The Arrangement (Erotic Novella) (3 page)

I’m boneless,
flopped in a lazy heap as he detaches my legs from his shoulders
and takes off his clothes. And if I needed a reminder we’re not yet
done, this is it. His dick is beautiful. Thick, long smooth, and
hard enough to bang nails. He’s widest at the root, where lush
curls trail down toward his heavy sac. His cock bends a little
toward his belly - just perfect for reaching that good spot inside
me. I can’t help staring. I’m mesmerized by that dewy drop of
pre-come as it rolls across his slit. I don’t care that I’m a
floppy, post-coital, puppet-woman right now. I want that thing
inside me.

“Stay,” I pant,
as I roll inelegantly from the bed and grab a condom from my top
drawer.

Harry cocks an
eyebrow and holds out his hand for the johnny. He’s still in
charge, he’s telling me, which is a good thing too, because after
the orgasm he’s just given me I’m damned if I can think
straight.

I’m on
autopilot, rolling onto my front, raising my butt in the air, doggy
style, ready to be taken the way Harry always takes me. It’s what
works for us. No mucking about. No mushy face-on nonsense. Good
solid fucking.

“Missionary,”
he says, and he doesn’t wait for me to respond. He just flips me
onto my back and looks me straight in the eye as he strokes the
head of his dick through my slick folds.

“You old
romantic,” I try to joke, but he’s already plunging into me, and my
words come out gasped and breathy.

He draws one of
his fingers into his mouth. “I taste of you,” he says, before
pushing that same hand round under my butt and trailing his wet
fingertip against my
other
entrance. “I want to watch your
face while I fill fuck your pussy and finger your arse.”

OK, so maybe
romantic
was the wrong word. This is something else
entirely. This is Harry wanting me like he’s never wanted me
before. Or like he’s never
let
himself want me before. This
is Harry owning me. And he does. Right now, I’m his entirely. His
to stretch and fill and thrust into. His to slam his dick inside as
his sac slaps firm against my butt. And his to finger, smooth and
slow, then as hard as he likes until I’m close to screaming.

It’s too much.
Too much sensation. Pleasure bordering on the most exquisite
torture as he fills every part of me, his tongue now in my mouth,
fucking me there too.

My boobs are
aching as his chest rasps soft as a whisper over my oversensitive
nipples. And then I’m coming again, clenching around him, spasming
tight around his finger, and holding his cock inside me in a
fist-tight grip.

My fierce
contractions have him groaning with need, and he doesn’t hold back.
As my climax subsides, he eases his finger free, then gives me the
full force of his desire, ramming his great hard cock into me
relentlessly. It verges on pain, but not quite. And I like the
roughness of his onslaught. I need it I think. His savage claiming
of me.

He curses and I
know he’s close, withdrawing near entirely before each deep
intrusion. I’m wet with sweat - his and mine - and I tilt my chin
up to lick the salty skin of his neck.

“Em -” he
growls, and then he’s coming, throbbing inside me for what seems
like eternity.

His body sinks
a little too heavily onto mine, and I don’t mind one bit. And when
he lifts up onto his shoulders and looks down at me like that, all
sated and adorable, I really don’t mind that either.

“I think I
could do that forever and never get bored,” he says with a lopsided
smile which melts me inside.

And that’s what
scares me. How easily the thought just drifts into my brain.
Me
too, boss. Me too.

*****

He's as wasted
as I am now. Drunk on pheromones. Blissfully sated, sprawled across
my bed, our limbs a tangled mess. This is more familiar, this
post-sex meshing of bodies. My cheek nestled against Harry's
shoulder, his soft armpit hair tickling my neck. I know this
position, know the brainless warm fuzz of our aftermath. Though
even this is off-kilter now. He's not chatting like he usually
would, joking about how squeezable my butt is, or faffing with my
hair. He's too quiet. Not nervous - at least I don't think so -
more thoughtful.

"What's up?

Harry squeezes
me a little in response. "Shower time," he says, but he doesn't
mean it as an answer. He's not ready to say whatever it is yet, and
something inside me relaxes. Perhaps I'm not ready to hear it
either.

