Cooking up a Storm (20 page)

‘Fine,’ she panted. ‘Do it.’

He grabbed the side seam between his teeth and fists and ripped it, slowly, so she had time to take in the sound. She shuddered as he pulled the cloth away. He lifted the damp gusset to his face and inhaled. The scent of her hardened him beyond bearing. He grabbed a big pillow from the wicker chair that sat beside her bed. She was so eager she lifted her hips herself so he could shove it under them.

He paused to admire the uplifted swell of her arse. Her legs were splayed wide by the ties. The position revealed her sex to him, the dark pink furrows and the bright gold curls, the red tip of her clitoris, the damp flickering mouth of her sheath. She had a gorgeous quim. If he hadn’t been so ready, he would have stared at her all night.

But the pounding in his cock pulled him onwards and upwards. He settled his knees and positioned himself.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said as his cock parted her lips. ‘Oh, yes.’

She tilted back and the crown slipped inside. He grunted at the feel of her, not a romantic sound but one he couldn’t hold back. She was wet and hot. She gripped him with her folds. The sensitive cushion behind her pubic bone was swollen already, even though she hadn’t come. He prodded it with the head of his cock and her breath burst from her in a rush. His angle of entry was perfect for this, just perfect.

He slipped a hand beneath her to steady her and to give her slippery little clit the pressure it needed. He circled it lightly with two conjoined fingers, loving the stiffness that hid within her tender folds — women’s magic, women’s secret.

‘Storm,’ she said, jerking back at him. ‘For goodness sake, come all the way in.’

With a sigh of pleasure, he pushed deep and then shallow, deep and then shallow. He caught her cervix with the deep and her G-spot with the shallow. Her sheath rippled around him, tightened and tugged, loosened and wept warm trickles of cream. He changed his stroke, thrusting once deep and twice shallow. She moaned and called his name. He stroked twice deep and twice shallow and pressed harder with his cock, massaging the juicy cushion until her body went limp beneath him.

‘Oh, God,’ she said, turning her head back and forth beneath his roving kisses. ‘Don’t stop. Don’t stop.’

He had found the magic combination and he kept at it, steady, relentless, holding his own climax at bay through force of will.

‘Don’t rush,’ he whispered, when she began to tighten around him. The ties were there to free her of the need to work, to make her trust to him alone. ‘Ride the wave.’ He caught her ear long enough to lick the ticklish shell. ‘Just relax. I’ll carry you home.’

‘I can’t bear it,’ she gasped, but her grip loosened. She breathed more deeply. She gave in to him.

‘Ride it,’ he crooned, twining his free hand with hers, stroking his thumb over the grey velvet tie that held her prisoner. ‘Ride it, love.’ He stroked her deep and then shallow and then shallow again and then deep, reaching for her centre with his cock. His own agony was sweet, a gift to her, a poem of praise.

‘Oh,’ she said, her neck arching in preparation.

He stroked shallow, shallow, shallow, telling himself deep would wait, could wait a few seconds longer for her. She began to quiver inside, to pull at him with her hot, seductive flesh. He wanted to come, needed to shove so badly he ached.

Stay, he told himself, working her shallows, rubbing her with the head, the neck. His balls were pulling up, the pressure at their base bringing tears to his eyes. She cried out and came, and came, gushing over him in a hot, quick flood. But he held steady, he held–

Without warning, her hips swung up at him, slapping his belly and driving him to her core. Sweat popped out on his brow and he froze, lodged deep, deep inside her.

‘Fuck me,’ she rasped, in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

Mon Dieu
, he thought, but all that came out was a groan and then the groan was his thought, a long, anguished mental rumble as he thrust fully in and out a half-dozen times, hard, deep, fast until his climax burst ecstatically from his belly and shot through the hot, tight passage of his cock.

‘
Mon Dieu
,’ he said, aloud this time, and collapsed on top of her, his cock still twitching in her sheath.

‘Gosh,’ she said, breathing hard beneath him. ‘That was good.’

A chuckle warmed his chest, as nice in its way as the orgasm. No wonder he’d fallen in love with her. Any woman who could say ‘fuck me’ and ‘gosh’ in the space of a minute was a prize worth holding on to.

