Run To You (19 page)

Though if it’s the latter, he could well be crazy. I’m so obviously enjoying myself even the waiter can see it. His face is a picture when Janos briefly parts from me to wave him away, and I know it’s mostly for me. There’s a hint of disgust in there that only women get, when they seem like the sort who loves sex.

But I don’t care. He
kissed
me.

And he’s not finished yet.

He kisses me until my mouth is sore from his stubble, and most likely cherry red. Then, when he sees its ripe colour, he kisses me more to make up for it. He kisses me between courses and in the middle of them too, licking chocolate from my lips when I accidentally make a mess – so uncaring of whatever anyone in here might think.

I see them looking, from time to time. And there are moments when it twists something inside me – that little knot of not-good-enough, not smooth enough, not elegant enough. But I can’t keep focusing on it, when he’s saying things like ‘Oh, I’d forgotten how good this could be.’

It just twangs a note inside me to hear him say that, and to see him being this relaxed and happy. He’s almost smiling and he keeps shaking his head – like he can’t quite get over this thing he’s just done. And once we’re outside he goes one further.

He actually lifts me off my feet, as though we’re in some movie about romance and love and all the things I didn’t think he was capable of. Hell, I didn’t think
I
was capable of them. I watch films like that and roll my eyes, so certain that nothing of the kind ever happens in real life.

Men don’t lift women up and spin them around, as rain starts to delicately fall and the music from across the street rises to a crescendo. They don’t, they don’t, and yet that’s definitely what’s happening here. He even sets me down in this slightly awestruck way that suggests he can’t believe I’m real.

Maybe I’m not.

Maybe this is just a movie – a freeze-frame of total happiness, mine for a moment but soon gone. And if that’s the case, well, I’m going to catch it while I can. I’m going to look up at him with all the love inside me, just like they do in those romantic scenes. And I’m going to let him lean down in this unbearably tender way to taste my kisses again.

I’m going to let him, because I know the credits are coming.

And I just want to hold on a little bit longer.

He doesn’t take me to The Harrington. He takes me to some other place, and it’s only when we’re in the elevator that it slowly starts to dawn on me.

This is where he lives. I can tell it is, before he’s pressed the button for the penthouse. The whole building is just so him it can’t be anything but, from the burnished steel that seems to be almost everywhere, to the smooth, clean lines and minimalistic approach to decoration. There no pictures on the walls or unnecessary plants in the corners, and that lack of fussiness suits him to a T.

He fits right in – but I’m more keenly aware than ever that I don’t. I can see my reflection in the over-polished surfaces in this elevator, and I look even worse than I did before. My hair has ceased any attempt to stay up, and is now making a serious bid for freedom – as is my dress. And my mouth …

Oh, Lord, I look like I’ve been eating jam. I want to rub myself and get it all off, only there’s nothing there to remove. He’s just kissed me into this red-lipped mess, and if he gets his way he’s going to do it again. While I’m busy with my silly doubts and concerns, he’s sliding a hand around my waist.

And then the hand dips lower – which wouldn’t be a problem.

If someone else hadn’t just stepped into the elevator.

He nods at Janos before turning to face the doors, and Janos nods back as though this is just an ordinary, everyday meeting. You’d never know he had a hand on my bottom, or that the hand is currently gathering up my dress at the back. In fact, he does it so subtly that I can’t even tell when I flick my gaze to my reflection.

My legs are closed so you can’t see it rising between them. And somehow, the material is barely stirring at the front. He must be doing the whole thing so delicately, so carefully – but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels as though he’s running white-hot coals along the backs of my thighs and the curve of my ass. My legs keep wanting to bend, and there’s already sweat on my upper lip.

I almost turn to him and say:

‘Are you
trying
to make me look worse?’

But the truth is, I don’t really need to. I already know the answer:
yes yes yes
. He wants me to look worse – only to him it’s probably better. I bet he loves me all sluttish like this, with my hair in disarray and my red, red mouth and my complete lack of underwear.

