Chapter 7    Spike

He closed the hotel room door behind him and slumped back against the old wood.

Christ.

He crossed the room to the bar and swilled down the two fingers of single malt he had poured for himself earlier.  He stared into the bottom of the glass, then put it down, filled it again, and drank that down just as quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.

She wasn’t supposed to need him so much.

How was he supposed to know that Angel Stevens’ wife was as much a victim of the man as Spike was?

Whenever he had imagined Angel’s wife, he had pictured her as cold and sharp, selfish, manipulative, harsh and unfeeling, like Angel himself was.

He thought his assumptions had proved out that first day (had it only been two days ago?), as she’d sat with her vapid friends having vapid conversations, and had come on to him aggressively with silent promises no man could refuse.  He’d had no intention of refusing anything she offered.  Getting between her thighs had been his specific goal from the moment he had found out about this assignment.  He was going to be spending three months in the same city with Stevens and his fuckable wife, and Spike fully intended to do unto Angel as the son of a bitch had done unto him eighteen months before.

Just thinking of it brought the memory vividly to his mind’s eye, no matter how often he’d tried to free himself of it.  It was still a clear, scorching agony that no amount of alcohol or revenge would ever ease for him.

He had come home from work early that night (because wasn’t that how these things always happened?) to find his Dru and that bastard fucking away madly in the middle of the living room rug.  They both dripped with sweat, her night black hair spread damply around her as he pounded into her.  His back was ribboned in scarlet streaks, emblems of her unrestrained passion.  The room reeked of hours of sex.

Whether they didn’t notice him, or couldn’t or just didn’t want to stop, they didn’t.  Her arms were flung wide, bracing her against the floor, her legs wrapped high around his waist as he gripped her ass in his big meaty hands, lifting her hips up off the floor to piston his cock deep into her coal black pussy over and over.  She chanted Angel’s name in harsh, guttural consonants as he cursed at her, demanding release.

It felt like hours to Spike, but it was only a matter of moments before they came fiercely.  Dru bucked and seized as Angel plunged deep into her, locking their hips together as his head jerked back in time to his own release.

Dru stayed spread out on the rug, panting and mewling as she came down, her body still twitching and rolling in lingering spasms.  Angel slid off her to sit next to her, an arm resting on one raised knee, the other leg outstretched, his softening cock still wet with her juices and his come.  He met Spike’s eyes, aggressive, supremely confident.  “Evening, Spike.”

“Get.  Out.  Of my.  House,” he had ground out, sick with rage and humiliation.  “Before I kill you.”

Dru rolled over and looked at him, face still swollen from passion.  “Oh my Spike,” she had purred at him.  “Don’t be like that.  It was just a bit of fun, my sweet.”

“You too, Dru.  You and your new toy can get the hell out right now.  Find a new place to live, because you won’t be living here any more.”

It had been an empty threat as it turned out.  He couldn’t stand to be in the house either after that.  He ceded it to her as part of the divorce proceedings.  He had bought the townhouse in Clapham and tried to figure out how to go on with his life.

And now he was in New York, working his revenge on the man who had ruined his life.

The chit had fallen into his lap.  He had known she’d be in that restaurant that day (Stevens’ secretary was well-informed and eager to talk), and had planned to make first contact with her there, set the groundwork for her seduction.  He had not expected to end up shagging her there in the bathroom.  She had been so eager, so hungry for him.  How was he to know she was basically a little girl playing grown up games?  He was almost grateful he had taken the time and effort to pleasure her at the time.  Not that that had been his intention in doing it.  He had intended it as more ammunition to use against Angel, telling him all about the encounter and how much she’d enjoyed it, what she’d sounded like when she came.

He stared into the empty glass again.  She had sounded amazing.

It wasn’t until the party last night that he began to realize his assumptions about her were wrong.

He had known for a week that they would be attending the fundraiser and had finagled a ticket for himself.  Which he planned to expense back to the company as a networking cost.  Seducing your rival’s wife on someone else’s dime.  The height of class.

He had arrived early enough to see them make their entrance, had seen Angel’s possessive grip on her that had little to do with desire or affection and more to do with ownership.  Had watched him abandon her as soon as he didn’t need her anymore.  She had looked so grateful when her perky red haired friend and Red’s husband had shown up.  This girl was not a society bitch, able to mingle and connect and work a room with ease and a total lack of substance.

He found himself coveting every man she danced with, who got to lay a hand on that bare, perfect back and hold that strong, delicate hand, murmur quietly into the shell of her ear to make her smile.  When he saw her alone at the end of the verandah, he couldn’t resist the opportunity.

That’s when he discovered that she wasn’t the sexual predator he had taken her for, either.  She was all passion and no experience, regardless of her protests.  She had no confidence, no understanding of her sexual power.  Her husband had apparently made sure of that.  She wasn’t a trophy wife to Angel, not even a marriage of convenience.  She was simply decoration to him, and that, Spike realized, was how to get to him.  He could take Angel’s best ornament away, take this passive, supportive, obedient wife and awaken her to the strength and passion inside her, teach her all the things Angel should have but never bothered to, and ruin her for the bastard forever.  He could do it.  It had already started.  He’d sensed the seeds of it almost from the beginning.  She had accepted his offer more quickly than a happily married woman should.  He could do this.  He could wage war with the bastard using Buffy’s body as the field of battle.  And at the end of the month, when he revealed who and what had brought about these changes in Angel’s perfect little child bride, then Spike’s revenge would be perfect.

He couldn’t allow himself to think about what this would do to Buffy.

He went into the bedroom, opening his shirt as he went.  He was dead tired, and more than a little buzzed from the sex and alcohol.

The bedding still smelled like her perfume, sweet and flowery with just a hint of exotic spice.  Just like her.  He picked up the phone to call housekeeping to change the bed, then changed his mind, crawling nude between the rumpled sheets and letting her scent surround him.  Trying not to think about the fact that she was in another bed now with another man, a man he despised, when he wanted to wrap around her warm body and hold her close as they slept.

Chapter 8    the Ramble

Friday was one of those unusually fine October days that New York is fortunate to get, bright sunshine making the air comfortable bordering on warm, bringing the denizens of the apartment towers and office buildings out in droves to enjoy the outdoors before the snow flew.