Abby dressed carefully for their evening out. Never mind that she’d convinced herself it was only a friendly date; she still retrieved a stretchy, sleeveless, electric-blue dress from the back of her closet. She’d bought it while dating Bill, at his insistence, then never found the nerve to wear it. She had to cut off the shop tag before she pulled it on.

Turning back and forth before the bathroom’s antique cheval glass, she shivered off a sense of
déjàvu
. She smoothed the soft blue cotton over her belly. Her reflection inspired an unexpected smile. Perhaps she’d lost weight over the last few weeks. For once her figure seemed perfect: not fat, just feminine. The scoop neck was low enough to display what cleavage she had. The skirt hugged her legs a few inches above her knee. When she sat it was certain to ride up. But what was wrong with showing off her thigh-muscles? She’d earned them, after all.

In fact, the only problem with the dress was that the bright colour washed out her face. Make-up, she thought, and dug frantically through the cabinet for the bag of cosmetics she hardly ever used. When she’d painted herself as well as she could, she hurried back to the bedroom, gasped at the time and pulled on a pair of lace-top, thigh-high stockings.

Shoes presented another minor crisis. None of her flats seemed to go. Then she spotted Bill’s black patent leather heels lying forgotten on the floor of the closet.

Oh, why not, she thought. She wiped off the dust with a tissue and slipped them on. Immediately, she felt different: strong, unstoppable — and taller than the five-inch spike heels could account for. As she stalked towards the dressing table mirror, the shoes’ metallic clack-clack-clack reverberated up her legs and through her sex. When had her legs grown that long? When had she learned to sway her hips like a feline on the prowl?

Perhaps when I became one, she thought with a secretive smile.

At the dressing table she opened a small velvet box and removed the pearl earrings Jack had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Perhaps it was naughty to wear so many mementoes from other lovers on a date with Storm, but the earrings made her feel confident. Just fancy — when he gave her that present, she’d been a chubby, flat-chested teenager who despaired of any man ever regarding her with admiration. Who’d have thought she’d been tugging at Jack’s heart, and not because of how she looked, but because of who she was inside. Though she’d been shy and moody, he’d still found something to love.

A woman could learn a lot from a man like Jack.

She touched one small, dangly earring and studied the effect. These lustrous little drops deserved companions. With a soft sigh, she pulled out another jewellery case. This one held her mother’s prized string of pearls from Japan, given to Abby by her father in honour of earning her business degree.

Her fingers shook as she fastened the clasp. She stroked the pearls over her collarbones. She’d seen pictures of her mother wearing them. In looks Barbara Coates had been closer to Sandra than Abby, but her father had always said they’d been much alike in temperament. She was shy and sweet like you, he’d say, but strong inside, the sort of strength that takes folks by surprise. I gave the older girls the flashy jewellery. But these pearls were her favourites and if she’d known you, honey, she’d have wanted you to have them.

Abby’s eyes filled at the memory. She hadn’t worn this necklace since her father’s funeral. She wondered if he’d be proud of the way she was handling her love life. Perhaps not. When he was alive she was his baby, his favourite, despite the price he’d paid to get her. He was stricter with her than with her sisters. But maybe from the distance of wherever he was now he’d understand how much her adventures meant to her, how they’d freed her from a weight she’d been carrying all her life. She was beautiful. She was worth loving. God had not traded her for her mother. What had happened when she was born had never had anything to do with her value as a human being.

She dashed away a tear before it could ruin her eyeliner. She would not run to the bathroom and wash everything off. She wouldn’t. Who cared if this was all a bit much for a friendly date? She’d wanted to dress up and she had. If Storm enjoyed it, so much the better, but this was for her.

*   *   *

Storm almost didn’t recognise her. She descended the stairs with film-siren slowness. He’d thought she was pretty from the first and with his affection she’d grown beautiful. This, however, was the sort of beauty that stopped men and women in their tracks.

The dress clung to her firm little body like the proverbial second skin, making her breasts seem fuller, her legs endless. And those shoes, those shiny, black, high-heeled shoes; who’d have guessed her ankles were so sexy? Who’d have guessed she could walk like sex on wheels? Like sex on elegant wheels, he corrected, taking in her glossy upswept hair and the pretty little pearls shivering in her earlobes. Her eyes were brilliant pools of green. Her mouth, always kissable, beckoned irresistibly under cover of a pink a few shades darker than her own.

