She rose above me, lithe and sinuous, her hand sliding between her legs. Her lashes flickered, her eyes rolling closed as she pressed my cock against the warm, wet ribbon of her flesh. I hissed out a curse, my body twisting under hers.
The soft slickness of her acceptance.
The hot grip of her walls.
The surge of her body above me.
I felt like I was truly coming undone, unravelling at the seams.
Heat began to twist inside me, my balls drawing tight as I’d wrapped my arms around her back and flipped her under me. At least, I think that was my plan. But not hers. On my knees, one hand braced against the wall, the other bound her to me as my movements became wild and frantic. My mind was a haze of pure red, the need to own her something darker and harder than I’ve ever felt. Amazingly, she accepted this frenzy, her arms wrapped around my neck and her heels at my back.
“Oh, my God. I can’t believe it’s happening again.” There was a tremor in her voice, her disbelief, the second before her body began to throb around me. And it was in that moment of awe-filled amusement when everything ceased to make sense. Life, the bed, the room around us blurring around the edges.
“Fuck . . .”
With my last remaining brain cell, I’m sure, I’d realised the risk we were taking. The risk I was taking. There is no room for a child in my life, let alone a woman.
Lowering her back to the bed, I began to pull out, probably going cross-eyed as Holland’s internal muscles clenched around my cock, determined to keep me there. I pressed my lips to hers and took my glistening cock in my hand. Not a moment later, I began to come undone, painting her body’s blushes with lashes of my cum.
Back in the room with the clock ticking and the birds singing from the branch of a tree outside, I drop the papers to the desk as I press my head to my hands.
I’ve got to stop doing this.
For the sake of my sanity.
For the sake of my throbbing balls.
I sit back with a groan, pressing the heel of my palm against my poor aching cock, looking up as the door to the office opens.
“Did you say something?” Portia asks, her hand wrapped around the door as though she’d like to come in but won’t without an invitation.
“No.” My voice sounds hoarse, my hand frozen on my crotch. Move it and I might look like I’ve been having a little fun alone time. Or as Portia might see it, that I’ve locked myself in my study to interfere with myself. Emphasis on self.
Why, when I’m here, I can almost hear her say. She’d take it as a personal affront.
“Oh. Well, are you going to be very much longer in here?”
“No. Not too much longer.” Why do our conversations seem so stilted?
“You’ve been gone an age. Bad enough that you didn’t pick me up for dinner,” she adds with a bright smile, “but then you abandon me in favour of work.”
“I didn’t abandon you.” She turned up here when I thought we’d agreed to meet at the restaurant. “Picking you up would imply this was a date. It would imply we meant something to each other.”
That was unkind. Snide even. But must we keep dancing around this? Is she waiting for an offer of marriage or for me to give her the flick?
Portia flushes and straightens her dress, then completely ignoring the implication of my words, tells me she’ll wait for me downstairs.
As the door to the room closes, I drag a tired hand down my face as I wonder why I’d sought to call her at all. We haven’t spent time together since before my birthday. And by that, I mean she’d neither spent the night in my bed nor been fucked. Not by me, at least. Perhaps she’s been fucked by someone else. I’m unsurprised that the thought doesn’t appear to matter to me. Once, I’d thought we’d suit each other. We come from the same backgrounds and understand marriage is often for convenience rather than love. And whatever happened between us, I knew she wouldn’t go running to the tabloid newspapers. That she’s still here makes me wonder if perhaps she didn’t believe me when I said I’d never marry again.
I look up once more as Portia’s head appears around the door to my study again, almost as though she’s afraid to come in.
“John is here with the car,” she murmurs.
I nod, and she retreats. With a weary sigh, I begin to close my laptop. Portia seems to think my recent milestone birthday has left a melancholic, lingering effect. I’m sure my friends think the same. I can’t say they’re entirely wrong, though they aren’t right either because the experience of turning forty might be something that’s messed with my head. Nudged my equilibrium. But it isn’t the prospect of getting old that fills me with dread. Instead, what has left me feeling out of sorts and perhaps even a little bereft is the knowledge that I’ll never turn forty again. And by that, I mean I’ll never have the opportunity again to spend the night with Holland.