Buffy was one of them.  Instead of taking a cab to the East Side, she walked down Central Park West to cut across the park on the Seventy-Ninth Street transect.  The fresh air and warm sunlight did a lot to dispel the butterflies building in her stomach.  She couldn’t think clearly sitting at home alone, her mind racing through all the things she was feeling, all the things she should be feeling.  And she couldn’t think at all when she was with him.  Her capacity for reason went out the window the moment she even heard his voice.  But here, moving, concentrating on her body, in the kind of privacy one can only find in a crowd of strangers, her mind could start to take out the pieces and examine them one by one.

She was cheating on her husband.  Shouldn’t she feel bad about that?  Angel hadn’t done anything to earn her disloyalty.  But she just couldn’t make herself feel guilty about what she was doing.  A little scared, yes.  But not guilty.  A part of her thought that she was actually making herself better for Angel, that she’d be able to offer him more by learning what William was offering to teach her.  But she knew that was mostly just rationalization.  She wanted this for herself, to be different for herself.  To maybe find a way to be happy with her life.

Why did William want her anyway?  He had said himself she was too innocent, too inexperienced.  What could she offer him?  A blank canvas, maybe.  Or perhaps a better analogy would be a raw lump of clay for him to shape to his will.  She found herself trembling at the thought of what she might look like when he was done.

What if he’d changed his mind?

That thought hurried her steps up the sidewalk to the entrance to Belvedere Castle.  And there he was, slouched against the entrance archway, a long black leather coat over his Friday casual business wear.  She smiled in relief and crossed the courtyard toward him.

He saw her as she approached and snapped away the cigarette he had been letting mostly drift to ash to jump down the short flight of steps and meet her halfway.  He didn’t stop walking until she was pressed fully against him, her hands resting at his waist.  He cupped her jaw, fingers loosely threading through her hair, and kissed her welcomingly, a slow, soft, open kiss full of promise but not demanding.  He finally pulled back to look at her, fingering her blonde locks gently.  “Wasn’t sure you would come.  Wasn’t sure last night wasn’t just a fevered fantasy I found at the bottom of a Scotch bottle.”

She smiled.  “No dream.  And of course I’m here.  I always honor my appointments.”

He smiled softly, blue eyes meeting green with a spark.  “I imagine you do, pet.  I’m just glad you’re here.  You hungry?”

“Famished.”

He took her hand and led her back to the steps up to the building where he had been waiting.  There he picked up a large picnic basket and a blanket he had left sitting there.

She was surprised.  “I thought we were going to lunch?”

He handed her the blanket and wrapped an arm around her waist.  “We are.  Operative word ‘out’.  I don’t want to have to share you with a whole restaurant full of people.”

“So instead we’ll picnic in the most populous open space in the entire city?” she asked in amusement.

He smirked at her.  “It can be right cozy if you know where to go.”

They crossed Seventy-Ninth Street and walked along the main path in companionable silence for a few moments before he guided her onto a smaller footpath off the right-hand side of the walkway.  This path twisted and curved through trees and glacial boulders, along ponds and over streams until she felt completely disoriented.  “Are you sure we’re even still in New York?”

“Trust me, pet.  We’re almost there.”

She squeezed his hand in assent and held on, enjoying the warmth and strength of him in so casual a gesture.

Finally they slipped up a hidden trail into the trees, ducking under tree limbs and pushing aside overgrown shrubs until the trees opened up into a very small clearing, a small creek babbling beside it.  She could hear the sounds of traffic not far off, but not so close as to be distracting, hear voices occasionally passing by on a nearby trail.  But otherwise they seemed to be completely isolated.  “Oh, William!  This is so beautiful!  How did you know this was here?”

He took the blanket from her with a wink.  “Man’s gotta have some secrets, luv.”  He spread the blanket out with a flick of his wrist, laying it on the ground where the most sunlight hit it.  “Otherwise a girl loses interest.”  He shrugged out of the duster and the blazer beneath to reveal a purple silk dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, complimenting the black slacks that covered his long legs.

“Can’t imagine anyone losing interest in you.”  She covered her mouth in shock when she realized she had spoken aloud.  He just grinned at her and winked.  “So, what about the basket?” she asked, covering her gaff.  “What secrets have you got in there?”  She knelt down next to it and started to lift the lid.

“I put a bag of snakes in it.”

She dropped the lid quickly, whipping her hand back.

He laughed and sat down next to her.  “Relax, pet, nothing but nummy treats, I promise.”  He began pulling packages out, crusty bread, slices of fresh mozzarella and tomato, small bottles of olive oil and vinegar, marinated artichoke hearts, sliced fruit and two enormous chocolate brownies.  He began working to open the bottle of white wine that was included as she opened the food.

“How did you do all this?” she asked, amazed.

“Wish I could take the credit.  I told the concierge at the hotel what I needed, and he arranged it all.”

“I guess that’s why it’s all so tame,” she looked over the offerings critically.

“I don’t need food to seduce a woman, luv.”

Her skin tingled.

“Besides,” he handed her a glass of wine, “’S not all so prosaic.  Artichokes have a long history as an aphrodisiac.  And chocolate, of course, is the ultimate orgasm replacement drug.  Hmm,” he thought, then reached for the brownies, “maybe I should just get rid of these.”

She grabbed his wrist.  “Oh, you so don’t want to come between me and chocolate.  It’s an ugly, ugly scene.”

He laughed and saluted her with his glass.  “We’ll see.  Maybe I can get you to change your mind.”

She blushed at the innuendo.

“Come on, pet, eat up.  You look as though one stiff breeze could float you away.”

“Oh, thank you, now I feel very attractive.”  She popped a piece of cheese into her mouth with a grimace.

His eyebrow cocked at her.  “Did I say you were unattractive?”  He ripped a hunk of bread off the loaf.

She shrugged.

“Wouldn’t be here if you weren’t, Buffy.  Just think you need to look out for your health is all.”  He handed her the bread, now piled with cheese and tomato, the dark vinegar staining the white cheese in veining patterns.

She took it, surprised.  He thought about her health?  She stared at the food, puzzled.

“It’s a sandwich, pet.  You eat it.”

She laughed, then took a bite.

“That’s better.”  And he began to eat as well.

They didn’t speak much as they ate, content to enjoy each other’s company.  He sat close to her but didn’t crowd her, occasionally stroking her arm or her back, offering her bits of food, more wine, just comfortable and undemanding.  It was a kind of attention she was not used to, and it soothed and relaxed her as much as the meal did.

“Had enough?” he asked finally.

She leaned back on her arms and let her head fall back.  “Mm-hmm.  I feel like I could fall asleep right here.”

