Guilty Pleasures (25 page)

Millie moaned and leaned into him. She pulled back at the feel of his erection, then eagerly pressed forward, fitting her softness to him. She slid her hand down between their bodies, tracing his cock through his jeans with fumbling, inept fingers, while her mouth opened under his.

Lance convulsed in an orgasm, pulling her tight into his thrusting body, crying out hoarsely against her lips. He clung to her gasping. “I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .” Lance panted.

She held him tightly, her eyes wide. “Did you . . . just like that? I did that?”

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, either. I hope you’re not . . . offended.”
 

She blushed scarlet. “I’m not. I’m just . . . envious.” She smiled tremulously up at him, her body tense and trembling with arousal against his.
 

Lance gently stroked the moist hair back from her temples, and traced the outline of her lips. “Do you trust me, Millie?”

“Yes, well . . . I think so.” She looked up at him with wide-eyed alarm.

“Let me touch you. That’s all I’ll do. Just touch you. We’ll see where we can take you.”

She hesitated. “Oh. I . . . okay.”

Lance sat on one of her high kitchen chairs and pulled her over. He kissed her slowly, tenderly. His fingertips traced her cheeks, trailing down her throat. He hesitated and glanced up for permission before slipping the blouse’s tiny buttons open one by one.
 

She was wearing a peach-coloured camisole, her breasts luminous through the lace. He thumbed the straps off her shoulders and stared down at her moon-shaped white breasts. The rosy nipples hardened into peaks under his gaze. He touched one nipple with his fingertip and felt her jump.
 

He bent his head and ran his tongue around the aureole, deftly avoiding the exquisitely sensitive flesh. He flicked at it lightly and felt her hands on his head, guiding his mouth on her body, arching to offer him her breasts. He licked and suckled, and nipped gently at one then the other.
 

She mewled softly, panting. He slowly gathered up the sides of her skirt, and slid his hands up her legs, stroking and teasing at the soft succulent flesh of her inner thighs. He rubbed at her cleft through the thin fabric covering her pubis and felt her thighs parting. He stroked her slowly and watched her face, feeling her moisture soak through onto his fingers. He slid his thumbs over the rounded curves of her hips to hook down her silken panties, and felt her shudder.

“It’s all right. All I’m removing is this, okay? I just want to touch you. My clothes and my pants stay on, buttoned and zipped up.”

Millie nodded.
 

“Come here.” Lance lifted her onto his lap, sliding his right hand under her, gently stroking at her wet cleft with his thumb until he felt her sigh and move forward, opening to him.
 

“Look at me, Millie, pretty Millie.” He groaned. “God, I want you. You are so sweet, so sweet. You feel so soft, so wet. Do you like this? Do you like what I’m doing to you?”

“Yes . . .” She gasped. “Oh please, yes.”

He moved his thumb in slow, maddeningly circles with fleeting touches. “Move, baby,” he whispered. “Show me what you like. Do what feels good.”

She was moving against his hand, pressing down against his shoulders, moaning.
 

Lance gently eased two fingers inside her, and she gasped, rising in his lap. Her eyes widened. “It’s all right, let it go, Millie. Come on, baby.”

She was gasping, her wetness riding his fingers, eyes fixed on his, that pouty mouth parted. Suddenly she was bearing down, clenching, crying out, tears running down her cheeks, shuddering, clinging to him. She hid her face in his neck while sobs shook her body.

He held her for the longest time, feeling the looseness of her body, her warmth on him, the last long slow spasms sucking at his fingers.

Finally, she stirred. She turned her head and kissed him gently, sweetly.
 

He slowly eased his hand from between her legs, brushing his fingers to his lips, inhaling her musky scent. “Come on, baby. I’m taking you to bed. It’s time for sleep.” Lance tenderly gathered her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs to her bedroom, removed her shoes, and laid her on her bed.
 

“Stay, Will,” Millie whispered. “Please, not for . . . anything. Just stay with me.”

Lance lay down beside her, cradling her incredibly soft body against his.
 

Millie sighed and fitted herself to him, pulling his hand across her waist to cup her soft belly. “I dreamed this, just this . . .”

His fingers trailed down to the soft curls between her legs. Lance lay awake for the longest time savouring her scent, her warmth, her closeness, her peace.

At two in the morning, Horse dragged a grumbling Millie out of bed, away from the warm shelter of the sleeping man’s arms, and out into the cold street. Shivering, watching her dog sniffing and liberally watering the lamppost outside her door, Millie found herself suffused with a strange tranquillity.