At once, he pictured a few places he’d enjoy collecting lipstick prints. His breath rushed more quickly through his parted lips. A pulse throbbed in his groin, signalling the onset of a swift arousal. She clicked to a halt in front of him.

‘Are those for me?’ she asked, smiling the way beautiful women have been smiling since the beginning of time.

Numbly, he handed her the nosegay of violets he’d driven halfway up the coast to find.

‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, her golden lashes sweeping over her soft green eyes as she brought them to her nose. ‘I’d better put them in water, though. Violets are fragile.’

Storm watched, still dumbstruck, as she clacked with hip-swaying grace towards the kitchen. Her disappearance brought him to his senses. He pressed his palm over his pounding heart. This was bad. He was acting like a schoolboy. He’d never make her fall in love with him this way.

By the time she’d returned, he’d recovered sufficiently to offer her a sky-blue cardigan from the pegs in the hall. ‘In case the restaurant is cold,’ he explained, thinking he might feel calmer if she covered those two pale swells of breast.

She smiled and folded the sweater over her shapely arm. He stared down at her, awkward, unable to settle on what to do but wanting so badly, so badly.

‘Shall we go?’ she asked.

‘Wait.’ He bent to kiss her powdered cheek, which led to the silky side of her neck and the perfumed hollow that marked the beginning of her cleavage. His cock began to lift again but he couldn’t quite back away. She smelt of lavender and orange blossom, the same scent she’d been wearing the day they met. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, meaning it more than he ever had in his life.

‘Thank you.’ Her cheeks pinkened with pleasure. ‘You look rather dashing yourself.’

He knew she hadn’t heard then; knew she hadn’t deciphered the love behind the compliment. He wondered at that as he pressed his hand to the small of her back and guided her out of the door.

It seemed so loud to him, he’d have thought the world could hear.

*   *   *

Abby was delighted to hear they’d be taking one of the whale-watching boats to Plymouth. The evening was perfect, clear and cloudless, with the sun a few hours short of setting. Storm draped the sweater around her shoulders to protect her from the spray, then stood behind her and surrounded her with his arms as they both leant over the railing.

They spotted a few humpbacks in the distance, but only one up close — a sleek young male who accompanied the boat halfway across the bay, never more than a few feet from the hull as he surfaced and submerged in long, smooth arcs. His skin was black and shiny, far more beautiful than her pointy-toed shoes. The powerful propulsive drive of his flukes barely caused a wake. He seemed unaware of their presence, not rolling or spy-hopping the way a curious whale would. Nonetheless, the way he shadowed their path proved he must be aware.

He was pitting himself against the boat, Abby decided, and, as far as she was concerned, he was coming out on top. She found the sight of all that power arousing, especially when Storm unbuttoned his charcoal-grey suit jacket and pressed a rather impressive erection into the curve of her buttocks.

‘Did you know that whales are one of the few mammals who mate for fun?’ he said, low and husky in her ear.

‘Aside from us, you mean?’

His breath gave a funny catch. ‘Aside from us,’ he agreed a second later and wrapped one arm around her waist.

All around them tourists gawked and shrieked at the racing whale, but Abby’s world abruptly shrank to a population of two. Storm’s fingers crept lower, pressing the soft pad of flesh that crowned her vulva, a pressure that just barely teased the swollen tip of her clit.

‘I wish I could fuck you now,’ he whispered, rubbing himself harder against her rear.

Abby rolled her lips between her teeth. Her nipples felt like stones, her sex like a pot of honey set in the sun. His second hand crept higher, stroking the lower curve of her breast under cover of the sweater. A whimper broke in her throat. He reached higher with one finger, and higher. He touched her stiffened nipple and flicked it back and forth. Then his other hand reached, stretched, until he pushed the little swell of her arousal into the soft, wet folds that surrounded it. The thin silk of her panties clung to her skin where he pressed.

‘Don’t,’ she breathed, though she didn’t move. ‘My dress will get wet.’

