In Too Deep (11 page)

Am I going to gag? No! From somewhere I find a calm and a relaxation within myself. I seem to have the capacity to accept him and love him to the nth degree.

For long moments we rock and sway and my lips and tongue caress him. Eventually, though, I feel his excitement increase and sense the rising of his spirit and the gathering of his ecstasy. He pushes, pushes, pushes, and I can almost hear the cry of pleasure that must be poised upon his lips.

He breathes hard, grips my head, and gasps, ‘Gwendolynne,’ but, before he can shout out, another sound freezes our incriminating tableau like an ice sculpture. Muffled footsteps, at the far end of the long complex of cellars, but steadily approaching. What to do?

Daniel starts to pull back, but I grab his buttocks and then
plunge
my mouth down deep on him. At the same time I press firmly on the denim seam that runs down the crease of his bottom, and force my finger as hard as I can against his anus. With one hand he continues to dig into my scalp but the other is ready to stifle his groan of ecstasy.

Semen, rich and thick, spurts into my mouth. He tastes delicious, the perfect man, and his come is plentiful. I swallow it down as fast as I can as the footsteps grow nearer. Then, in a most unseemly shuffle and grapple and struggle, between us we get Daniel back into his jeans and zipped up in double-quick time. And I’m on my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and then reaching for a pile of books from the table as a figure comes around the corner.

‘Yes, of course, Professor Brewster, no problem,’ I pronounce cheerfully, feeling the tickling of wild laughter start in my throat. I transmute it into a soft cough, then continue, ‘I’ll shelve these for you, and put in that request to Library Interloans. It shouldn’t take much longer than a week.’

Daniel and I turn towards the newcomer. It’s Greg, the computer tech, who’s carrying a coil of cable and a tool pouch.

I
think
we’ve covered our tracks, but there’s something so knowing and insolent in the young man’s smile as he reaches us that I’m convinced he knows exactly what just went on here.

‘Oh hi, Prof, Gwen, sorry to disturb you.’ He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and when I glance at Daniel he’s regarding Greg with an almost complicit look of male bravado.

‘I think I can run an extension from the Library’s network for you, if you like, so you can get a faster internet connection down here while you’re working. The Wi-Fi must be almost non-existent down here. It won’t take more than a quarter of an hour or so.’

‘Thanks, that would be great.’ Daniel’s smile is still subtly smug, and suddenly I want to punch him. The bastard! He’s showing off! Letting Greg know that some kind of sex thing has taken place.

‘Right. I’m off, Professor, see you later,’ I snap out smartly, and without looking back I stride away in the direction that Greg just came from.

Men! They’re all the same … bragging about their conquests and taking advantage of women they’re supposed to care about. Fuckwits! So much for temporary-fling-type arrangements! I feel like stomping back to the carrel once Greg’s finished working, and buttonholing Daniel for our first big row.

6 Compensation

I SPEND THE
rest of the day fuming. Especially when Professor ‘Look at me, I just got a blow job’ doesn’t put in an appearance at lunchtime, or even come up into the main library during the day at all. All that talk about ‘lunches’ and ‘honesty’ and ‘not being a prospect’ and all that – was it really just a ruse to get his cock into my mouth?

But still, I’d rather be cross about being bamboozled into giving Daniel Brewster a blow job than cross about my dreary domestic problems. And it’s not as if I didn’t want to fellate him. Hell, he’s Professor Hottie McHotstuff, famous television historian, and I had a crush on him even before he arrived at our humble library. There must be thousands of women out there who’d give anything to do what I’ve just done, with or without the offer of a ‘fling-type thing’.

There’s more, too, I know it. Something’s bothering him, something serious. He’s trying to distract himself with pleasure and games, but beneath that there’s an anxiety in him, I can sense it. And if I can help him deal with that, then it’s all right by me. So I spend the rest of my day pondering on that too, and I’m putting on my jacket, ready for home, when a notion literally stops me in my tracks.

