“Shall we continue this in the bedroom?” he murmurs archly, his words sending an instant message to my groin, as if my knickers weren’t damp enough already.
I’m not sure what my reply is – it isn’t a word as such, more a sort of ‘nnrgh’ type utterance, but Sinclair accurately construes it as an affirmative and…oh, I’ve died and gone to heaven!...swings me up into his arms and carries me down the corridor to his inner sanctum.
The lines are clean, the linens are fresh in Sinclair’s bedroom. There is no clutter at all, just sternly functional furniture and a large square bed, on to which I find myself dropped without ceremony. He stands looking down at me from a towering distance, shrugging off his jacket and unknotting his tie before folding his arms across his chest and knitting his brows at me.
“What are you waiting for, Beth? I want you out of those clothes and on your back. Now.”
Chapter Six
Egad, this is weirdness itself. I have never had to undress in front of a man in this way; somehow it was always a bit of a fumble-in-the-dark job with the two previous occupants of the Beth’s-Bloke post. This dispassion and control-freakery on Sinclair’s part is pretty novel too, but in a smoking hot way. I am horribly self-conscious as I peel off my polo-neck, feeling his eyes burning me and hoping I am not disappointing him. Somehow I feel I should be sleazing around in leather or PVC rather than easing a rather frumpy rust-coloured corduroy skirt over my woollen thighs.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, pulling the opaque tights off my feet with some effort. “I don’t do this very often. I’m not very good at it.”
“You’ll learn,” he says equably, keeping his eyes trained directly on my face as I kneel up in my pedestrian white cotton underwear. I try to contort my arms behind my back to unclasp my bra, but he takes hold of a wrist. “Allow me,” he offers, moving around behind me and unfastening the hook before sliding the straps down my arms and off. His mouth is on the back of my neck, nuzzling it and his hands return to cup my freed breasts, exploring them in an effort to get a sense of their weight, shape and nipple hardness. The feel of Sinclair’s hard, clothed body pressing into my back, his fingers working on my sensitive mounds and his lips and teeth nipping around my ear combine to force a long moan from me, at which he increases the pressure on my painfully stiff nipples and starts sucking down in earnest, popping back up when he is satisfied I am well-marked and saying, “Get those knickers off,” with savagely crisp enunciation.
I hesitate, my brain addled somewhat by the divine conjunction of sensations across my body, and am paid for my moment of indecision with a sharp slap to my bottom. “I gave an order, Beth; I expect to be obeyed in my own bed.”
I yank them down so hard that the elastic snaps, feeling weightless and in limbo, having no idea what Sinclair plans to do to me, and knowing that I am not going to be consulted, whatever it is.
“Good.” He pushes me down on to my back and positions himself between my knees, looming over my vulnerable naked form while his eyes consume me. His hands drift over the curve of my breasts again and he nods with what appears to be approval. Then they move deliberately down, brushing my stomach and hips, pinching gently at the flesh of my thighs and then spreading them wider with a sudden flourish, bending his head lower to examine his brand new possession. His uncompromising scrutiny mortifies me and I move my head to the side, screwing my eyes shut as I feel his breath warm my quivering quim.
“No, Beth, you may not look away,” he says firmly. “Look at me. Watch what I do to you.”
Reluctantly, eyes still shut, I return my face to an upwards facing position. He pinches my thigh and my eyelids fly open.
“Better,” he growls. “Do that again and I’ll turn you over and give you a sore bottom, understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” I meep meekly.
His face is still with concentration, only his eyes flickering, as he studies my exposed sex in excruciating detail. Fingers trace the outline, first of my fleecy outer lips and then my more sensitive inner ones. He tweaks a curl of pubic hair and says, “This’ll have to go.” Then he introduces more fingers, rubbing and stroking and massaging the area in ever-decreasing circles until he finally arrives at the fleshy bud in the centre, by which point I am clutching at the duvet and arching my back. “This is enjoyable for you?” he asks as if he is a scientist conducting an experiment.
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Sir,” he reminds me.
“Yes, sir.”
“What about this?” He begins to thrum lazily at my clitoris with his thumb and forefinger, keeping the surrounding flaps of skin widely stretched with his other hand.
“Oh…yes, sir.”
His pressure on that nexus of nerve endings continues, but he moves two fingers away into the slippery wetness of my hole, massaging its entrance for a minute or two before sliding and wiggling upwards, probing in the dark.
“Hm, not a virgin,” he pronounces, establishing a rhythmic fingerfucking in concert with his frigging of my clit. “How many?”
“How…many?” I repeat foggily, beginning to lose touch with reality.
“Look at me, Beth! How many men have taken you up here?”
“Oh…two,” I moan.
“When was the last time?”
“Christmas…party…drunk…one-night stand.” I begin to kick my legs restlessly, feeling the first stirrings of a mighty orgasm unknot in my stomach.
“Oh yes? I should strap your arse just for that, you little trollop. Are you feeling it now?” He is plying those fingers harder and harder, almost painfully hard and I am clenching my teeth and breathing in short, sharp pants, nearly ready to blow.
“Ah, oh, oh, yes, sir.”