Waiting in Vain Page 2

  I turn my face just ever so slightly—not really meaning anything by it at all—and we’re kissing. In fact, he seems startled by how much I’m actually kissing him. For one brief, pushed-over-the-edge moment, I don’t hold back. I clutch his perfect face in my greedy hands. I thrust my tongue into his mouth.

  He falls on me like a starving man.

  God, he tastes amazing, too. Like something peppermint-y—as though he prepped himself for this—and something alcohol-y. His hot, wet mouth warms my cold one, and his tongue dances eagerly with mine.

  I suppose I should be made nervous by how much my open-mouthed kisses give him the green light, how suddenly raring to go he is, but I’m not. Not yet, at least. For now, I’m completely unperturbed by him getting me onto my back and launching himself over me. It feels good to have a solid male body pressing me into a bed.

  I’m desirable. My body is heating through and through. There’s nothing wrong with any of that.

  There’s maybe something wrong with him pulling my dressing gown open so that he can press all of that solidness against my barely-covered-by-a-nightie body. Or maybe not wrong exactly, in the strictest sense of the word. On any other day I’m sure it would be spectacularly right, considering how much I’m aching between my legs and how hot he is.

  But his Gran’s in the next room. I know she is. I saw her doddering her way in there, after giving me a violet smelling hug and a twinkly-eyed smile. She’s so elderly that I’m sure she was alive before sex was invented. She conceived Mick’s Dad by shaking hands with a stork.

  I don’t think Mick wants to do anything with a stork.

  “Your Gran’s in the next room,” I hiss at him, when he starts pushing past just making out in the middle of the night on his old bed.

  But I’ve got no room to talk, because I seem to be rolling his t-shirt up his amazing body. If he keeps tempting me like this, I’m going to go for the buttons on his jeans, I know I am. Please stop me, Mick, before I unbutton your jeans.

  “Is she? Think she can hear me spreading your legs?”

  “Oh, gross, Mick. Gross. She’s eight hundred years old! And besides, I’m not spreading my legs so you can just—”

  “Get you to make loads of noise? I was planning on it, but thanks for the permission.”

  “I don’t make noise. Ever. I only have very, very quiet sex.”

  “Aw, that’s a shame. Because I’m a talker. A shouter, even.”

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’m not going to make you shout.”

  “Well, where would the fun in that be? I’ve just told you that I’m no challenge, so making me shout would be pretty boring. Making you shout, on the other hand...”

  I think I’m naked—though I’ve no idea how that happened, in between all the talking. He tosses away what I’m sure is my dressing gown and my nightie, and I guess I should I be freezing but somehow I’m not, anymore. It’s all the heat he’s radiating, probably.

  Especially when he kneels up over me and I’m completely exposed, and then he pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses that away, too. Of course, I’ve seen him like this before. Last year, when I caught him in the hallway in just his jockeys. But back then, I was too nervous to do anything but catch a glimpse before slithering into the bathroom.

  Now, I look my fill.

  He looks as good as that glimpse suggested he would—with just the right amount of body hair, too. A rough brush over his solid chest, a delicious tapering trail right down to the waistband of his jeans and beyond.

  He knows he looks good, I’m sure. But I appreciate him looking at me as though I look good, too. His sultry, liquid eyes wander over my breasts—nipples peaked like tiny pinpricks—and the curve of my hips and the dark dip in between my spread legs.

  Because they are spread. I’ve got a leg either side of his folded knees, and though I’m trembling slightly I don’t feel self-conscious about that. My skin glows pale and sweet in the darkness. I’m ready to be eaten.

  Though I honestly have no idea that he’s going to take my thoughts literally. I mean, I guess it’s the easiest way to make a woman shout. But even so. He can’t really be serious about going down on me while his Gran is in the next room.

  Right?

  Oh my God, I’m not right. I’m not right. He gives me one lingering kiss on the lips, then he starts disappearing down my body.

