Darker (8 page)

“I, well, I’m not sure I meant. I mean, I do like myself. Obviously. Why wouldn’t I?”

He’s still gently stroking me, his cock still inside me, and I am struck by how incongruous this conversation seems to me. Not to him, though, apparently, as he continues, his voice steady, even, as though he might be addressing a business meeting or chatting across the breakfast table with Rosie.

“You tell me, love. What’s not to like? Not to admire? You’re clever, funny, talented, brave. You’ve got a body to die for, the most responsive little clit I’ve ever come across”—he pauses, flicks my clit lightly to emphasis his point—“if you’ll pardon the pun, and you’re the best lay I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a few, believe me, so I
am
an authority.”

I can only gasp in reply—there’s really no answer to that. He’s not done yet, though. “I repeat, what’s not to like? You’re gorgeous, absolutely stunning. And brilliant too. The full package. I can’t believe my luck that you turned up at my house that night. And that somehow I managed not to scare you away.”

Does he mean me? He can’t be talking about me. I am stunned. Absolutely speechless. No one, no one has ever spoken about me like that. No one ever thought of me like that. The best lay he’s ever had? God! I should be affronted that it comes down to sex, but this is repressed, virginal little Eva Byrne we’re talking about, flat-chested, nerdy little Eva Byrne, the boring swot with no tits, no friends and hair like a bunch of carrots. And somehow, incredibly, this gorgeous hunk of a man who knows more about sex and sensuality than anyone I’ve ever met, a one-man Karma Sutra, thinks I’m a good lay. Me! I could dance on the ceiling. Or failing that, I might just stroll across this ocean of a bathtub of his.

This can’t be real. I have to ask. My voice cracking, I whisper, “Are you just saying all that? To make me feel better? Are you just being kind?”

“Well, I hope I’m being kind. I do try, most of the time. With you. And yeah, I do want you to feel good, Eva. But that doesn’t mean I’m not telling you the truth, telling it like I see it. If you won’t believe it from me, who would you like to hear it from? Is there someone else?” His voice is soft, gentle. No accusation here, no jealousy, just concern. For me.

It’s too much. Compliments I can laugh off, admiration I can dismiss. But care and concern? Those just shoot straight through my carefully built defences and hit me direct in the heart. My face is wet, and I realise it’s not only the bathwater. Intense emotion just undoes me. I can’t handle it. Quite simply, I just never learnt how. Overwhelmed, with a gulp I turn in his arms and bury my face in his chest. I sob quietly as he holds me, strokes me, whispers sweet things in my hair.

“Beautiful, beautiful Eva. So sweet, so gorgeous, so sexy, so lovely… Talk to me, Eva. Cry if you need to. I’ll wait, then we’ll talk some more. Don’t stop talking to me, sweetheart. Please. Promise me that, love.”

My voice broken, halting, stumbling over the emotion surging through me, this strange, unfamiliar sensation that I don’t know how to handle—yet—I manage to scrape together a near enough coherent reply. “I promise. I need you, Nathan. I need you to help me. Please don’t stop helping me, caring about me.”

“Caring comes easy, love. You’ve got that, always. And I’ll help you if I can. For as long as you’re here, as long as we’re together, I’ll be on your side. Okay? Believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you.”
I love you. As long as I’m here. As long as I live.

His voice is firmer now, the gentle lover receding. “Earlier, when I pulled you into the bath, you were…what? Being cocky? Defiant? Playing with me? Challenging me? Not very sub-like, Miss Byrne. I think you were feeling a little over-confident, yes? That it would be okay to push me a little?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“And I crushed it. Scared you. Put out the spark? Drowned it, I suppose would be more accurate?”

“Yes. Maybe. I didn’t think of it like that.”

“I never want to squash your spark, Eva. It’s just a role. You do know that, don’t you? Play-acting. We both play our parts, and it’s fun. Well, I enjoy myself.” He tips my chin up with his finger to look into my eyes, his questioning gaze light now, teasing.

“Me too.” I smile, still a bit watery but managing to pull myself together.

“It’s okay to be cocky. To say whatever you like to me. Always. I want you to know that. When we’re in Dom-sub mode there are rules and I’ll come on strong, intimidate you. Scare you, possibly. That’s not real, though, never serious. But there’s this other connection we have, these moments we have when you cry sometimes, usually when my cock’s still inside you, like now.”