Though somehow, I don’t think he guessed that last one. Oh, no – he didn’t guess it at all. His hand freezes the second he gets to the place where my panties should be, and I hear his slight intake of breath. The guy in here with us hears his slight intake of breath.

It’s too loud for someone like him but oh, so welcome because of that fact. I don’t think there’s anything I like more than throwing him for a loop, and I’ve definitely succeeded here. His movements go from subtle and cautious to greedy and frantic in the space of a couple of seconds. I can actually see my dress stirring, now, though he hardly seems to care.

He just wants to fondle my bare ass. He wants to squeeze and grope and all the other good words that usually don’t apply to him, and once he’s finished thoroughly exploring the tame parts, he progresses to something much worse.

Now it’s
my
turn to be shocked. I actually go up on tiptoe the moment he touches me there. Maybe doing so will help me get away.

But of course it doesn’t. He just follows me with his hand, pressing and pressing in a place that makes my cheeks flame. I can see the bright red colour in the glossy doors, and unfortunately so can our fellow passenger. I catch him glancing at the sudden bloom of colour, and then, horror of horrors – he looks back at me.

While I silently pray for Janos to stop. I’m very close to whimpering or shuddering or just something that will give the game away, and the pressure is getting worse by the second. At the moment, he’s only touching that strip of skin just above the more important parts, but I know he’s slowly working his way down.

And it isn’t going to take him long, either. All the kissing has made a slippery mess of me, so really all he has to do is let the lubrication do the work. He barely has to push or squirm or work his way there. Everything just parts for him, and he glides down to the worst possible place he could touch.

Don’t, I think at him, but it’s too late for that. It’s too late for anything. If I glance at Janos, the stranger will know – and the same goes if I make any kind of revealing noise. He’s just paying too much attention now, though I think he’s trying to pretend he’s not. He feigns interest in something he doesn’t actually have in his pocket, and after a second of this unbearable tension he lets out this little cough.

Like he’s giving us a chance to stop, maybe.

Though if he is, he should probably know:

That’s
never
going to happen. His only possible respite is the ding of the lift arriving at a floor, which seems to be taking a thousand years to come. Otherwise, he’s trapped in here with a man who thinks nothing of stroking his companion’s ass and pussy, and a woman who couldn’t ask him to stop if the lift had a million people in it. We could be surrounded by nuns and I wouldn’t say a single word, because the truth is:

I don’t
want
him to stop.

Oh, sure, I might say I do. And it’s possible I squirm, and seem like I’m trying to get away. But if I’m being honest, getting away sounds like a terrible, terrible idea. The pleasure will undoubtedly cease if I do, and I never want that to happen. I want it with me all the time, constantly, twenty-four-seven. I want to go to work with this pulsing ache between my legs, and sit in fancy theatres with it still beating there.

And the more he does this – the more firmly he strokes over my now slick asshole and my greedy, grasping pussy – the stronger that feeling gets. I’m on the verge of not caring whether the stranger sees and knows or not, when the lift dings at floor twenty-four. In fact, I’m so far past my own restraints I could rock against the maddening fingers. I could moan and beg him for more. I’m so stuffed with fizzing, searing sensation I’ve gone all mindless, and another moment would have seen me suddenly pin Janos against the wall of the elevator.

But, thankfully, I manage to wait until the doors are closed again.

After which, all bets are off. I lunge at him like a woman possessed, furious at him for teasing me like that but oh, so grateful that he did. Oh, God, he has no idea how grateful I am for the things he does and the feelings he gives me. It’s not just the kissing, or this little slice of elevator kink – it’s everything.

The way he held me outside, the sense of how serious things are becoming and how quickly they could end … it’s all just too much. I have to take hold of him. I have to seize him by the lapels, barely thinking of the disaster I’ve made of his suit. The right shoulder is still oddly bunched from the grab I made in the restaurant, and a button definitely pops when I do this. But it doesn’t seem to matter to him.

How could it?