Once inside, Horse walked over to Millie’s desk, and flopped down, almost as if waiting for her to write in her diary. “All
right
. Just don’t make any noise,” Millie said, sitting down and looking for her pen.
 

Horse snored contentedly at her feet while she hurriedly wrote.
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Will slept over. I can’t say any more. I’m very confused, but also very certain.
 

It’s not what you think. I don’t even know what I think.

It felt so good: his touch, his mouth, his hands. I love his hands. I loved the tenderness in his eyes while he was touching me, making love to me, watching me come. I love the way he makes me feel.

I find myself wanting to love him.

Okay, that’s it for now. I have to go.
 

Chapter 17

You can be
too
honest.

Refrain from recounting your sexual encounters with that really
hot
girl who was an absolute bitch, but the best lay you ever had.

Do not tell her what you
really
think of her mother/father/hairstyle.

Don’t lie, of course, just be evasive or noncommittal.

Saying that her mother has a very assertive personality is better than saying she is a raving bitch. Or mentioning that her father has a refreshingly original outlook on life is preferable to saying he’s an absolute kook.

Also, saying that her hairstyle accentuates her rebellious side would go over better than saying she looks like a biker slut.

Never for one second admit you would change
anything
about her.
Ever!

Any invitation for constructive criticism is a
trap:
avoid it at all costs.

If you can’t find a creative evasion, say nothing.
Do not lie
.

She will sniff out a lie quicker than a beagle after a smoked sausage.

 
—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Lance opened his eyes under the jaundiced stare of a disapproving Colin Firth in a poster above him. Lance was alone in a scatter of satin pillows. He placed his feet carefully on the fluffy rug. Lance got up slowly, stretched and headed for what he remembered as the bathroom door. He stripped off his T-shirt and his jeans.
 

Yeck.
The boxers were unmentionably disgusting and sticky. Lance stepped into Millie’s shower and sluiced away his BO. He smiled, realizing Millie favoured herb-scented soap.
Of course.

He stepped out, wrapped up in a fluffy purple towel and was pleasantly surprised to find a new cellophane-wrapped toothbrush waiting for him under the mirror.
 

He plucked a new pink disposable razor from her bathroom cupboard and happily lathered up his distinctly prickly chest. His T-shirt would have to do; the jeans could pass muster, and he could wear the loafers without socks. But the sticky boxers were out of the question. He’d have to
hang loose
today.

Heading down towards the kitchen and the enticing scent of percolating coffee, Lance found himself whistling happily.
 

Millie, pink and luscious, with a red scarf holding her dark hair back from her face, smiled at him shyly. “Good morning, Will. Here, drink up. It’s time for the shopping.”

Lance leaned over the counter and kissed her gently, taking the cup from her.
 

“Good morning, Millie. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Like a log, but I don’t think Mr. Darcy likes me much.”

The shopping for Mrs. Belmont’s solitary celebration consisted of a turbot, several vegetables, a large arrangement of calla lilies, and a bottle of a particular brand of rotgut bourbon.

Lance drove to Serge’s breakfast hangout. “Breakfast’s on me today, Miss Deafly.” He signalled the owner who smiled broadly when she saw him, and winked approvingly as she served him the usual.

They ate and sipped at the delicious coffee.
 

Lance held her hand over the tabletop.

She smiled and pulled away.

“Tell me, Millie, what happened to you?” he asked.

She looked at him enquiringly. “Happened? What do you mean?”

“What made you close the door, on men, on love?”

“Oh that . . . it’s a rather silly, common and sordid little story!” Millie smiled. “Not the least bit original. Boring, really.”

“Please.”

“Oh, all right . . . there was this man. He was a brilliant mathematician, twice my age—not my professor. I later discovered he never messed with his own students, and I fell madly in love with him. He was
married
to his intellectual pursuits, so he couldn’t dedicate himself wholly to me . . . his discipline demanded I have a schedule, so as not to infringe on his
thinking time
.”

Lance shook a disbelieving head and rolled his eyes.

“I later found out he had a very demanding, rigid schedule indeed. Anyway, the obviously stupid thing happened: I got pregnant. Oh, Will! I was so happy. Nothing worried me. I knew, I just
knew
he’d be as delighted by the thought of
us
in a new person as I was. I ran over to his chambers and I let myself in. I was going to tiptoe in and place an equation on his board that read 1 + 1= 3, Love Millie. Corny, right?”