Christ, how could I have forgotten that?

He nuzzles my neck as he continues, “When you share your secrets with me, when I listen, try to understand you. And that
is
real, that’s not a game. And I want you to know you’ll always be safe with me. Whether we’re playing or not. Does that make sense?”

I nod. No words can help me to express the shell of safeness, of well-being he is building around me, within me. My gratitude, my appreciation, my sheer bloody wonder that he wants to be bothered. I put my arms around his neck and just squeeze him, tight. It’s enough, he knows. And soon enough he eases me back around, careful not to let us disengage, and I am once more draped over him, my back against his chest as he feathers his clever, caring fingers across my body once more, my breasts, my tummy, stroking through the curls covering my pubic bone to slide between my legs.

For a few minutes the sensation is one of calm relaxation, before desire insistently kicks in again. It does for him too, as I feel his cock harden, growing and stiffening, stretching me from within. If anything, if it were possible, he feels even bigger this time. Despite my now far from virgin state I’m not sure I can manage this. I start to protest…

“It’s okay love. You’re okay. You’re just very, very sensitive just now and it feels bigger. Enjoy. This is going to be one hell of a ride.” Gently placing my hands back on the opposite rim he kneels up, and holding my hips firmly thrusts. Hard. I scream. He thrusts again, and again. And again. The pounding picks up a rhythm and I start to push back, strengthening the friction, pushing the pace. It’s deep, powerful, relentless, made more raw by the pent-up passion now released, now surging though me after his emotional dam-busting exercise of a few minutes ago. I hang onto the bath and take it, take him, all of him. God, it’s absolutely wonderful and my screams of pleasure are ringing around the room, drowning out Milos’ efforts. My climax hits me moments before he collapses into his, and seconds later I am hanging onto the side of the bath, my cheek pressed against the warm teak, and I’m sucking in air as my senses slowly return.

“Okay, Miss Byrne. Work to do. Time to move on before we both end up like little wrinkled prunes.” Sliding out of me at last, he pinches my bum, hard enough to make me squeal and jump up.

“What was that for?” I rub my abused bottom, glaring at him.

“For fun, love. Just for fun.” He stands up, gloriously naked and dripping then strides over the side of the bath, using the step to leap down onto the floor. “You finish washing your hair while I get stuff ready out here. Don’t be long, Miss Byrne.” After leaning down to drop a kiss on my lips and wrap a towel around his hips he is gone.

I hurry with my hair, slapping a splodge of shampoo on and giving it all a quick rub, then rinsing with the small shower spray attached to the showy brass taps. I even spot some conditioner, ‘specially formulated for frizzy, fly-away hair’. Nathan’s hair is not even remotely frizzy so I can only assume he’s got it just for me, the lovely man. I help myself, smoothing the creamy, calming lotion through the length of my hair, finger combing it into some sort of order before setting to again with the shower spray.

At last I’m done, I think, so I clamber out. I poke around the side of the bath and find the switch to still the foaming water, then I press the lever to let out the plug. With a soft little gurgle the huge bath starts to empty. I help myself to a large fluffy towel and wrap myself in it, then grab another smaller one for my hair. I twist my hair in it turban-style, and check out my reflection in the full-length mirrors opposite me. My face is pink from the steam and our exertions in the bath—the flush accentuated perhaps by the contrast with the creamy fluffiness of the towels.

Nervous about the coming prospect, I find myself playing for time. I drift over to the double sink unit and help myself to one of the toothbrushes there, quickly brushing my teeth. I check them with a growly smile in the mirror, wondering if he’ll mind me nicking his toothbrush when I could have easily gone to fetch mine from the en suite in the bedroom. Then I give my hair a blow-dry with the wired in hairdryer clipped into its holster next to the mirror, the sort of thing you sometimes find in hotels. Leaving the slightly damp copper and amber tendrils loose around my shoulders I find a long dark navy towelling robe—very masculine—hanging next to the shower cubicle and decide to borrow it. It seems more secure, more decent, than my towel so I slip my arms through it and tie the belt. Tight.

At last, stalling over, I take a deep breath, then another, and turn to leave.

