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It felt like he would split her in two at any moment.
Anything he wanted, he could have. She was his for the taking. She couldn’t take it. It was too good, too much. He was right. She was going to scream. Any moment now, he was going to shove his big dick inside her all the way, bump her clit, and she would shatter and scream for the whole club to hear!
“Jake!” she breathed in his ear, taking her lobe between her teeth, her inner walls squeezing him. “Make me ride your big cock, baby- oh fuck! Oh my God, yes, yes, yes!”
Fuck, this was it. She couldn’t stop. He was going to make her cum, and she was going to scream. Oh God, she was going to scream, and she didn’t care. Let them all hear. Let them see. She didn’t care. She only needed…
“Cum for me, angel.” Jake’s mouth caught her lips in a searing kiss the instant he thrust up to meet her halfway as he brought her down and buried himself inside her all the way to the root, forcing her over the edge.
The orgasm ripped through her in waves of fire, fast and hard, rippling outward from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers and toes. The scream that left her was voiceless, but she could feel herself shaking as if the very fibre of her being was trying to escape the bounds of flesh and soar free to the heavens.
She clung to Jake with everything she had. He was her anchor to the mortal world and seemed content to let her ride the waves of her orgasm until the heat and frenzy ebbed slowly away to leave her floating in the warm comfort she only knew with him. Here, in his arms, she could forget. She could forget about her father and the family he murdered, the old paedophile calling himself The People's King, the men hunting her, the bounty.
Whatever he was. However bad he might be for her. Jake made her feel safe and whole. He was the only one who could.
For that, she would love him forever.
Breathing hard, the black spots still dancing before his eyes from the intensity of his orgasm, Jake held the girl close, savouring the feel of her. It felt so right, her in his arms, holding her. It always did. Even when everything around them was wrong, she felt right.
She was perfect.
“That was… something.”
Snuggling closer, Vickey murmured a sleepy “Mmm-” She stiffened, “Oh God.”
“Why, thank you, angel, but I’m just a man.” The joke came easily to his lips, even as his insides knotted at her tone. Fear? What could she have to be afraid of with him?
“I-I have…” Her voice was weak, but the force with which she pushed away from him was as strong as ever. She looked a state. Sweater crumpled and creased. Skin flushed. Hair dishevelled. Lips bruised and swollen. All the hallmarks of a woman who’d just been thoroughly shagged and was about to take the walk of shame. “I have to go.”
Jake watched her go about getting dressed, noting with a small sense of satisfaction the way her legs were shaking as she struggled to pull her jeans on while still wearing those slip-on shoes. She didn’t look at him. Rather, she seemed to be making a point of looking anywhere but. Then she was gone, stumbling away from him, away from the dark, around a bend into the light as the dancefloor beyond was suddenly lit up and shouts and cheers trumpeted Merry Christmas.
Jake watched her go. He didn’t say a word, only watched with a bemused smile playing across his lips, and when she was gone, he slumped back against the wall. The wall he’d just so readily fucked her against.
He fumbled to do his jeans up with only the slightest care. The task made all the more awkward for the fact he was still hard as a rock. Once was never enough with that girl. He couldn’t explain it, but there was just something about her that made him able to go all night. When he was satisfactorily covered, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of fags and his old regimental lighter. He shook a cigarette free, took it between his lips and, with a practised flick of his wrist and lit the end. Ignoring the No Smoking sign hanging barely a metre away, he took a long drag, let out a breath of grey smoke, and began to laugh.
“God, I love you Vickey Romano.”
High above, sunken into the ceiling, one of Seven’s numerous security cameras continued to record.
Richard Martin always hated Holmes & Raine’s Christmas parties. The décor reminded him of a cheap Hammer Horror set. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a funeral. And worst of all, they were organised in August and hosted in early November.
Each year, the bosses would present a laundry list of reasons for the premature celebration, but everyone knew those were merely a smokescreen, devised to mask the fact that it cost considerably less to hold a Christmas party before December. Frankly, Richard wondered why they bothered even holding a party, or, for that matter, made attendance mandatory.
Subtly pushing up his left sleeve cuff, he checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. To his utter disgust, the digital display indicated that it was just 10:03 pm. The party would go on for at least another hour, maybe even two, God forbid!
The dining hall of the Cheltenham Premier Inn was a hive of colour and light as the value disco ball fitted to the ceiling pelted the chamber with light beams and the speakers blared out a stream of Christmas hits from the 90s. The walls were decorated in red and white. Mistletoe hung on strands of crimson silk, and an artificial Christmas tree stood in the centre of the room beside a folding table heavily laden with snacks and refreshments. The guests appeared jubilant and festive as they revelled in small groups evenly spaced around the cavernous chamber, mirroring the groups that clung together around the office’s coffee and tea machines. They were garbed elegantly in suits and dresses, a façade of wealth and importance that was as phoney as their smiling faces. God, he needed a drink.
Resisting the urge to check his watch, Richard got up from his assigned seat and moved into the crowd, the wooden soles of his shoes clapping loudly on the tiles as he weaved a path between the mingling bodies, nodding politely at anyone who noticed him, towards the overloaded folding table. There were ample snacks and refreshments, Asda’s finest. Diced sausage rolls, cocktail sausages, crisps, biscuits, fruit and cheese on cocktail sticks, mini-pizzas, and even some slices of chocolate sponge, all laid out in white china bowls and saucers around two large bottles of Jacob’s Creek and Honeyed Jack Daniel’s, as well as a jug of iced orange squash. Two high towers of Styrofoam cups had been erected between the bottles.
Taking the cup on the top of the tower, he contemplated the wine for a moment, tempted to pour a drink, but then thought better of it. Alice would kill him if she found out. Grumbling inwardly, he mournfully poured himself a squash. The wine was probably vinegar anyway, he reasoned, before twisting to take another look around the room while sipping the fruity beverage.
He glimpsed Stacy Stevens, a pretty part-timer, in the firm’s mailroom with long raven black hair and milky skin, nervously edging through the crowd in her black lacy dress and flat-bottomed shoes; somehow seeming even more uncomfortable than him amongst the revellers. Nearby, he saw Mark McClaine, his office colleague and friend, and his wife Rachael deep in conversation with another couple he didn’t recognise. And deepest amidst the denizens, the firm’s MD, Derik Holmes, was conversing with the heads of departments and grinning broadly as he took long swigs from a monogrammed silver and crocodile-leather hip flask. Silver-haired, rosy-faced, and with the frame of a barrel wrapped in Armani, Derik was the very embodiment of opulent living and Richard could only hope the man didn’t notice him for he was awfully fond of mocking and belittling anyone whom he considered beneath him. Fortunately, the four department heads seemed to be commanding the full wrath of the Director’s humour and he failed to notice the lowly bookkeeper standing beside the refreshments. Alas, there was no sign of Alice amidst the sea of faces, but neither, thankfully, could he see…
“Well, well, well, look who we have here?” an all too familiar voice said silkily.
Fuck. Throwing his head back, Richard drained the cup in a single swig before placing it back on the table and turning, slowly, around to be confronted by the vision of his supervisor, Scarlet Holmes, standing before him. Strikingly beautiful with soft features and sun-kissed skin, her hair was long, wavy tresses of honey blonde that reached down to her shoulders. Clad in a dark blue pencil dress that went well with her almost unnaturally bright baby blue eyes and clung to her slender figure, the low-cut V-neckline offering a tantalising glimpse of her ample cleavage, she would have seemed utterly radiant if he hadn’t known the beauty was only skin deep.
“Hi Scarlet,” he said nervously before flashing her a smile he was certain Stevie Wonder would have seen through; “enjoying the party?”