He chuckled.  “Well, don’t do that, luv.  But here,” he tossed the last of the containers into the basket and moved it aside, taking up the long coat and folding it into a neat square, “Rest your pretty head here and we’ll have a chat.”

She slid out of the soft cardigan she wore, baring her arms and collar to the warm sun and lay down on the leather pillow.  He settled himself next to her, close but not touching, his head propped up on his elbow to watch her.  “What did you want to talk about?” she asked.

“I had some questions about our arrangement.”

Her heart stopped.  “What kind of questions?”

“Well,” he slowly dragged the back of one finger down her arm, “there are so many things I could show you, so many things I’d like to teach you.  I just wondered if there was anything in particular that you wanted to learn.”

“That I wanted . . .?”  Even such a light touch, coupled with that liquid voice and the blatant sexuality of his question made speaking hard.  Or thinking.  Or anything else.

“Mm-hmm,” he purred.  “Anything you’ve ever been curious to . . . try?”  His fingers danced delicate circles over her collarbone and throat.

She reached up to clutch at his bicep as she lifted her chin to his touch.  “I never . . .” she gasped as his knuckle brushed the peak of her breast, “ . . . never think about it that way.”

“Never fantasize?  Find that hard to believe, a healthy young thing like you.”  He swept his hand lightly down her body.

“No, I just don’t think about actions.  I think more about situations.”  She arched as his hand slid under the hem of her tunic to slide over her stomach.

“More of a roleplayer, then.”  He nuzzled softly into the curve of her neck.  “The last few days must have seemed a romp in your psyche’s playground, then.”

She just nodded.

“Making love in the park on that list?”

“William!”  Her eyes flew open.  “We can’t . . .”

“Side zipper.  What a thoughtful skirt you wore, pet.”

“William . . .”  She succumbed as his warm fingers worried at the waistband of her panties.

“So tell me, luv,” he murmured, his lips resting on her ear, “what do you think about when you touch yourself?”

She mewled softly as one finger slipped under the elastic at her leg.  She tried to move closer, to direct his touch, but he pulled back.

“Uh-uh, pet.  Answer the question.”

“I . . . I don’t.”

“Don’t what?  Don’t think?”

“Don’t . . .” she whimpered as his hand slipped beneath the waistband and began to tangle through the soft curls there.  “I don’t touch.”

“No?”  He did.

She almost wept as his fingers probed her, separating and opening her up to him.  “It doesn’t feel like anything when I touch my oh god William!”

“Like that?”  His fingers slipped around her clit again.  She just nodded.  He slowly walked his fingers around every inch of her eager pussy as she twisted around his touch.  “It’s not unusual for a woman who hasn’t had orgasms yet to not be able to get herself off.”

“But I have . . .”

“Really?  Had a lot of throat searing, glass rattling, bedclothes ripping screaming orgasms in your life?  Guess you don’t need me, then.”  He started to pull his hand away.

“No!”  She clutched at his arm, keeping his hand where it was.

He chuckled and slid three fingers down over her slit and back, comforting, soothing, arousing.  “Considering the week you’ve been having, you might want to try it again sometime.”  He began circling her opening, flicking his thumb against her swollen clit.  Her breath was coming in harsh gasps, sweat beading across her skin.  “It may feel different to you now, now that you know what it can feel like.  You’ll do it for me, won’t you, Buffy?  I want to watch you touch yourself.” 

His fingers slid up to focus on her clit, rubbing slow and hard as she rode against him, whimpering and pleading softly.  “I want to watch you spread out naked in my bed, your hair a mess, your face all flushed, your hips pumping as you finger yourself.”  His fingers moved faster, driving her on.  “I want to watch you come all over yourself.  And then I’m going to take that delicate, busy little hand of yours and lick it clean.  And then,” he shifted his hand, the pad of his thumb taking up the tattoo on her clit as his long fingers began to prod at her opening, “then, I am going to crawl up between your juicy thighs and slide my cock deep inside you and remind you that no matter how good you can make yourself feel, it will always be a distant second to the real thing.” 

He slid his fingers home and began stroking hard and fast, his thumb never easing up.  She began bucking underneath him, clutching at the blanket.  “That’s it, luv, just let it go,” he coaxed.  “Come for me, Buffy.  Just let go.”  He kissed her hard as the scream erupted from her throat, held her seizing body tight with the hand buried inside her.  She clutched at his shoulders, his arms, his head as all control left her and she was driven under by the wave of her release.

As her strength returned, she rolled to face him, her fingers twisting in his hair as she kissed him hungrily, her body arching against his in languid sensuality.  He had wound up something tight within her, something her orgasm had only fueled.  She wanted more, she wanted it all.

She wanted him.

He responded eagerly, devouring her mouth as his hands roamed freely over her body.  But when her hands began working the buckle of his belt, he pulled back, rolling her over to pin her hands to the blanket.  “Buffy, shh sh pet, take it easy.”  He kissed her face softly, staying away from her mouth.  “We can’t, love.  I have to get back to the office.  I’ve stayed too long as it is.”

“Work.”  She stopped struggling against him.  “Oh.”

“Buffy, no, it’s just . . .”

“I understand.”  She turned away, fighting to keep the tears out of her eyes.

“Oh bloody . . .” he rolled off her and away, turning his back on her.  She sat up, straightening her clothes, a stab of shame slicing through her.

“Yeah, this is Fitzwilliam.”  She whipped her head around to see him talking on a cell phone.  “I’m not coming back in this afternoon.  Something’s come up.  Yeah, can you reschedule that for me?  How late is he going to be in tonight?  Okay, tell him I’ll call him after that.  The rest will keep till morning.  Okay, thanks, pet, you’re a dream.  Go home when you’re done, start your weekend early.  You’ve earned it.”  He snapped the phone shut and dropped it in the basket.  “Get your sweater, luv.  We’re off.”

She was baffled by his transformation.  “What?  Where are we going?”

He yanked her against him and plundered her mouth until she couldn’t stand.  When he finally pulled away, he locked eyes with her, his almost black with desire.  “I am hard enough to pound nails, and if I’m gonna spend the next four hours fucking you so you can’t see straight, it’s gonna be somewhere comfortable.  We’re going back to the hotel where we’ll have a proper bed and I can treat you like the wanton, delectable siren you are.  Any problems with that?

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then reached down and scooped up their coats.  “Let’s go.”