  Of course, I squirm. Especially when he flicks his wicked tongue over one tight nipple. And over the other one, for good measure. And when he dips into my belly button. And when he bites, playfully, at the lush curve of one of my hips.

  But I don’t try to wriggle away in earnest until he has his arms curled around my thighs and his face right there and I think—Lord, I’m not going to get through this alive. Please Lord, save me from Mick Hennessey.

  But I don’t think the Lord is listening. His Gran might be, but any and all deities are nowhere to be found. He’s going to lick my pussy, and I’m going to lie here and see if I can take it without singing his praises.

  I’m definitely not going to make it. He touches me, first, and that’s bad enough. His fingers are thick and rough and I just feel so exposed and tender—I’ve been on hold too long. I’ve been primed since the dining room, since yesterday, since last year. And the fact that he notices does absolutely nothing to help me.

  “You’re so wet,” he says, and I wish his voice didn’t sound that good as he does so. He doesn’t wait for me to deny or confirm this, however, and instead just continues stroking through my honeyed slit like a professional tease.

  When he brushes over my clit, I jerk my hips. I can’t help it. It’s like being zapped with a minor electric shock. And though I don’t make a sound, I have to say I breathe pretty loudly. A really loud intake of breath. The kind that could easily be disguised as anything—a sleepy sigh, a slight cough, a weird hiccup.

  But I’m sure I can see his cheeky mouth curling into a victorious smile, anyway.

  “Did I make you this wet?” he asks, just as he smoothes two fingers all the way down to dip right into me. My back arches—just a little—at the sensation of being filled. I have to bite my lip, it’s been so long.

  “I bet I could make you wetter, though.”

  I guess he warned me that he’s a talker. But even so, I don’t think I can take much more of his running commentary as he fondles and fucks and licks me.

  Because that’s what comes next. He licks my clit, just once, like a tease, while those two thick fingers rock inside me.

  “What do you think?”

  I think I hate you, right now, Mick Hennessey.

  “Maybe if I lick you, again. How about that? Did you like that little lick? Maybe if I do it again, only slower.”

  And oh, then—he does just that. He drags his tormenting tongue over my clit, slow as syrup. My entire body bristles, as though he rubbed my fur the wrong way. Orgasm coils in my belly, ready and waiting.

  “How was that?”

  Awful, just awful.

  “Pretty good, huh? And you know, I can do it again—if you just ask me to do it. Does that seem fair? You ask me, and I do it. How about that?”

  I look to the heavens for inspiration, guidance, anything. It’s pretty obvious before we even get into this, what sort of game he’s hoping to play. And although it’s thrilling—although I’ve always wanted to do this sort of thing with a man, to have a man be this vocal and cheeky and almost...commanding, with me, I just can’t do it here. We cannot do this here.

  I answer him anyway, however.

  “Do it again,” I say, no preamble, no building up to it in tiny harrumphing whines. Just direct, get to the point, oh God, please get to the point.

  But of course, I whisper it. I’m not likely to shout it, am I? He knows I’m not going to shout it. Or even say it a normal voice, despite the fact that the words themselves are quite innocent. I could be talking about something mimed in a game of charades.

  Unfortunately, we
’re not playing charades. And a whisper isn’t, apparently, going to cut it in this game.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I can’t hear you.”

  He is an unmitigated pervert. His poor Grandmother.

  “I said—” I begin, through gritted teeth. “—do it again.”

  “God, that was awful! That was even less audible than last time, Nancy. You’ve got to enunciate, enunciate.”

  Who is he? I’m amazed that he even knows what the word enunciate means. The last time I heard that word it was in one of my many, many fantasies about Alan Rickman being my linguistics professor.

  “Shut up. Just shut up, Mick, and lick me,” I say, and I say it much, much louder than I did the first time. Maybe not loud enough for everyone to hear, but certainly enough to please him.

  He rewards me by curling those fingers and finding that little bump of nerves that even my vibrator usually has trouble discovering. Sensation shimmies through me, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. My pussy tightens and flutters around the intrusion, all of its own accord.