Has Daniel Brewster got something wrong with him, some illness or other, and is that why he thinks he’s not much of a long-term prospect for a woman? He does get bad headaches, after all. It seems a bit drastic, but I have the sort of imagination that can take things to the extreme sometimes. I rack my
memory
for possible signs, but there’s nothing about him that looks ill. His body is magnificent, he’s in peak condition and, if his sexual constitution is anything to go by, he’s about as far from an invalid as a man can get. His cock was harder and more vigorous than any man’s I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen dozens and dozens, but a woman just knows about these things.

I’m still mulling all this over as I let myself out of the back door. And find Professor Hottie leaning on the railings, with a taxi standing a few feet away, driver reading a paper, apparently waiting for him and – it seems – for me.

‘Good, I’ve been waiting for you. Let me give you a lift home. I, er, well, I feel that certain things were left unresolved and we need to discuss them.’

My jaw drops. Surely he doesn’t think we’re going to discuss our little fumble-di-dee in the basement in the back of a cab? And why a taxi, for that matter? I’d always assumed that Daniel drove to the library from wherever he’s staying, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve never actually been looking out of the window when he pulled up.

‘It’s all right. I get the bus. It’s only a short hop.’ Which it is, and the reason I use it. Sometimes I even walk, carbon footprint and all that.

Daniel heaves a sigh, crosses his arms and gives me that ‘professor impatient with a dense student’ look that he’s so infuriatingly fond of. I feel immediately both ungrateful and mulish in approximately equal proportions.

‘OK, then. Thanks. That would be very kind. I’d love a lift.’

He rolls his eyes in a ‘finally!’ sort of way, and then darts forwards to open the car door for me, before handing me into the back seat as if I’m some kind of elderly, arthritic duchess. Either that or he’s simply making sure I don’t change my mind and bolt for the bus station.

‘I’m sorry about earlier. It was unfortunate that Greg turned up like that,’ he begins as the cab pulls smoothly away. ‘I wanted our little interlude to end rather differently.’

Unbelievable! Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes furiously, and I nod repeatedly in the direction of the taxi driver, who already seems to be riveted by our conversation.

‘OK, OK,’ Daniel concedes, but he’s grinning wickedly as if he might just expatiate further at any moment, despite my objections. I imagine that Nemesis would probably just go ahead and describe every last detail of getting a blow job in glorious Technicolor detail, regardless of whether I wanted him to or not.

We make small talk. About the library. About Daniel’s book on the Wars of the Roses and the great families from that conflict who lived round here. He asks where I live, so he can tell the driver. He seems about to pursue the subject of my flat a bit further, and having no intention of getting into the position of saying that I used to have rather a nice house, and what I thought was a nice husband, I ask where
he’s
living while he’s up here, in order to steer him away from that.

‘The Waverley Grange Country House Hotel. Do you know it?’ He leans back in the seat, relaxing, but with a strangely challenging air about him. ‘I really like it. It’s very comfortable and the service is excellent.’

‘Yes, it’s one of the best hotels in the area.’

The Waverley? Now there’s intriguing. The place is indeed one of the most well-appointed and well-known hotels in the Borough. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard that it’s Olde Worlde, quite chintzy, but discreetly luxurious. It also has a bit of a reputation that doesn’t match its straight and establishment façade at all. Mutterings. Murmurings. Apocryphal stories told by a friend of a friend of a friend that strange and
rather
sexy things go on there. I wonder if Daniel has seen any evidence of this risqué rep while he’s been in residence?

I open my mouth, wondering whether to ask, but suddenly, out of the eye-line of the driver, Daniel grabs my hand and gives it an urgent squeeze. I glance into his eyes and they’re on fire behind the lenses of his spectacles. Suddenly we’re back in the library basement, man and woman, steeped in sex. And all I can think about is the fact that I’m not wearing panties and he’s fully aware of it.

Why does it not surprise me when he lays a hand upon my thigh and slides it upwards, gently stroking through my skirt? Immediately I feel myself getting wet, ready for his touch or his flesh. My skin is like a charged electric field, and tingles of sensation race along my nerves and head directly for my clit.

‘Perhaps you can join me there for a drink or dinner, one evening?’

‘What?’ I blurt out vacantly. I’ve completely forgotten what we were talking about. All I can think about is the way the heat of his hand is warming me right through my skirt. His fingertips are barely moving, but the way they drift to and fro is infinitely provocative.