He’s far too busy looking at me with wild eyes – eyes that seem so familiar. I’ve seen that exact stare somewhere before, and after a moment I realise where.

They were reflected back at me in the elevator door, about thirty seconds ago. They’re the same as mine, right down to the way they widen when I run a hand down over his body, and darken when he realises what I’m doing. I’m going to stroke his cock the way he stroked my pussy, and I’m going to do it until he’s so stiff he can’t think straight.

Or at least that’s the plan. But it’s harder to enact once I get there and find him already solid beneath the material. Yeah, it’s much harder then. I go still and my hand pauses mid-stroke, every single inch of me flushing with the knowledge that I did this to him.

Though I should have guessed.

I don’t know why I find it so hard to guess. He makes it abundantly clear in so many different ways, from the looks to the words to the way he grabs me in return – because he does. He takes hold of me as though
I
was tormenting
him
, and clasps my face in his big hands. Then, once he has me, he reverses our positions. He spins me around until I’m the one with their back to the wall, and he’s the one pinning me there.

And he really pins me too. He’s not satisfied with just a little pressure – he has to gather up my wrists and hold them above my head, until it feels like I’m dangling there. My body bows and my feet seem to scrabble for purchase, which sounds like a bad thing, I know. It should be really uncomfortable and overly aggressive.

Only it isn’t.

It feels so good I gasp a little, about a second before his mouth descends on mine. And though we spent the last seventeen years smooching each other’s face off, the thrill is still there. It’s still ripe inside me, bursting at the idea of him giving in like this, of him stepping over his own personal boundaries and just going for it.

And boy, does he ever go for it. He stops the lift with one bat of his hand, so I know he means business. But then his mouth connects with mine again – rough and soft and most of all
open
– and
business
upgrades to something like
red alert.
I can actually feel his tongue, stroking hot and wet over mine. His hands cup my ass; his body grinds against mine.

That’s his stiff cock I can feel against my right thigh.

It’s a wonder I can breathe or think. I can’t breathe or think. I keep babbling at him to just fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, even though we’re in an elevator in his expensive building. There’s probably a camera in the corner, filming our every move. In a moment the lift will make a grinding noise and some security guard or maintenance man will burst in, rushing to the aid of one of their fabulously wealthy patrons.

But, strangely, the thought only seems to heighten my excitement. It makes me louder; it makes me more aggressive. I claw at his back with hands like talons, determined to finish the job on his perfect suit. By the time I’m done I want it in ribbons – or at least I want him to react to what I’m doing.

And he does. He gets hold of my wrists again and pins them back above my head. Then, just as I’m gasping over that, he murmurs words in my ear. ‘Keep them there,’ he says, in a way that makes my eyes drift closed. I could live inside that tone – so heavy with authority, and yet still shaky with need. It’s the perfect combination of his commanding, controlling side and that new need to just do and take and be.

He no longer has to stop and organise everything. He just shoves my dress up around my hips. He just makes me stand like that, with my hands against the metal and my heart going a mile a minute – mainly because I just don’t know what he might do in this state. I’m sure there were limits before, but there aren’t any more. He could fuck my pussy, or my ass, or my mouth, or some unholy combination of all three. He could take off all my clothes and make me stand in front of a camera that probably isn’t there, or maybe … God, maybe he intends to wait until someone
does
come to our rescue.

Maybe he’s thinking of some big, aggressive maintenance man, and what he might do to me if he finds me in here naked and on my knees. They could share me, I think, though the second I do I know who really wants these things.

It isn’t him.

It’s me. I want these things. I’m flushed with fear and so on edge, but I’m the one putting myself there. I like the way my heart races. I love the taste of adrenaline in my mouth, and the feel of it coursing through my limbs.

And most of all, I love him for giving it to me – this world of infinite possibilities. No man actually does come into the elevator, but it doesn’t matter. It only matters that my head is full of that idea, when he spreads my thighs apart. It only matters that I’m thinking of servicing seventeen men when he grabs between my legs – mainly because my arousal is so intense by this point that I come the second he does.