We shower together. We've done this before too. Too many times
to count. It's hardly new ground we're covering. But it's different
knowing he's waiting. Picking his moment to say something.
He holds me close and washes us both. I can’t see his face, and I
think that’s deliberate. I’ve got to be patient. Wait until he’s
ready.

Though as he
pulls his clothes on in my room I realize I got it wrong. He’s not
planning on telling me anything, Whatever this
thing
is,
he’s not going to share. Not unless I push. Which - of course - I
do.

“So…” I say,
hoping maybe that’ll be enough to get the ball rolling.

“So…?”

I sigh. He
knows too bloody well what I’m getting at. “So, we were going to
talk? After the fucking?”

“Oh
that
. Well - OK - what do you want to talk about?”

What do I
want to talk about?!
Are you kidding me?! Well, for starters we
could talk about how Deanne got the wrong idea, and then - oh, I
dunno - perhaps we could talk about what’s happened to turn you
into this great hulking sex god! But I don’t say any of that, of
course.

“Well,” I say,
“You seem… a little different.” I’m aiming for cool, calm
indifference.

“Do I?”

“For fuck sake,
Harry, you
know
you do!” I think my coolness may be
slipping.

"There's
nothing to talk about, Em. I realized something, that's all. We
don't need to discuss it."

Oh, but I
really think we
do
. And what’s more, we’re
going
to.
"Spill the beans, boss. I'm all ears. What’s the damn secret!"

"You want
me."

"I... What?!"
Is he joking? It’s the kind of thing he’d joke about for sure. But
somehow I don’t think he
is
joking. For one thing he’s not
laughing. He can’t even seem to look at me. Like he can’t bear to
see my reaction to his words.

"You want me,"
he says again, this time with a sigh.

"Harry, I... I
don't..."

"See," he
laughs, still looking away, "I said we shouldn't discuss it."

"What are you
saying, Harry? I want you to be my boyfriend?!" I don't want to
hurt him, but I'm not going to be told what I want. It's crazy.
It's
insulting
is what it is.

Harry answers
my question with a shrug. Apparently that’s all I’m getting.

"Don't you
think I'd know? Harry!” I snap, and when he shrugs again, I hear
myself getting louder. “For God's sake just answer the fricking
question. If I wanted us to be boyfriend and girlfriend - to have
some kind of
exclusive arrangement
- don't you think I'd
know?" And then, finally he looks at me, and I know from the way
his jaw tightens that I’ve hurt him.

“You use that
word a lot, you know. Arrangement,” he says, and I try to hold my
tongue. I’ve knocked him back, and he’s bound to be a bit sore
about it. But he doesn’t stop. “That's how we started isn't it? We
got drunk. I hit on you. You laid out the terms of our
arrangement,
" he says, and I just can’t help it…

"Well fuck you
too! I don't remember you complaining." Oh God, what’s happening.
What am I doing? How did I get from the most heavenly screw of my
life to
this?

And then Harry
takes me completely by surprise. He wraps his arms around me. Even
though I’m mad at him. Even though I’m rejecting him. I need him
like this. Love him like this. Holding me together while my temper
simmers. "I didn't, babe,” he tells me. “I'm not complaining
now."

"What then?!"
My words are muffled by a great wall of chest, though his sigh
tells me he’s heard.

He releases me
from the hug, but still his hands are on my arms, comforting me
like I deserve it. “I'm saying I want you to be with me.
Just
me. And you want the same thing."

I can’t bear
it. Why is he doing this, making me spell it out for him so
cruelly? "I - I'm sorry, but I don’t. I just don't.” It’s the worst
thing I’ve ever had to say to anyone, and I’m saying it to
Harry
. My gorgeous Harry. “You're... You're my boss. It'd be
too messy," I say, trying to somehow make this less
my
choice
- more just the way things are. It’s a cheap shot and he
calls me on it.

"So if I wasn't
your boss? Then what?" he asks, and the way he says it - all thick
with tension - I can’t help wondering if there’s something
else
he’s not been telling me.

I don’t respond
at first. I can’t. There’s no good way to put this. But he’s
staring at me so intently that there’s nothing for it… “I still
wouldn’t want that, Harry," I say, and then I have to pull away. I
can’t let him comfort me while I hurt him. "I want a relationship.
I've tried. Too many times. I just get bored and bitter."