  He seems to appreciate such a reaction, and shows his appreciation by licking my clit. Just once. A soft stroke that lingers too long for me to stay completely quiet.

  Not that I care as much as I once did. I’m practically delirious. I do what any reasonable person would do, and put my hand on the back of his head to hold him where I need him to be, but he just laughs.

  “Ask nicely, and I will,” he says.

  I moan. Desperately.

  “Well, that’s a start.”

  “Please—is that what you want me to say? Please?”

  “You could try it. Try it on the same volume level as me, and see where it gets you.”

  No, I think. No no no, don’t do it! But my body has other ideas, and apparently, my body controls my mouth and vocal chords.

  “Please, please just make me come. Make me come, okay? Please.”

  He looks up at me and locks me in place with those gorgeous eyes—even in the darkness, you can tell they’re a deep and unsettling blue.

  “Good girl,” he says, and even before he licks me, I shiver, all over.

  When he actually does swipe my clit with his tongue, I moan really, really loudly. I can’t help it. My hand simply doesn’t get to my mouth in time. It was too busy stroking through his soft, curly hair and trying to force his head between my legs.

  Now, I need both over my mouth, as he swirls delicious patterns over and around my bud. He homes in on just the right spot, instinctively, and licks and licks and licks.

  Pleasure bursts through me. I think I come about a minute after he gives in, but really the whole thing feels like one long orgasm—from him flicking his tongue right on the underside to the nerve-jangling scrape of his teeth. And, oh Lord, then he sucks my clit into his mouth, and I’m definitely coming.

  I think, somewhere in the middle, I managed to call out his name. I definitely said something between the cracks of my fingers, because when he kneels up, satisfied with his work, he’s grinning. His mouth looks great, all painted with my slickness.

  It’s the only thing I can pay any attention to, however. I’m boneless, lost on a tide of sexual ecstasy. My body keeps jerking with little after-shocks, and my brain feels numb. I think I can dimly hear the sound of foil tearing and rubber snapping, but that’s about as much as I can manage.

  Well, that and kissing him back fiercely, when he leans down to slant his mouth over mine.

  I taste myself on his lips, tangy and sweet—a fact that he seems to revel in. I can feel him grinning, against my mouth. His hand is on my thigh, spreading me wider so that he can fit his bare body between—and he is bare. I don’t know when he got rid of his jeans, but he’s completely naked apart from the condom.

  I have the overwhelming urge to grab myself a handful of his naked arse. It gets worse when he tells me, “I’ve waited three years for this, Nance.”

  At which, I run my hand down his perfectly curved back. Just to feel the length of his solid maleness, to build the tension before I get to his gorgeous arse. I want to ask him why he waited, what made him hesitate, how he can be this confident in the sack and yet have held back from approaching me before tonight.

  But the feel of him will do, for now. He’s thick and full and good, so good that I hardly care that someone is bound to have heard that guttural gasp of appreciation he lets out—sometimes, things are just too fantastic to care about anything, pleasure aside.

  And I want him to feel pleasure. God knows he made me feel good—he’s still making me feel good. It’s only fair that I jerk my hips up to meet his and clench my pussy around his driving cock and tear my nails down his back. It’s only fair that I make him cry out when I pinch one of his apparently sensitive nipples and suck one of his earlobes into my mouth. When I lick the turn of his throat, wetly—it seems that he’s sensitive just about everywhere.

  And he’s right. He’s no challenge at all. I mean, maybe it turns him on to think that everyone can hear him fucking me, but somehow I think he just likes vocalising his pleasure. A lot.

  He groans my name and tells me to scratch him again and gasps, brokenly, when I sigh that he feels very good indeed. But the perverse thing is that I don’t mind—in fact, quite the contrary. Great swells of pleasure break over me whenever he opens his mouth, and the dirtier and louder he talks the more it turns me on.

  It turns me on when the headboard starts banging against the wall, too. I’ve caught exhibitionism from him, somehow. Any second I’m going to—

  “Oh God, yes!” I shout, and he follows right behind me.