Chapter 9    Chocolate and Orgasms

They made out like teenagers in the back of the cab as it slowly worked its way through the mid-afternoon traffic down Fifth Avenue.  The kisses were all soft and wet and eager, speaking of desire and frustration as they ground against each other through their clothes.  He started to slide a hand under the hem of her shirt, but she grabbed his wrist.  “Not here!”

He chuckled and nuzzled into the side of her neck.  “I’m sure he’s seen a lot worse in this job, haven’t you, mate?”

The young cabby looked at them through the rearview mirror.  “Oh, hell yeah!  But not with a girl as pretty as yours.”

Buffy blushed and buried her face in his chest.  He laughed and held her close, lying back against the seat.  “Almost there, love.”

When they pulled up in front of the hotel, he reached across her to open the door and handed her his room key.  “Go on up and make yourself comfortable.  I’ll be up in five minutes.  Oh, and Buffy,” he stopped her as she moved to get out.  He grabbed her wrist and brought her hand down onto the solid bulge in his lap, sliding it up and down.  “If you like that outfit?  Don’t be wearing it when I get there.”

She blushed again, but her eyes twinkled wickedly as she leaned in for a quick kiss, giving his package a warm squeeze before she slipped out of the car.

He watched her climb the steps, the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass, the way her hair rose and fell with each step.  Finally, she disappeared through the revolving door, and he turned to the driver.  “Just around the block, but take your time.”

“Not much problem with that, this time of day on a Friday,” the man said, pulling away from the curb.  “You two been seeing each other long?”

Spike kept watching the point where she had vanished.  “Not long enough.”

“Yeah, I get that.  New love.  Makes you feel like you’ve known each other forever, but you still can’t get enough.”

He barely heard the man’s words.  He just wanted to get back to her.  Ached for her.

She amazed him.  She was so open, so artless, all passion and no artifice.  When she committed herself to a path, she gave herself over to it completely.  He didn’t know how she had justified the infidelity to herself, but she seemed to have, somehow, because she came to him without guilt.  Shy, embarrassed, but unashamed.  It was a heady drug, having that power over a woman.

But then, she had it over him, didn’t she?

How had she gotten him to capitulate so easily?  It wasn’t just lust.  It wasn’t like he had never had to endure unresolved sexual tension before.  But the look in her eyes at the thought that his work was more important than she was had devastated him.  He didn’t want her to see him like that.  Didn’t want to be like that.

Like him.

“Here we are, buddy.”  The cabby broke him out of his reverie.

“Thanks, mate.”  He paid the fare and added a twenty dollar tip.

“Thank you, man!  You two have a fine afternoon!”

Spike grinned wickedly.  “Too right we will . . .”

He stopped at the front desk on his way through the lobby.  “I left my key at the office.  Can I get the spare?”

“Of course, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”  The uniformed brunette behind the counter turned and pulled his key and several slips of paper out of his box and handed them to him.  “Your messages as well, sir.  Anything else I can do for you this afternoon?”

“Yeah, can you hold my calls and visitors for the afternoon?  I’m gonna be working and don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Of course, Mr. Fitzwilliam.  Have a productive afternoon.”

“I will, thanks.”

The elevator ride seemed to take forever.  He bounced on the balls of his feet, eager, anticipating.  Come on, come on.

He turned the key in the lock and opened his door quietly, kicking off his shoes as he closed it behind him.  “Buffy?”

“I thought you might not be so hard on your own clothes.”

He turned toward the bedroom door and stopped, the wind knocked out of him.

She stood in the doorway, a vision.  She had brushed out her hair and it now hung in a loose cloud around her face.  Her legs and feet were bare, and her torso was covered in one of his shirts, red cotton buttoned all but the top two buttons, the sleeves hanging down to cover her hands.

His eyes narrowed, his breath shallow.  He was overwhelmed with a sense of possession.  His clothes, his woman.  He ran his tongue seductively over his teeth and stepped towards her, dragging his fingers lightly down the buttons.

“That’s where you would be wrong.”

He laid hands on the open throat of the shirt and yanked, sending the tiny pearl buttons scattering in all directions.  She gasped but didn’t flinch, her eyes wide and dark as he opened the shirt to run his hand down her throat, between her breasts and over her belly.  “There’s nothing that turns a man on more than seeing the woman he’s about to fuck into oblivion wearing one of his shirts.”  He stepped closer, running his tongue along her neck as he cupped her breast, thumbing over the nipple.  “Except maybe seeing the woman he’s already shagged to pieces wearing nothing but a smile . . .”

He wrapped his arms around her waist under the shirt, holding her naked form against his body as he walked her backward into the bedroom, tossing her into the middle of the bed.  She crawled backwards, propped up on her arms, the shirt pooling on the bed to leave all but her shoulders and arms bare, her face flushed and hungry.

He was no gentler with his own shirt than he had been with hers.  The buttons that didn’t fly tore, and he would have done the same to his trousers if the button there hadn’t been riveted on.  Everything fell to the floor and he was crawling up the bed, stalking her.  He growled, and she whimpered, baring her throat to him.  Mine, he thought as he moved between her legs, nuzzling at her neck as his cock rubbed along her damp slit.  “Can’t wait, Buffy,” he grumbled into her ear.  “Need you too much.”

“Don’t.”  She tangled her legs around his hips, lowering her back onto the bed.  “Don’t wait.  Do it.  Please.”

He moved, prodding gently until he was situated, her soft mewls guiding him on, making him harder.  He lifted his head to look into her eyes as he pushed himself home.

She cried out and clutched at his shoulders, arching her hips into his stroke.  He drew two deep breaths and began moving, slow strokes escalating quickly to bone rattling thrusts.  She was so tight, so wet, so god!  “I’m not going to last long here, love.”

“Just do it.”  Her voice was guttural, lost in the pleasures of his demand.

He didn’t slow his movement, slamming harder and harder into her as he brought his mouth to suckle her breast, his hand down to finger her clit hard.  Her head snapped back, eyes open but unseeing as she screamed a hoarse, orgasmic keen that drove him over the edge.

“Christ!”  He sunk into her, hips jerking as he pent in violent, spastic bursts that seemed to last a lifetime.  When his muscles released him, he collapsed on top of her.  She laughed breathlessly and wrapped her arms around him.

He held her and rolled over, her head pillowed on his chest, their legs entwined.  “Not quite the way I’d planned that,” he confessed.

She just looked up at him and smiled.  “The afternoon’s not over yet.”  She nestled her head back into his chest with a sigh.  He kissed the top of her head.

Mine.

