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She shivered, an echo of her orgasm tingling from the core of her body to the tip of her spine. “Yes.”
“Good,” he replied, nonchalantly. “Ever thought about having a tattoo?”
She saw the humor in his eyes. He hadn’t made a big deal of her moving in, just as he hadn’t made a big deal about her kink that first day. He’d come to understand her, very quickly. “Having a tattoo would probably kill me, and you know it,” she replied.
“Hell of a way to go, though,” he mused, as he lifted her into the bath.
The warm water moved in and around her legs and hips, melting her. After he scrubbed her down, he would climb in with her. That was one of her favorite parts.
He kneeled down beside the bath and reached for the sponge. “If you ever do have a tattoo, I want to be the one who is inside you while you’re having it done. Is that a deal?”
She reached her hand around his head, drawing him in for a kiss. “It’s a deal,” she whispered.
The Woman in his Room
Saskia Walker
Luke had a woman in his room.
I could hear the familiar sound of his voice – gravely and seductive – as it filtered out of the partly open bedroom door. I paused on the landing and listened. There was music playing in the background, something sensual and rhythmic. Then I heard the woman’s laughter, and something inside me altered.
The small part of me that was still immature balked because it was some other woman, and not me. But the part of me that was a young woman who was becoming more deeply aware of her own sexuality – the part that had been stimulated by my exposure to Luke in our home – responded altogether differently.
Desire, and the sure knowledge of my own needs, flamed inside me. The crush I had been nurturing for Luke changed. It wasn’t an ethereal emotion cloaked in sighs of longing and wistful glances anymore. It was hardcore lust. And I liked it.
I liked this feeling of being a woman who had physical needs that were more powerful than her daydreams. I could just as easily be that woman in Luke’s room. I wanted to be that woman, it was as simple as that.
I’d wanted Luke since the day he had moved in, three weeks earlier. I doubt my father would have let his business partner stay over after his wife threw him out had he known that I would develop an obsession with him. Dad thought I was far too busy at college. Too busy to notice a man like Luke? No way.
“You’ve met Luke, haven’t you, Karen?” my dad had said when Luke walked into our house that first night, a suit carrier flung casually over one shoulder, an overnight bag in the other hand. I remember being glued to the spot, thinking that I’d surely have remembered him if I’d met him before. Apparently I had, briefly. Four years earlier. I guess I’d been different then. I’d been fifteen and a tomboy. Now I was at college, and my focus was on the adult world, with all its risks and discoveries.
Luke had set down the bag he held and put his hand out to me. “You’ve grown up,” he said under his breath and looked at me with an appraising stare that made me feel hot all over.
I managed to put my hand in his. He held it tightly, drawing me closer in against him. I looked up into his wickedly suggestive eyes, and it made my pussy clench.
My mother disapproved of him. Why had his wife thrown him out? she demanded of my dad, when Luke was out of the house. Dad wouldn’t answer. I made up my own reasons, fantasies that featured me in a starring role. Maybe he left his wife for a hot younger woman, me. The truth was that Luke moving in had made something shift in my world. He was a man, a real man. Sex with him wouldn’t be like the fumbling bad sex I’d had with a guy I met at college. As soon as I saw Luke, I knew that it wouldn’t feel like that, not with him. Sex would be exciting, maybe even kinky. The idea of it fascinated me.
Luke wasn’t what you’d call handsome, but he was attractive in a bad boy sort of a way. Tall and leanly muscled, his body suggested athletic vigor. His features were craggy, his hair cut close to his head. He had a maverick quality about him that appealed to the dark side of my imagination. At night I’d lie in my bed and imagine there was no wall between our rooms and that I could reach out and touch his body. I’d imagine him responding. He’d climb over me and screw me into the bed, teaching me what it was like to be fucked by a real man.
During the day when he was out I would go into his room and touch his things. Sometimes I even lay down on his bed. I would close my eyes and breath him in, getting high on the smell of his body and his expensive cologne, the experience building up a frenzy of longing inside me. What if he walked in and found me there? The idea of being caught by him made it even worse. Sometimes I’d push my hand inside my jeans and press my panties into the seam of my pussy, massaging my clit for relief.
Then my parents went away for a fortnight, leaving me in Luke’s care. Oh, the irony. If only they had known how much the idea of it excited me.
It was our first night alone, and I had been thinking about him all evening, barely aware of the blockbuster movie I’d gone to see with my friends. I wanted to get home, to see if Luke was there.
But now he had a woman in there with him, and that woman wasn’t me.
I was intensely curious, and it struck me that I was getting hot just thinking about him having sex, even if it wasn’t me he was having it with. The push-pull reaction of the unexpected situation had me on edge. Torn, I glanced at my bedroom door. He probably thought I was in there, asleep. Like a good girl. I looked back at his doorway and saw a shadow move across the room beyond.
His shadow.
I couldn’t walk away.
Luckily I hadn’t switched the landing light on. I was glad of the darkness, glad that I was standing in the gloom and that his door was open and I could see into his room. I’d had a couple of beers earlier. That probably helped, too. I stepped farther along the landing, until I could see him.
He had his shirt off. I’d seen him seminaked before, in the kitchen in the mornings. He’d have a towel round his waist, his body still damp and gleaming from the shower. I managed to muster up an early morning conversation so I could wat
ch him pouring out coffee, stirring in three teaspoons of sugar as he chatted to me easily, watching me all the while. Watching me in a way that made my body feel womanly and alive. That’s what he’d done to me; he’d made me feel alive. And although I remember saying something in response to his early morning conversations, it wasn’t what I was thinking. What I was thinking was X-rated. I wanted him to bend me over the breakfast bar and introduce me to real sex.
