The Englishman - By Nina Lewis Page 0,158

feel him slip out and instinctively reach down and grab his wrist to make him stay with me.

“Up!” His hand is on my ass and he lifts me up to pull the damp bit of lace over my buttocks and down my legs. I kick and struggle until I can free one foot, and at once he spreads my legs wide, adds another finger to the first, and fucks me with them—hard and deep. Even if I tried, I couldn’t keep silent. All I can do is to stifle my moans against the side of his face. My face, my whole body, feels feverish; I’m breaking into a hot sweat, and the determined career girl that still lurks somewhere in my mind asserts herself one last time in feeble protest.

“I’m…I’m getting you all wet!” I gasp, thinking of the pantaloons I’m sitting on, and his hand, covered up to the knuckles with the liquid evidence of my desire. He doesn’t even bother to answer that. His left arm, which had been clamping my shoulders to steady me in his onslaught, relaxes a little, but it’s only to vary the pace of his right hand between my legs. His arm around me tightens, and I sag against his shoulder and say goodbye to that earnest girl who wants to control everything. I don’t need her now, because Giles Cleveland is holding me, and he has everything under control…his mouth finds mine, and his tongue moves against mine with the same slow, languorous deliberation as his fingers, keeping me steady on a high plateau of arousal.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

I arch my hips against his hand—that’s a rhetorical question if ever I heard one—but it’s no good, I need him to…

“…fuck me again!”

And I mean it. I don’t care that we’re in his office, with a huge party going on around us, I need him to unbutton his pantaloons and come into me. But he smiles, slowly, a little mockingly, and drives his fingers into me, with a deep and upward thrust that reduces me to a shuddering heap. I sink completely into a trance-like state; there is nothing in the world now except his mouth and his hand.

“Ah! Oh, no!” I sit up, shocked to the core. “Oh, my God! What—what was that?”

What that was—when he slowed down, when his fingers almost slipped out of me—was that I ejaculated. I felt a hot, unfamiliar kind of release—not in my womb at all, just a brief, soft sense of suddenly melting, and although I didn’t see anything, the soft, innocent sound of droplets of fluid sprinkling the leather upholstery between my legs echoes in my ears as loudly as so many gunshots.

“Oh, God, I’m-I’m so sorry! Did I just—this has never happened to me before, I swear!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment then.”

“No, I’m—oh, you’re laughing at me? How can you laugh? I didn’t know this was going to happen! Oh, look, you’re—oh, this is all wet—oh, my God!”

“Hush!” His grip tightens; he draws me close. “Hush!” he commands. “Stop flapping!” Again I feel his body quiver with laughter. “Hush, now!”

He’s leaving me no choice but to be still, but in his embrace I’m still heaving with shame, and probably with the sheer physiological shock of suspended…rapture.

“Breathe! Breathe out!”

I obey. I concentrate on exhaling, and I calm down. Suddenly I’m exhausted to the marrow of my bones and afraid that I really will fall asleep. If only I could stay like this for ever. Sleep, and forget that I’ve squirted all over Giles Cleveland’s office. And his sofa. And his Ashley-Wilkes frock coat.

“All right?” he asks.

Dumbly, I shake my head.

“Look at me.”

I shake my head again.

“Look at me!” He holds me away from himself, and I force myself to raise my eyes to his face. He looks so bright and young and happy that I have to swallow a sob rising in my throat. “You beautiful idiot!” he says lowly. “Do you really not know how incredibly sexy that was?”

“No! No, I do not!”

We are silent, and as my body cools off, inevitably, the implications of the situation become overpowering. We have done it again. Will we go on doing it till we are caught again? Why am I hell-bent on ruining my career and making myself notorious for lewd behavior on campus? It seems that this, as the Comte de Valmont puts it, is Beyond My Control.

“Would you like me to call you a cab now?” he asks,

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