"OK," he says,
and he doesn't sound patronizing or pissed off. It's worse than
that. He just sounds - I don't know -
resigned
. Then he
leans in close and kisses my forehead so tenderly I think I might
cry again, but I won’t. I absolutely won’t.

Except, I do.
Because just as he’s about to leave my room he turns back to face
me. “Do me a favour, Em. Stay away from me. I’ll see you at work,
but that’s it from now on. I don’t want to see you any more than I
have to.”

Harry’s brow is
a knot of tension as he walks out of my bedroom, and I so
desperately want to chase after him. I want to scream at him to be
reasonable - but that’s the thing. He
is
being reasonable.
It’s me who wants to have my boss-shaped cake and eat him too.

I can’t change
who I am. Even for Harry.

But I almost
think I might try. My legs are itching to follow him and my hands
long to clutch hold of his thick wrists and yank him back to me.
But I stop myself. Lily’s key turns in the front door just as
Harry’s about to leave, and it’s enough to shake me back to
reality.

We want
different things. I have to let him go.

4.

Lunch with
Celia goes better than I expect. I don’t think about Harry. I’ve
got him out of my system. I cried and agonized over him all night
long, and now I’ve stored him in a little box marked ‘keep
closed’.

I hold Celia’s
hand as we head down my road. She’s nervous about facing Lily. It's
been a long time since I've seen her so sober, in every sense of
the word, and for her sake I really hope she’s strong enough to go
through with this apology.

Lily knows Celia's coming by. I warned/asked her. And she's OK
with it. She's way past caring about Tom. If anything, she thinks
Celia did her a favour, and in a way I’ve got to agree. Tom was a
supreme waste of space, and Lily wasn’t going to realize that
without a push. Not that she'd let Celia off the hook without at
least some remorse. Hell, it wouldn’t help Celia if she
did
.

As I search for
my keys I feel my phone vibrating, still silenced from our
lunchtime chin wag. It's Lily calling, but no matter, we're home
now. And I'm just putting my key in the lock when something catches
my eye... a bright orange Beetle parked twenty yards or so down the
road. An orange Beetle that looks uncomfortably familiar. But I
don't make anything of it. Not at first. Not until I push open my
front door into what can only be described as my worst fricking
nightmare.

*****

For a moment I
can’t move, can’t even breath.

Lily surges
toward me, frantic. "I tried to stop her! I've been calling you!"
she says, shooting daggers over her shoulder at Cayley, who doesn’t
even have the decency to look ashamed of herself. "They just
started showing up and I... oh God..."

I walk past
Lily, straight up to the manipulative, interfering cow who
evidently orchestrated this insane gathering. I make every effort
to ignore the male eyes watching me from every angle, but it’s not
easy. Their stares bore into my peripheral. Well, in a moment their
stares can bore into my butt as I walk out the way I came because
I’m buggered if I’m sticking around.

“Cayley?! What
the fuck?!!” I fume, low and slow and bubbling with fury.

“It’s an
intervention,” she says, confident as you like, and somewhere in
the room Celia yelps with glee.

“A what?! A
what?!!
” Words are failing, and my knees aren’t feeling as solid as
they were a moment ago.

“It’s good to see you, Em. Come, sit down,” says a familiar
husky voice from my sofa. Brett. Brett is on
my sofa
. Oh Christ.

“We’re not here
to judge you. We just want to talk,” drawls a smoother male voice
from the beanbag on my left. Anders. Anders who I slept with, off
and on, two Summers ago, whilst - of course - in my
non-relationship with Harry.

Cayley nods at Anders like he’s said the right thing. She’s
prepped them well for this intervention, apparently…
‘
Keep the pressure off, that’s it boys. No
accusations. We’re going to wheedle our way under her skin then eat
her alive from the inside!’ …
Oh
God.

I can’t ignore them any longer, not now they’ve started
talking to me. Though I’m tempted. I didn’t ask any of them to come
here, and I never led a single one of these bastards on. So what
right do they have to -
aw crap
- I’m going to faint. I’m suddenly a damsel in
distress and -
ooh lucky me
- here’s a room full of arseholes ready to rescue
me.