‘Oh.’
‘So, you are interested? If not, is fine, I can ask the Trixietots.’
‘No, no, no. No need. No. Don’t do that.’
He smiles, a kind of evilly triumphant smile. ‘I knew that will work,’ he says. Those piercingly keen eyes crinkle, lasering into my soul.
I clatter the coffee cups crossly. ‘I’m not jealous, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Come here and I show you.’
My wrists, suddenly limp, can’t deal with the coffee cups any more. I glance over at him, guarded but strung taut with excitement.
‘Come on,’ he repeats, with a tilt of the head. ‘Over here, Rosie.’
It reminds me of that blurry, swoony moment before he spanked me. My pussy reacts accordingly. The command in his voice lures me to him; as soon as I am within reach, he places me between his feet and laces his fingers together around my waist.
‘I think you are attracted to me,’ he says in a low-down whisper that tickles my ear and, correspondingly, my crotch. ‘You know why?’
‘Go on.’ I try to keep a sardonic edge in my tone, but the tremble betrays me. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘Because a girl who lets a man do this …’ He unlaces his fingers and pats my bottom, gently, but providing such a potent reminder of what happened earlier that my knees buckle. He pulls me in tighter, keeping me upright in arms that imprison as well as support. ‘Really wants him to do this.’
His moustache prickles my upper lip and our noses rub together. He is giving me plenty of time to say no, plenty of time to duck back or sideswipe. I’m not doing any of it.
‘Do what?’ I whisper.
His answer heats my lips. ‘This.’
And we kiss. I put my hands in his hair, his bushy thick mane of dark-brown hair and sink my fingers into the richness. His mouth is hot and soft at first, then more demanding, his tongue forging through to tangle with mine. When his hand slips up inside my top, I feel the cold metal of his bangles chill my skin and I wriggle a little against him, causing him to hold me firmly with a hand on my back until I am still and his travels continue. The fabric of my top rises with each new incursion until it bunches just beneath my bra and both of Dimitri’s hands are planted on the exposed portion of my back.
He gives my lower lip a tiny nip and breaks the kiss.
‘We can lose this,’ he says, shoving the top up, over my breasts and up my arms, which I raise without question.
He kisses my mouth once more, fulsomely, then lowers his head so that his lips graze the side of my neck, turning it to gooseflesh. His palms rise to cup my breasts in the accursedly boring workday bra I am wearing. He moans onto my neck, a low keen of lust, and flicks his tongue out to wet my skin. My nipples struggle against the stout cotton, pushing themselves out for his fingers’ attention, which is readily given. I rub my nose under his ear and give the ear lobe teasing bites. He moans even more, his voice vibrating down through my tissues, all the way to my bursting clit.
He smells and tastes and feels so good, it’s an intoxication, a need that addles my brain and befuddles my senses. I rub my legs against his, letting my shoe drag up and down his ripped jeans, the leather making contact with patches of his skin.
He captures me in a kiss again, yanking aside the cups of my bra with one hand while the other moves lower, finding my skirt zipper and fiddling with it.
I shiver all over when his palm caresses my bare nipple, brushing it into a tight hard knot of need so that it’s ready for him to pinch, very gently, exquisitely, but no less cruelly. I gasp into his mouth and a shot of sweet pain makes me grind myself against him, finding a swelling beneath those jeans that I feel more than ready to tackle.
I move my hands down to cup his behind, noticing how tightly the muscles are bunched, poised and ready for action. This butt means business. And so do this tongue, these fingers and this rock-hard jean-clad cock.
One arm reaches behind me and undoes the zipper of my skirt. As we kiss and wrestle and grind and pant, the garment makes a slow rumpled journey down over my hips, sometimes helped on its way by a free hand, sometimes left to its own devices until it reaches the point, around mid-thigh, of self-propulsion. The lining swishes past my nylon tights with a whispery crackle until it settles around my ankles. The area it once covered is now firmly annexed by squeezing, rubbing hands. I lift one leg and clamp the knee against his hip, opening myself, issuing the invitation.
Now there is nothing on my mind but visceral want. Every other consciousness has faded. I have to join my body with this one at all costs.
Whoever invented tights didn’t have sex on the brain, unlike me. They stand between me and my goal in the most irritating way – there is no way of removing them without having to deal with my knee boots first. I hang on to Dimitri with one hand and try to unzip the boots with the other, keeling awkwardly to one side so that I can’t maintain our kiss.
Dimitri pats me on the bottom, forcing me to look back up. ‘You want to fuck?’ he whispers.
Does he need to ask?