Control

Not that he knows it. I mean, obviously he knows I have sex with men in my kitchen. But I don’t think he has any idea that I’m delighting in driving him up the wall. He tells me that he was largely homeschooled. That until a year or so ago, he still lived with his parents. When I ask him if he has a girlfriend, he goes even redder than he did for my shirt with one too many buttons undone.

“No,” he says, but it’s after a long, long, putting-books-on-the-shelf pause.

I’m absolutely dying to ask if he’s ever had a girlfriend. The urge to run my hand down the strange arch of his back is more overwhelming, however. I settle for a pat, but even that startles him. I’m not sure he knew I was directly behind him, and now he hurriedly stuffs the book in his hand onto the shelf—as though he’s been caught reading something he shouldn’t.

Which is odd, because he was only looking at the back cover. What’s wrong with the back cover of Temptress in Time?

For the first time I wonder: What on earth is a man like him doing in a shop that sells erotica and erotic romance novels? They must be like alien spaceships to him.

“You know, you get a twenty percent discount on anything in the store,” I say, half-laughing. His expression stops me from taking it to the full laugh.

It’s a perfect mixture of both utter terror and starving hungry eagerness. I’ve never seen a man look so famished—not even Andy. Not even carb-free-dieting Kevin. It makes me do something very odd, indeed.

As he’s watching, I lift my hand and sort of place it casually on my chest. High up—not in a suggestive way at all. But then…then I guess it becomes suggestive. More suggestive than I was with Andy. More than I’ve ever been with anyone, as though his reserved nature somehow permits me an excess of freedom.

He’s not going to say anything, after all. He’s not going to do anything. He just watches as I slide my hand down over my plump left breast, tugging my shirt just ever so slightly as I do, so that a curving upswell of flesh is revealed. And when I get to my nipple—stiff beneath the lace clasp of my bra—such a surge of tingling sensation rolls through me that I go weak in the knees.

I think I come very close to sitting down suddenly, on the floor. My heart is vibrating its beats through my body. I can’t stop staring him down—I want to live in those big chocolate eyes of his. I want him to look at me forever, watch me touching myself like such a dirty, wicked girl. He seems paralyzed, but that’s fine by me. I want him perfectly still and taking me in, every nuance and shudder, and is he holding his breath?

I think he is.

“Is there something you want to ask me, Gabriel?” I say, though I know he couldn’t ask if he was forced to with hot pokers. I shiver just thinking about his restraint. I shiver thinking about Andy, who would have grabbed me and fucked me up against the bookcase ten steps before this moment.

I don’t know which is better—this exquisite tension, this waiting, this teasing. Or just getting.

“I…” he begins, but he doesn’t really seem to have the necessary breath for it. “I think that…”

I’m holding my breath, now. The lids have drooped down over his eyes. You could almost mistake it for sleepiness, if it were not for his hoarse voice and the fact that my hand is fondling my tit.

“I think that…” he says again, and this time I lean right in. I’m the eager one, now.

But he just finishes with:

“…we should keep the Regency romances in a separate section to general historicals. Don’t you?”

Of course, by the time Andy comes sniffing around my patch again, I’m ravenous. I’m as hungry as Gabriel probably doesn’t know he is. A week of talking to him about clockwork toys (it was the family business, until his parents died), the books of Charlotte Bronte, and exactly what I’d like for lunch, right down to the kind of pepper and how many times I’d like my coffee stirred—and all as I’m dressing too sexy and being very inappropriate, employer/employee-wise—would be enough to drive anyone bonkers.

And I’m not anyone. I’m someone that, for the last five years, has been living largely in a sex drought. While managing a sex book shop.

Anyway, it’s raining when he turns up on my doorstep. We’re closed, but I have to let him in. He’ll catch his death. His clothes will get soaked and then he’ll put on a wet T-shirt competition through the glass of my shop door.

When he steps inside, I think of Gabriel, staring at me. I try to hold on to that power.

“So—you hired that other guy, huh?” he says, as he shakes the rain out of his hair—all over my shop! Does he think he looks sexy doing that?

Because fuck, he does.

“I hardly think you’d have been appropriate, Mr. Yarrow,” I say, but he just grins.

“Because of all the sexual harassment that would have gone on in the workplace?”

There’s already sexual harassment going on in the workplace.

“Because…” I say, but I don’t get any further.

“Because…”

Because I can’t control myself around someone like you.

“What is it about you?” he asks. I know he’s not really asking, however. And he proves me right by tugging me suddenly to him, without waiting for my answer.

I lose a little of my breath along the way. My inappropriate heels stutter through the carpet.

“Have you fucked that little pansy yet?”

Something like defiance stings its way through me, to hear him use the word pansy. Unfortunately he chooses that moment to rip my shirt open, so the defiance gets left somewhat by the wayside.

“Have you been spying on me, pervert?” is about all I can manage. It bounces off him as though made of nothing stronger than paper.

“He doesn’t look like he’d be willing to give you what you need.”

“What do you know about the things I need?” I ask, but it sounds weak and ridiculous when I’m standing here with my shirt hanging open, not bothering to cover myself and certainly not stepping away from him.