I expect Nathan to be waiting in the bedroom, but instead he is in the dining area. And clearly this is where he intends to perform the next instalment of my adventure. Wearing just his jeans now, zipped but unbuttoned, he has laid a couple of towels over the dining table, and piled cushions in the middle. An angle poise lamp is positioned at one end, throwing a spotlight down the length of the table. He has pulled a small trolley alongside, similar to the sort of thing Damien had for his rollers and foils when he transformed my crowning glory a couple of days ago. But Nathan has collected strips of cloth by the look of it, a handful of flat wooden lolly sticks, a pair of scissors, tweezers, a bottle of baby lotion, and has a bowl of something in his hand, which he is stirring slowly. He looks up as I come in, then drops his gaze back to his bowl.

“You took your time. Still, your problem. The softer your skin is for this the better so it’s best to do it immediately after a bath. Not half an hour later. And those painkillers won’t last forever so let’s get on, now you’re finally here. Would you mind climbing onto the table, Miss Byrne? On your back please.”

“I didn’t realise. You should have told me.” One sardonic eyebrow quirks as he looks at me across the table, shrugging. “And anyway, what’s wrong with the bedroom? I could stretch out on the bed, more comfortable…” I ask, still hedging for time, though by now I should know that’s quite pointless.

“You’re not going to be comfortable wherever we do it. And it’s too messy. And the light’s better in here. Don’t want to miss any of your important little places, Miss Byrne. And the microwave’s handy—for heating the wax,” he explains helpfully.

Out of excuses I shrug, and slide onto the table, bum first then swing my legs up. I position myself carefully on my back, as instructed, on the towels. I arrange the cushions under my head and make myself comfortable.
I wish.

Nathan glances at me and puts the bowl on the trolley, striding off into the bedroom. He comes back moments later with two pillows. “Sorry, I forgot about the head end. These are for under your bum. Lift up.”

I oblige, thrusting my hips upwards and he pushes both bulky pillows under me, raising my bottom a good foot off the table top.

“You can keep the bathrobe on if you like.” I nod, hugging it closer across my breasts. “Just hitch up the bottom. Push it up above your waist, and lie back.”

I do as I’m told, lifting the robe to expose my body, naked from the waist down. I shouldn’t be self-conscious by now but I am, and I move to push a corner back, just enough to cover my groin. He smiles, shakes his head, and gets on with the matter in hand.

“Right up above your waist, Miss Byrne, please.”

Resigned, I do as he asks and close my eyes, waiting.

“I’m going to remove all the hair this first time. Miss Byrne. Maybe later, when it grows back, we’ll leave this bit, just keep it short perhaps, because it is a truly lovely shade of red.” He is casually combing his fingers through the golden ginger curls covering my pubic bone. “Open your legs.”

I do, and he slips his hand between, gently tugging the wispy strands of hair around my vagina. “This all goes. And stays gone.” Lifting my knee with one hand he reaches lower, his fingers circling my now exposed anus and reaching between the cheeks of my bum. I close my eyes, mortified, not least as I didn’t even realise I had hair there. I do. I definitely do. I feel the light tug as he draws it between his fingers. “This too, definitely.”

I feel desperately vulnerable, exposed, lying on the table, my legs spread wide open while he examines me critically, his fingers cool and businesslike. I instinctively tense when he picks up a small pair of scissors.

“Keep still, Miss Byrne. We don’t want any accidents.” He repositions the lamp at the opposite end of the table to shine directly between my legs. He turns so his back is to me as he leans over to pay close attention to my groin, and he starts to snip at the hair.

I lie there, silent, aware of every touch, every slight pull as he eases the hair taut then clips it, dropping the discarded bits into a small pile beside me. He quickly trims the hair at the front then, lifting my right leg and bending it at the knee he shoves it outwards. My left leg is lying straight. He leans over a little more, adjusts the lamp, and continues to clip the hair. I feel his fingers parting the lips of my vagina to reach every strand, gently nudging around my clitoris. He pushes my bent leg down and repeats the action with the left one opening the other side of my most private place for his detailed scrutiny and intimate examination. With his finger he again eases my vagina open, dispassionately stroking my labia as he clips and tidies, preparing me for the ultimate humiliation.

I am beyond mortified. I close my eyes, will myself to lie still, to take it, and I just wish it was over.