threatened to devour me whole. And I was giving back as good as I got. By the time we had to pause for air, he was rock-hard against me and I was trembling.