The aching thrum between my legs won’t allow me to do either.

“Just stop me when I’m wrong,” he says, then reaches down for the hem of my skirt.

As he rucks the material up, slow, slow, he leans down to kiss me. Not rough or sudden at all but deliberate. His tongue eases into my mouth when my lips part for him. His fingers waltz over my prickling thighs.

I’m already shaking. It doesn’t take long for things to splurge. His hands go into my hair and then my hands are in his hair and when I press forward, I can feel his thick erection through his jeans.

Not like Gabriel, who probably straps himself down. Andy just ruts up against me, roughly, forces me back until my arse hits the polished edge of my shop counter. It’s little more than a desk, really, with a till and a few advertising knickknacks. There’s plenty of room for him to bend me over it, should he so choose.

Though I don’t think I really want to give him the choice.

“Fuck me like you did before,” I tell him, but it comes out so much more brutish than simple words can suggest. I bite his leaning-into-me throat on that last before, and he responds with some force of his own in kind.

He lifts me—right up off the ground!—and sits me abruptly down onto my counter, spells out for me that it’s not going to be like before. He’s going to do what he wants and I have to squirm and agonize.

When he shoves my legs apart, I agonize all right. I let out a little sharp sound which gets even louder when he tightens his fist in my hair and yanks my head back, to lick shivering stripes over my curving throat.

On the last lick he bites, and I moan unashamedly. I go for the front facing hooks on my bra, and fumble myself free.

The air is almost unbearable against my swollen nipples. His tongue is far, far worse, however. He makes these lovely quick, tight circles, before catching the tip with just the barest hint of his teeth—first one, then the other. I can’t sit still for it, not at all, and I buck my hips, spread my legs wider.

I’m not wearing any knickers. I didn’t wear them, for Gabriel. I was hoping he’d catch a glimpse of something—a flash of glistening pink, perhaps—but now it’s serving an even lovelier purpose.

It means I get to be fucked, quick. It means that when I manage to get my skirt all the way up my thighs, he can see my bare pussy and no longer wants to wait. His fingers part my slick folds easily, too easily, and then I’m caught between a tongue against my stiff nipples and a rough rub against my clit and that sound—the sound of a zipper being tugged down.

He straightens but keeps his fingers busy between my legs, face lust-slackened, wicked eyes gleaming.

“God, you want it so bad,” he says in a voice as roughened as my own, and the juicy sounds my pussy is making don’t deny it.

But I think of Gabriel, not Andy. I think of Gabriel, staring at me, ravenously, and my clit jumps beneath Andy’s rough touch. A little ah flutters out of me, and he rubs at me more firmly.

I’m going to come, any second. Any second now.

“Suck me off,” he says.

I moan and grow slicker to hear the words, but they’re still frustrating. He takes his hands away and I’m mortified to find myself reduced to whining, even as the thought of his cock in my mouth stirs me further.

I slide off the desk and down onto my knees with very little fuss at all. I make even less fuss when I come face to face with his prick, as solid and thick as it had seemed in me, pushing out from the parted wings of his jeans like a club.

The urge to touch myself grows very strong indeed, to see this evidence of his arousal. Of course I knew he was excited, but somehow it isn’t real until I can lick the fine trail of pre-come from the tip of his bursting cock, until I’m allowed to palm his tightly drawn up balls and feel his choked groan buzzing through his entire body.

“Go on,” he tells me. “Go on, slutty little bookworm.”

His hand is in my hair but he doesn’t force me. He just waits for me to force myself.

Though when I part my lips and swallow the length of him down, it doesn’t feel like I’m forcing anything. It feels like I’m hungry for cock, a slutty bookworm who needs teaching some sort of lesson—how could I torment that poor man in such a way?

Maybe Gabriel will walk in, right now, and he can punish me, too. They can take turns in my mouth, Andy urging Gabe on, ordering him to hold my head and fuck my face. He won’t do it, at first, but as things get more urgent and slippery, and all that hunger inside him comes bubbling to the surface and oh God, Gabe, I want to make you surface, God—

I suck greedily, now mindless with dirty thoughts I never know I want to think until they’re right there. But it’s only when I get my hand around the base of him, and jerk him off as I lick and nibble and swirl my tongue just so, that his legs start to tremble. He grunts for me in a way that clasps my whole body, close to orgasm but not quite going over.

My clit is aching, just aching, and I can’t deny it any longer. I have to touch myself—I don’t care how much of a slutty bookworm it makes me.

My finger skids in all the wetness soaking my slit, prompting a frustrated sob from me that apparently goes directly to his cock. Every sound I make forces him to buck forward, so it’s no surprise that when I finally find my clit and press just once, lightly, my long moan of delight triggers his orgasm.

I’m still shocked, however. He cries out and spurts thickly into my mouth as I frantically rub at myself, but it’s not the sweet-salt taste or the swell of him or his cry of pleasure that wrenches out my climax. It’s him pulling away from me, mid-spurt, to stripe my face with the last of his come.

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