She slipped out of bed to grab the picnic basket, fishing out the brownies and the remains of the wine.  She had spread a napkin across his stomach and was using it as a table for the brownies.  She still wore the red shirt, the sleeves now rolled up to her elbows, but the front open to reveal all her womanly charms to his gaze.  She broke pieces off of one of the brownies and fed him, stealing some for herself.  “See?  Chocolate and orgasms.”  Her eyes twinkled.

He smiled and shook his head, folding his hands behind his neck.  “You always get your own way?”

“No, but I’m learning.”  She slipped another piece into his mouth.  He caught at her fingers and sucked lightly.

God, she was adorable when she was playful!

He broke a piece off himself and lifted it to her lips.  She took it delicately in her teeth, then closed her lips around his fingers, sliding her tongue over the pads.  He groaned.

She broke off another piece and crumbled it over his chest, then leaned down to begin licking and sucking the crumbs off his taut muscles.  He rolled his head back with a soft groan, resting his hand in her hair.  Her mouth was gentle and wet and warm, and he could feel himself getting aroused again.  She looked up, pushing the hair out of her face, smiling proudly.  “You like that?”

He pulled her down to kiss her, tasting the lingering chocolate on her mouth, as he pushed her onto her back.  “Let me show you how much.”  He slid the napkin off to the side, taking another piece of brownie to crumble over her breasts and stomach.  He saw her stomach muscles clench in anticipation.  He lipped his way across her collarbone, gathering up every crumb.  She sighed as he moved down onto her breasts, gasping as his tongue flicked out to collect one larger piece balanced against her tight nipple.  He slid around to straddle her knees, dropping down to lick spirals over her belly, leaving smears of chocolate on her tanned skin.  Her hips arced slightly as his head descended along the crease of her thighs, her breath coming in eager gasps.

She gripped his head to pull him back up to her mouth, kissing him hungrily as she rolled him back onto his back.  She slung one leg across his hips and slipped back and forth along his length.

“This how you want it, pet?” he asked huskily.

She slid her hands down her thighs.  “You like it.”

God.  “But do you?”  His hands followed hers down her legs.

Her hands moved over his stomach.  “Yes.  Oh yes.”

He lifted her hips to center her on him, then let her drop down on her own, taking him deep into her.  They both moaned at the penetration, and she began rocking against him.  His hands cupped her breasts, caressing their curves, thumbing her nipples, watching the changes in her face as she rode him.

He reached up to push her hair from her face, curling his fingers along her jaw.  “You see?” he murmured as she moved against him.  “You see how it can feel when you know what you want?  You are indescribable like this, all the passion, all the pleasure written all over you.”  He slid his hands along the curves of her waist.  “You make me feel like I was created for your pleasure alone.  God, you fit me so naturally.”

She met his eyes, her mouth open and swollen, her tongue moving in promising touches in time to the circling of her hips.  “Is this how it’s supposed to feel?” she breathed.

“Oh yes, pet.  How do you feel?”

“Powerful.  Glowing.  Incredible.”

“You are.  All those things and more.”

“William . . .”

But he felt it, too, the shallow tightening that presaged her orgasm.  He gripped her hips and changed his angle, thrusting harder, faster, slamming up against her down stroke, making her cry out.  “That’s it, love, ride it hard.  You’ve worked so hard, you’ve earned this.  Come on, come for me.  You can feel it . . .”

She began shuddering, the rhythm of her strokes lost as her body was overwhelmed with her release.  She cried aloud and fell against him, trying to keep her hips moving, wanting to still feel him.

He understood and, gripping her tight, rolled them both over to take control.  She was still so wet, her muscles trembling against his cock as he pounded into her with slick, suctioning strokes.  “Buffy, god pet, feel so good, so right.  Never want this to stop . . .”

But it did.  He came with a roar, and she followed him over the edge again.  They came down in each other’s arms, holding and gently caressing each other as they calmed.

The remnants of the chocolate stayed sticky on their skin, so when they were able and inclined to move again, they migrated into the bathroom.  He ran the water for the shower as she brushed the knots out of her hair.  When she was done, he handed her into the spray without a word, stepping in after her.  He carefully washed her hair, massaging her scalp, drawing his fingers through the soapy tresses before rinsing it clean.  Then he got to his knees so she could do the same for him, his cheek resting against the roundness of her belly.  When she finished, he got back to his feet and they washed each other, slow, slippery caresses over curves and plains and hollows.  And in the warm cascade, he made love to her again, an undemanding coming together of bodies that was the most natural, gentle, beautiful thing in the world.

They dried off, and he wrapped a towel around his waist, dressing her in a hotel bathrobe and sitting her on the toilet to dry her hair.  He ran the brush through gently, following each stroke with the dryer until her mane was a cascade of shining gold waves again.

They dressed in silence.  He pulled a clean t-shirt out of the drawer to replace the dress shirt he had destroyed to get to her.  When he turned back, she was pulling her hair out of the collar of her shirt and sitting down on the bed to pull her boots on.  He intercepted her, taking the shoe from her to slip her foot into it and slide the zipper up, stroking her calf and thigh comfortably.  He repeated the process on her other leg, then looked into her eyes.  She smiled, a gentle, compassionate smile that reached all the way into her eyes.

His throat tightened and he reached out to cup her cheek.  “I don’t want you to go.”  And god help him, he meant it.

She covered his hand with hers.  “It’s only for a couple of days.”

His face hardened.  “Because he’ll be home.”

She nodded.  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the room key he had given her and offered it back.

He closed his fingers over it.  “Keep it.  Use it when you can.”

She kissed him softly.  “I will.  As soon as I can.”

He started to follow her out, but she stopped him.  “It’s probably better if I go alone.  Besides, you don’t have any shoes on.”  She kissed him again quickly and disappeared out the door.

He felt bereft, as though the only light in the room had been extinguished.

Was this his plan?

Chapter 10    The Ladies Who Lunch

She felt ready to crawl out of her skin.

Angel had been home all day, but shut away in his study.  Surely she could slip away for a few hours . . .

No.  She could survive two days without seeing him.  Two days out of thirty.  Which meant she’d only have twenty-eight days with him.  Less the two days for next weekend.  And the weekend after that.  And was there one more after that before he left?  So her thirty days were down to twenty-two.  And two of those had already passed . . .

She had almost convinced herself that Angel wouldn’t miss her for a few hours when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie!”  Cordelia Chase’s voice came through the line.

“Cordelia!  How are you?”