‘At the Waverley, remember?’ He isn’t actually laughing out loud, in fact he’s barely smiling, but his body language is alive with impish mirth.

I shake my head to clear it. Twitch at my skirt, jerking it and my thigh away from beneath his touch.

‘Yes. Great. OK, that would be nice.’ My voice sounds tight, unfriendly and flustered. I didn’t want to seem cross, but I am cross with myself for seeming that way. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I add with more enthusiasm.

Daniel removes his hand and lets it rest lightly on the seat. He seems relaxed, unperturbed. ‘Me too,’ he murmurs, then astonishingly returns to the small talk, asking me about
various
buildings that we pass on the way to the house where my flat is.

Eventually we pull up in front of Merivale House. I reach for the door and pop it open, not sure what to expect by way of a parting. A handshake? An air kiss? A hug? A full-on tongue assault with grope? But Daniel just pops his own door and dashes around to help me out of the cab. I’m amazed how fast he can move when he puts his mind to it.

‘I’ll see you in,’ he says, all domineering and male. He guides me forwards, his hand light on my ribcage as, over his shoulder, he instructs the driver to wait.

‘It’s all right. I’ll be OK.’ Which is true. The building is quiet and very safe. I could just do with some more money, so as to be able to afford my flat without such a struggle.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but stays with me as I half trot to the front door and then punch in the code on the keypad. Yeah, the building is safe, but I’m not sure
I
am at the moment.

We step inside and the foyer is deserted and cool, smelling of floor polish. Again comes the thorny question of handshake, hug, kiss, or more, but suddenly there are voices from above and the sound of feet on the open staircase. Expecting him to step away from me and begin some kind of fabricated conversation, I catch my breath when Daniel glances quickly around, grabs me by the hand and hauls me into the little maintenance alcove at the back of the foyer, beyond the staircase. It doubles back on itself, and contains assorted cleaning equipment – mops and buckets, and watering cans for the building’s ornamental potted plants.

The voices are in the hall now, so I can’t cry out and protest when Daniel edges me backwards, moving deep into my personal space and owning it completely. His left hand shoots out, cupping the back of my neck as he pulls my face to his and presses his lips on mine. While his tongue possesses my
mouth
, that tricky right hand of his is back on my thigh, sliding, sliding, rubbing the fabric of my skirt against my skin.

His mouth is voracious, compelling me to open mine and accept his tongue. The taste of his tongue makes my pussy flutter and yearn for his cock. Its thrusting action is blatant, delicious, intoxicating. I try to give back as good as I’m getting but he’s a tyrant, he subdues me, he’s in control.

And not just with his mouth. He’s not an awesomely tall man, but he’s got power and momentum and a hunger to match my own. He drives me back against the wall, only just preventing us cannoning into a galvanised mop bucket and making a huge commotion. As I hit the plaster, his hand whips down, then up again, sliding my skirt right up my thighs and insinuating his fingers between my legs.

I gasp, but the inhalation draws his breath into my mouth. I feel as if his spirit rushes in with it, another possession to match the invasion of his tongue.

And his fingers.

He finds my wet heat easily, weaving his fingertips through the floss of my pubis and separating my labia. Another gasp later and he’s flicking at my clitoris. He flicks. He rubs. He circles and massages. I circle too, working my bottom against the wall, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

I think I’m going to faint. My belly and my sex are pulsating with heat. I drag in air again, gasping for breath, and Daniel frees my mouth, peppering little kisses across my cheek instead. A moan rises to my lips, but he slides the hand that was holding the back of my head around to my cheek, pressing his thumb into my mouth for me to suckle. His own mouth settles against my ear.

Someone out in the hall is wittering on at their companion to hurry up or they’ll miss the film, but all I can hear is a low, barely audible whisper against my skin.

‘Relax, Gwendolynne. I owe you an orgasm. Let me pleasure you.’

I can’t speak. His thumb is in my mouth. But even if it wasn’t, I’m beyond all speech as my sex quickens and grows heavy with expectation.

His voice sounds so strange. It’s dark, intent, not quite earthly. And when he edges back a little, and I get a bit of distance and can look at him, his eyes are weird, spaced, almost somewhere else. He’s looking at me, but is he really seeing me?