  Chapter Three

  My face is the colour of a postbox when I finally dare to creep down for breakfast. I try to combat the red with lots of foundation, but I don’t think it’s had any effect. And even if it had, I’m pretty sure other things about me give away my total embarrassment at having bonked their eldest son really loudly, the night before.

  Like my cringing. The hunched shoulders. The almost ridiculous effort I’ve gone to, to make myself look even more respectable—tweed skirt, thick tights, glasses on. I’m fairly certain I do not look anything like the sort of girl who would bonk someone so flagrantly.

  Though it’s possible I look like someone who is over-compensating for bonking someone so flagrantly.

  I scan the kitchen for my partner-in-crime upon entering, and am thankful that he’s nowhere to be seen. He snuck back to his own room some time before dawn, all of which helps in this charade of me as the innocent virgin who simply doesn’t do that sort of thing.

  I’m glad I forced him to go. I’m not so glad that I now have to face the only person who’s in here—his Gran.

  She’s busy all brewing tea and getting ready for what seems to be a ginormous Christmas breakfast, already dressed in something prim and elderly, humming a tune that was probably made up in 1865. I just stand there, nervously, by one of the chairs around the kitchen table, staring down at the mounds of tomatoes and bacon and things I cannot eat or I’ll be sick.

  Terror and embarrassment are making me ill. The memory of Mick between my legs goes a long way to combat this, however. Just a sweet, gentle pulse, right there. An echo of his thick cock.

  Oh God, I’m thinking about his thick cock in the same room as his Grandmother.

  “Hello, dear,” she says, when she finally notices me. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I manage—though barely.

  “Would you like a boiled egg?”

  I’m momentarily thrown by such a question. The presence of egg and boiled in the sentence cannot be processed by my brain. I was expecting disapproving looks and maybe some brimstone and hellfire, not boiled eggs and Merry Christmases.

  Thankfully, my mouth moves without me having to operate it.

  “Oh, no thanks, Mrs. Hennessey.”

  She dithers and twitters and smells of violets, even over all the food steam.

  “Call me Patricia, Nancy, Patrici
a. Dear me.”

  I’ve tried before and failed. I don’t know how she expects me to succeed now. Now that she’s heard me calling out her Grandson’s name in the throes of wild passion.

  “Sit down, won’t you? The rest won’t rise for a while yet, I should think. Don’t stand on ceremony for them.”

  I obey her, just so that I can wring my hands under the table. It’s a mistake, though, because then she loads my plate up with gigantic piles of bacon and scrambled eggs and toast and God knows what else.

  She comments on my appalling appetite, when I’ve barely managed a thing before everyone else comes barrelling down the stairs. Mick, on the other hand, manages plenty. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as he puts away the moment he’s sat down next to me at the kitchen table. George and his Dad try to equal him, but they’ve got no chance.

  They didn’t burn off any calories having sex last night, after all.

  He winks at me, in between pushing rashers of bacon into his mouth. I try to nibble a corner of some toast, innocuously. It doesn’t work, however. His Dad still booms out, “Did you sleep well, Nancy?”

  When I’m least expecting it.

  I’m made very aware that beside me, Mick has stopped eating. I can no longer hear his knife scraping against his plate, as though he’s ever so terribly interested in what I’m about to say. Or why his Dad might be asking such a question.

  I smile, tightly, up at his big, hairy Dad—while everyone else seems to stare at me, intently. Oh Lord, they definitely heard us. No wonder my brother isn’t having a boiled egg—he’s so mortified that he can only managed beans on toast.

  “Very well, thanks,” I squeak out, and he just nods and goes back to speculating about what’s in that giant present George seems to have bought him.

  I nibble my toast. Everyone stops looking at me. Under the table, Mick squeezes my thigh.

  * * * *

  It makes me wonder if he really has been waiting three years to bed me. The present he gives me, I mean. It’s not the sort of gift that’s going to draw the attention of everyone—Attention, family! I like Nancy!