He groaned against her ear, a low sound of wanting that brought the wetness she’d feared from the depths of her sex. When the whale suddenly dived beneath the boat and surfaced on the other side, neither of them joined the general rush to the other side of the boat.

As soon as they were alone, Abby turned in Storm’s arms. Their hips settled together, two complementary puzzle pieces. He gazed into her face as if he meant to memorise her features. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said in a strangely hushed tone.

Abby felt as though she were missing something. His eyes were so intent, so luminous. Before she could begin to figure out what lay behind them, however, his arms were gathering her close and his mouth was sinking towards hers.

They kissed with a slow curve and probe of tongues, first into her mouth, then into his, the alternations timed with perfect smoothness like the passage of the whale. Storm rubbed his cock against her, pressing her to the rail and making her straddle the muscle of his thigh. His bulge grew bigger and bigger until his neck and shoulders took on the tightness she’d come to recognise as his I-can’t-take-this-another-minute tension.

She knew he wouldn’t require more than a few well-placed strokes to get off, but when she offered him a hanky and a hand he shook his head. ‘I like to wait,’ he said.

‘But you’re so big!’ Abby covered her mouth to hush her own protest.

‘I’ll button my jacket.’

Abby looked down at the protrusion he was pressing so forcefully into her hip. He was huge — and no doubt frustrated as hell. Idiot man. What was he trying to prove? ‘I’m sorry, Storm,’ she said. ‘But that thing of yours is indecent. I refuse to be seen in public with it.’

He cursed at her, then laughed, then looked around for a shadowed corner as if their lives depended on getting away. He found one behind the staircase that led to the upper deck. They were shielded from view on two sides at least, and with the whale to keep everyone occupied there wasn’t much chance they’d be interrupted — not that Storm was in any state to quibble. An unlit ship’s lantern swayed on the wall above his head as he carefully drew down his zip. As big as he was, he was apt to do himself damage if he weren’t careful. With a tremor he couldn’t hide, he took her hand and pulled it towards the distorted gap in his trousers.

‘Please, no handkerchief,’ he said, his breath gusting with anticipation. ‘I want to come in your hand. I want to feel your skin.’

As soon as the hot, satiny head brushed her palm, Abby wanted that, too. It was wet with pre-come, a warm, slippery fluid that seeped from the tip in a small, but steady flow. She spread it over the crown of his cock, loving this eloquent betrayal of his need. He was so far gone his penis wept with hunger and could not stop.

‘Rub me right here,’ he whispered, guiding her finger to a constellation of folds beneath the flaring ridge, the very same spot Ivan had been so desperate to have her lick. Her palm still cupped around the head, Abby shivered in memory and rubbed the folds, intrigued by their texture, by the violent quiver of reaction such a light touch inspired.

His head swooped down to kiss her as soon as her finger moved. He took control of the kiss this time, and his tongue did not retreat from her mouth. Holding the back of her head with one hand, he cupped the other over hers to increase the pressure on his cock. She grabbed his testicles and squeezed them through his trousers. He choked a moan into her throat. His hips jerked, his teeth caught her lower lip, and then she felt a series of pulsing bursts against her palm. His seed was warm and sticky. Some of it rolled back down his cock but she caught the lion’s share.

As the last of his tension sighed from his lungs, she handed him her handkerchief. He cleaned them both quickly. Her hand was hot when he wiped it on the linen square. He touched the pulse at her wrist and found it racing.

‘I’m sorry.’ He shoved the hankie in his pocket. ‘You’re still — This place isn’t private enough to–’

She laughed. She knew it went against his principles to leave a woman hanging and it pleased her that he’d been so desperate he couldn’t wait. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, knowing he’d more than make it up to her. ‘I like waiting, too, and, unlike some people, I don’t look obscene while I’m doing it.’

*   *   *

It seemed to Storm that he was blundering right and left. First he acted like a tongue-tied schoolboy at the sight of her skimpy dress. Then, when he knew damn well he couldn’t reciprocate, he let her give him a thirty-second hand-job on the boat. Thirty seconds at most, he amended, in complete self-disgust. Finally, when she expressed surprise at how nice the restaurant in Plymouth was, he let her see that her reaction had annoyed him.