“Bored out of my mind, dearest.  You feel up to that lunch we talked about?”

“You know, that sounds like just the thing I need.  Where should I meet you?”

“How about Café des Artistes?  I haven’t been in ages, and I’m dying to be seen by the theatrical elite again.”

Buffy laughed.  “Still looking for the easy way to Broadway?”

She chuffed.  “They worry too much about silly things like talent.  So what if I can’t carry a tune in a paper sack?  So I’ll see you there at one?”

“I’ll be there.”

She smiled as she hung up the phone.  Lunch with Cordelia was just the thing to distract her.

But if they weren’t meeting until one, she still had a couple of hours. . .

“Stop it!”

“What’s going on?” Angel asked from the living room door.  He had a file in one hand and a beer in the other, and the glazed look on his face that he would get when working out complicated permutations of the law in his head.

“Nothing.”  She blushed that he had caught her talking to herself.  To cover, she asked, “Do you mind if I go to lunch with Cordelia today?”

He looked up from his file with a scowl.  “Why would you want to?”

She sighed.  “Because she’s my friend, Angel.  We have a good time together and I enjoy her company.”

“Fine, whatever.  Where are you going?”

“Café des Artistes.”

“Do you know when you’ll be back?”

“No.  Probably around three or so.”

“Okay.  I thought we’d order out tonight.  I’ve got a bunch more of this to get through, or I’d take you out.”

“No, that’s fine.  I’ll just rent a movie or something.”

“Have fun at lunch,” he said as he drifted back off to his study.

So he’d be waiting for her to get home.  Which meant no sneaking off to the Plaza after lunch.

Damn it.

Just five blocks from Lincoln Center, the Hotel des Artistes had been residential living for artists and actors for almost eighty-five years.  And the Café housed therein reflected that, drawing an upscale blend of theater, performance and publishing people to its tables.  And the food was amazing.

Buffy and Cordy had a small table off to the side where they could see and be seen by anyone who came through.  They were all strangers to Buffy, but Cordelia would occasionally interrupt her train of thought to wave to someone she knew.  Or wanted to.  She collected the phone numbers of no less than three gentlemen while they waited for their orders to be delivered.

“How do you do that?” Buffy asked as she poked at her lobster salad.

“Weren’t you watching?”  Cordy popped a forkful of chicken Waldorf salad in her mouth innocently.

“Well, yes, but I still didn’t see it.”

She gestured with her fork.  “It’s the smile.  You put the soft smile with the come hither eyes and they’re all over you.”

“But you don’t even know if they’re married or not!”

“Which would matter to me if I was looking for a husband.”

“But what about the wives?  Don’t you care what it does to them?”

She shrugged.  “Not my problem.  That’s between them.  I’m just in it for the sex.”

Buffy pushed her plate away.  “I don’t know.  That just seems really shallow, even for you.”

“Judgmental Buffy.  Now this is a side of you I haven’t seen before.”  She pushed back her plate as well.  “Something hitting close to home?”

“No!  No, why would it be?”

Cordelia shrugged.  “I just thought maybe Angel was . . .”

“It’s not Angel.  I wish you wouldn’t always think so badly of him.”

“Okay, so if it’s not Angel, who is it?”

Buffy took up her fork and began poking at the remains of her salad.  Finally, she said, “I have this friend . . .”

Cordy took the fork away from her and put it on her own plate.  “A friend,” she said in disgust.  “Buffy, I’m glad to give you the benefit of my vast experience, but don’t treat me like I’m stupid.  Are you having an affair?”

Before she could answer, the waitress interrupted them.  “All done, ladies?  Can I get you dessert?  Coffee?”

Cordelia answered for them.  “Yes to all three.  I’m going to have the Ilona torte.  How about you, Buffy?”

Buffy smiled faintly at the woman.  “I’ll have the crème brule trio.”

“And coffee for both of us,” Cordy reminded the girl, handing her Buffy’s plate as the waitress took her own.  “Thank you.”  When the girl was gone, Cordelia turned back on Buffy.  “Okay, talk.”

“I just . . .” She couldn’t say the words, so she redirected.  “Do you think there’s ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on your spouse?”

Cordy picked up her wine glass and took a thoughtful sip.  “That’s a big question, honey.  You know my perceptions on marital fidelity are a little avant garde, but yes, I do think there are some situations where it is okay.”

“Like what?”

“Well.  If one of the partners can’t perform.  Or doesn’t want to perform.  Or if the couple doesn’t love each other anymore but for some reason they can’t end the marriage.  I’d even leave a loop hole for one of the partners just being bad in bed, but that’s me.”  She leaned back as the waitress brought their coffee.  When she had gone again, Cordy asked sympathetically, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, is he good looking?”

“Oh god yes!” Buffy answered in a moment of brutal honesty.

Cordelia grinned.  “Well, that’s something, anyway!  Dish!”

So Buffy described William, in almost too much detail.  As she went on, Cordy’s playful smile became more serious.  Finally she asked, “Buffy, do you have feelings for this guy?”

“What?  No!  And it wouldn’t matter if I did.  He’s only going to be here for another month and then he’s going back to England and who knows what kind of life.”

“Hon, you know how I feel about Angel, and I’ve always said you could do better.  But why are you doing this?  It’s so not like you.”

“I know.  I can’t explain it, either.  And the worst part is I don’t feel bad about it.  I actually feel guilty about not feeling guilty.”

“That’s a different perspective.”

“It’s . . .  I just feel so different when I’m with him.  Like I can be so much more than I am.  And he encourages that in me.  I want to be that.  I want to be more than just a lawyer’s wife.”

“Do you think Angel wants that?”

“I think he will, when he sees what I can be.  I don’t think . . .” she dropped her eyes to fiddle with her coffee spoon.  “I don’t think he’s satisfied with me.  But I think he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings by asking me to change.  William doesn’t have to worry about that.  He can fix me without worrying that my feelings are going to get hurt.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t need fixing.  Don’t ever let that gargoyle make you feel otherwise!”

Buffy’s eyes widened in panic.  “Cordy, you can’t ever say anything to Angel about William!  Please, you have to promise me!”

She reached across the table to pat Buffy’s hand comfortingly.  “When do I ever talk to Angel, anyway?  Don’t worry your little head about it.”  She pulled back again as the waitress delivered their desserts.  She picked up her fork to begin on her cake.  “I’m not going to tease you, and I’m not going to judge you.  I’m just going to give you one piece of advice.  Affairs are all well and good until someone’s heart gets involved.  Then it’s nothing but pain and misery.  So just watch your feelings, and get out if it feels like it’s becoming something more.”

Buffy brought down her spoon to crack the caramelized sugar on the first of her crèmes.  “It wouldn’t matter even if I did.  Built in termination date, remember?”

“Buffy, I mean it.  Just be careful.  And, in the meantime,” she straightened up, her normal wicked look returning, “I will be happy to be your resident excuse.  Just name me as the fall guy anytime you want to escape tall, dark and forehead and I’ll gladly cover for you.”  She forked up more torte.  “Hell, I probably won’t even have to.  Like he’d call me for any reason at all!”

Buffy laughed.

“That’s better.  So, tell me how you met Mr. Salty Goodness . . .”

Chapter 11    Book Learning

Buffy sat at the table in the sunroom, finishing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle.  She wore well-worn sweat shorts and an oversized t-shirt of Angel’s, her hair bunched up in a slouchy ponytail.  She rocked the pen between her fingers, sipping at her coffee and trying to think of an eight letter word with the fifth letter “L” which meant “a nerve” when the antique bell on the front door of their brownstone rang out.  Angel was still in the shower, so with a last swallow of coffee, she unfolded herself from the chair and went to answer it.

She was surprised to find a bicycle courier there.  They didn’t usually come up into the Eighty blocks, and certainly not at eleven a.m. on a Sunday.  The young man smiled when she answered.  “Buffy Summers?”

“Yes?”

“Package for you.  Sign here, please?”

She took the clipboard and pen from him, eyeing the brown paper package he held curiously as she signed.  She handed him back the clipboard, then patted her nonexistent pockets apologetically.  “I’m sorry, I don’t have a . . .”

He held up a hand.  “Not a problem.  It’s already been taken care of.”  He handed her the package.  “You have a fine Sunday!”  And he was off on his bike like a shot.

She studied the package as she closed the door.  Her name and address were carefully hand lettered on the paper wrapping in a handwriting she didn’t recognize.  There was no return address.  Instead, where the return label should be, as well as in several other places, the words “Personal and Confidential” had been written in red ink and underlined several times.  Nothing else indicated the source of the mysterious package.

She set it down on the coffee table as she sat on the couch.  “Guess I’d better see what’s inside.”  Using one nail, she carefully slit the tape on one end and then on the other, rolling it over to slit the last piece on the bottom.  She unfolded the paper to reveal an ornate, silk covered box, red paisley fabric covering the bottom while the top was a solid red, a black tassel in the middle of it as a handle.  She put the paper on the floor.  Well, at least it didn’t look like it would blow up.  What self-respecting bomber would use such a pretty box?  She reached out and carefully lifted the lid by the handle.

The last thing she had expected it to contain was books.  And sitting on top, on a half sheet of Plaza stationary, was a note.  “For your inspiration and pleasure.  W.”

She blushed even as she grinned and dove into the box.

There were five books in all, one hardcover and four paperbacks, all bound in various shades of purple and fuschia and peach.  The hardcover was the newest edition of The Joy of Sex.  She flipped through it briefly, embarrassed to find herself being titillated by the tasteful drawings of men and women engaged in all manner of intimate expression.  She put it back in the box and looked at the others.

They were actually two pairs of books, The Secret Garden and Forbidden Flowers by Nancy Friday and The Sweet Life 1 and 2 by Violet Blue.

As she scanned the jacket notes, she realized what these were.  He had sent her collections of fantasies.  Women’ fantasies, couples’ fantasies, but all erotic imaginings.  A part of her started to get angry.  Didn’t he think the kind of fantasies she had were good enough?  But then she realized.  His note hadn’t said they were for her education, they were for her inspiration.  He wanted her to read these, get aroused by them.  Find pleasure in them . . .

Her heart started pounding.

“Buffy?” Angel’s voice came from the hall, startling her.  She scrambled to put the books and the note back in the box and pushed the box under the couch, spinning around to stand straight just as he came into the living room.  “Did I hear the door?”

“Oh!  Yeah.  It was nothing.  Just . . .”  She shrugged, her mind racing to think of something.  “ . . . Jehovah’s Witness.  But I told them we weren’t interested.”

“Jehovah’s Witness?  On a Sunday?”

She shrugged again, struggling to look innocent as she toed the brown paper wrapping under the couch as well.  “Maybe they forgot what day it is?”

“Are you okay?  You look kind of flushed.”

“Fine!  I’m really.  Fine.  I was sitting in the sunroom.  In the sun.  It was pretty warm.”

“Okay.”  He still looked puzzled.  “I’m going to grab something to eat and then I have to go in to the office for an hour or so.”

“Okay.  I think I’ll just . . . stay here.”  She flushed.  “Maybe catch up on some reading . . .”

She sat curled up on the couch, her knees up to her chest, the book she was reading gripped tightly in her right hand.  The silk covered box sat open next to her.

She’d lost all track of time as she’d disappeared into these women’s fantasies.  She wasn’t sheltered by any means, but she’d never thought about sex in these graphic, abandoned, sometimes violent terms

While I watched, he dialed the number quickly and then handed me the phone.  “Victoria Morris, please,” I said when the receptionist answered.  As I talked my way through Vicky’s personal assistant, Jon moved me around, so that my ass was toward him.  Swiftly, he lowered my jeans down my thighs, leaving them on but out of his way.

It was all the more overpowering because it was real.  These were real fantasies women had, real things they did.  It made her feel like such a child sexually, to never have considered that this world existed.  And it made her want to explore it more.

Vicky is a high-level attorney, but I knew she wouldn’t mind a call at work.  Still, I couldn’t immediately think of anything to say as Jon’s cock worked its powerful way into my tight cunt.  He had one hand around my waist, and his fingers lingered lightly between the lips of my pussy.

The phone rang.

She reached out with her left hand to grab the handset off the sofa table behind her, never taking her eyes off the page as she pushed the talk button.  “Hello?”  She was surprised by how husky and low her voice sounded.

There was a warm chuckle on the other end of the line.  “You enjoying your present, pet?”

“William?”

“You getting packages from more than one secret admirer?”

“No!  Of course not.  I just didn’t expect to hear from you.  I wanted to come over . . .”

“Sh, shh, ‘s okay.  I’m not even home.  Working diligently away at the office so I can be at your beck and call this week.”

“Oh.”  He was making time to be with her.  It shouldn’t have pleased her so much.

“So, what do you think of the books?” he asked, his voice soft, alluring.

“They’re . . . overwhelming.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“That’s why I thought you might like them.  Broaden your horizons a bit.”  He paused, and she could almost hear him smirking.  “Find anything you want to try?”

“William!”  She pushed the box away and pulled her knees closer to her chest.

He chuckled, a rich, erotic sound.  “No, no, pet.  No shrinking violet with me.  I’m here to make all your fantasies come true.  So you have to tell me what they are.”

“I . . . I can’t.”  She went on before he could interrupt her.  “I just . . . haven’t processed it enough.  I can’t begin to sort it out in my head yet.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded.  “Tell you what, you mark your favorites, and the next time I see you, you can tell me all about it.  Preferably while I do decadent things to your body.”

The thought of telling him these wicked fantasies as he went down on her almost made her swoon.

“Buffy?  You still with me, pet?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes closed.  “I’m here.”

“If I’d known you were so sensitive to suggestion, I would have called you days ago.”

“I . . .”  Something dawned on her.  “William, how did you get this number?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a stalker without your telephone number now, would I?”

“I’m serious!”  A note of panic crept into her voice.  “I never gave you my number.”

“Buffy.”  His teasing voice was now serious, soothing.  “You’re listed in the phonebook, luv.”

She stopped.  “Oh.”

“See?  Nothing sinister.  It’s also how I got your address, in case you were wondering.”

“I’m sorry.  I guess I’m just a little . . .”

“Worked up?”  The teasing, seductive voice was back.  “I can imagine.  You’ve gotten used to daily orgasms.  Going a couple of days without has made you . . . tense.”

“William,” she groaned.

“I can take care of that for you.”

“Oh god!  I can’t.  I want to, but I can’t.  My husband . . . he could be home any time.”

“Yes, you can.  And you don’t even have to leave the house.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Buffy.”  He stopped her.  “Do you trust me?”

She couldn’t lie to him.  “Yes.”

“Where are you right now?”

She looked around.  “Living room.  Sitting on the couch.”

“Perfect.  Lean back against the arm of the sofa.  Get all nice and comfy.”

She surrendered, gave herself up to his honeyed words, let him shape her just with his voice alone.

“That’s it,” he coaxed.  “Put your dimpled knees up, there’s a good girl.  You holding the phone in your left hand?”

She shifted it.  “Am now.”

“Put your right hand on your bare stomach.”  She complied.  “Now just move it around in soft, light circles.  Feel how soft the skin is, how strong the muscles are underneath.”  She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensations, feeling almost as though her hand was an extension of his own.  “Let your hand wander up now, luv.  Let it feel how round and firm your breasts are.”  She hummed lightly at the contact.  “You like that, do you?”

“Yeah,” she breathed.

“Are your nipples hard?”

She ran her hand across one aureole, then the other, holding her palm centered over them.  “Not yet.  I can feel them . . . feels like they’re twisting against my hand.”

It was his turn to hum.  “Wish I was there to suck on them.”

She gasped softly, his words sending an electric charge through her.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  My mouth, wet and warm on your pretty little flowers, licking them, sucking on them . . .”

“Oh, William,” she groaned.

“Move your hand down, Buffy.”  His voice was deeper, more gravelly, and she could tell he wasn’t unmoved by this.  “Slide it back down over your stomach, down into your panties where it’s all warm and secret.  Spread your knees, pet, open yourself up to it.  Slide your fingers right down into it and tell me how it feels.”

“H . .hot,” she stammered, overwhelmed by the sensations of her cooler fingers invading her center.  “Thick.  Slippery.”

“Mmm.  I’d imagine so.  Spread that lovely stuff around, pet.  Make everything nice and wet.  All over that beautiful cunny of yours.”

She did as he instructed, opening up lips and folds, spreading up from her opening to the hard little nub of her clitoris.  She gasped as her fingers slid over it.

He didn’t miss it.  “Find something you like, pet?  Don’t be shy, give it a good hard rub from me.”

She cried out at the sensation as she roughly stroked it with two fingers.  She did it again, and again, whimpering as she arched her hips into each stroke.

“Christ, Buffy, you’re killin’ me.  The sounds you make . . . wish I were there.”

She felt encumbered, restricted.  She paused to arch her hips up, pushing shorts and underwear down around her ankles, before returning to eagerly attack her nub.  “What . . . what would you do if you were here?” she panted.

“Vixen!” he groaned in her ear, and she could almost feel his hot breath on her throat.  He drew a shuddering breath.  “I’ll tell you what I’d be doing.  I’d be sitting behind you, my legs on either side of you, holding you in place as you lay back against my chest.”  Her strokes became shorter, faster, more fierce as he went on.  “You’d know how much I want you because you’d feel how hard I am against your ass.  But I want to watch this, watch you, more.  So I’d hold you, and suck the sweat off your neck and shoulder, and fondle your beautiful, beautiful breasts as you writhe against me in pleasure.”

She sobbed aloud, feeling the power of his words and her impending release driving out all thought.

“Yes, love, come on.  You can do it.  Keep it nice and wet now.  You don’t want it to hurt when it feels soooo good now.”  He paused, then continued.  “But as soon as you were done, as soon as you came, do you know what I’d do?”

She couldn’t get her answer past her throat, but he seemed to understand, because he went on.  “I would push you forward so you were up on your knees, supporting yourself on the other arm of the sofa.  That’s it, petal, a little harder, you’re almost there.  And I’d grab your hips and slide my cock back and forth until it was all nice and wet.  And then I’d shove it into your quivering little quim so hard and so deep . . .”

His final words were lost as she wailed out her climax, her body bucking so hard she dropped the phone.  She lay there for long moments, too spent to move, before she remembered it.  Weakly she pawed through the cushions before finding the handset shoved into the corner.  “William?”

She could hear his smile.  “Welcome back, pet.  How do you feel?”

She laughed breathlessly.  “Limp.  And also very good.  What about you?”

“Well,” he confessed, his rich voice slightly tense, “I may have to go to the loo and get myself off like a teenager if I plan to get anything else done today.”

“Oh!  You mean you couldn’t . . . you didn’t . . .”

He chuckled.  “No, like a fool I didn’t lock my door when I decided to call you.  Didn’t expect it to affect me as well.  My own silly fault.  I should know by now that everything about you affects me.”

She sighed and smiled, her breathing finally settling down to normal.  “I promise to make it up to you tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, pet.”

“Just so long as you’re holding me . . .”

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