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Monday, June 17, 2013

The Englishman--Excerpt

[Anna and Giles make out in his office.]

He pushes the low table to one side with his shin and sinks onto the sofa, pulling me with him. I try to sit demurely with my feet on the floor, but he hooks his arm underneath my knees and lifts me right onto his lap, my legs along the length of the seat. The dim light from the Christmas festoon shines onto him; and my heart skips a beat. He looks radiant. I smooth the silver hair back from his forehead and marvel at the look of happiness on his face. Incredible as it may sound, he is as delighted with me as I am with him. We kiss and kiss; his hand slides up from my waist to my breast; with his thumb he chafes the hardening tip until I gasp.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he whispers against my mouth. “Tonight, however…”
Then his hand is on my silken knee, caressing my thighs with a mixture of delight and confidence that is absolutely irresistible. Again his fingers glide across the lacy border between silk and skin, only this time they’re doing so on the inside of my leg, which is a dozen times more sensitive than the outside. For a while that’s where they remain, traveling along the lace edge from thigh to thigh.
“You’re not angry with me anymore?”
His fingers tighten on my flesh. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Giles, please…”
“I wish I could take you in the middle of Library Square,” he says, and I can hear his hurt in the hoarseness of his voice. “At midday, on a hot day in summer. So I could see your face, and the whole world could see your face, when you come for me!” The back of his index finger runs over my lower lip, and I catch it between my teeth, bite and release.
“I don’t come for you, you arrogant male!”
“Yes, you do.” His fingertip returns to the danger zone on my lower lip, and I nibble at the pad of flesh, but gently. “I know very well that I can’t make you come.” He is watching my mouth, his eyes glistening. “If you’re willing, I can help. That’s all.”
His wry statement makes me laugh; I don’t know whether he is being coy or candid. “Mommy’s little helper.”
His eyes shoot up to mine. For a second or two he looks almost shocked; then his features soften.
“Kiss me again,” he whispers, and there is now a catch in his voice that tells me as much as the state of his cock that playtime is over. I kiss him without hesitation, and as our tongues meet, his fingers slip inside my panties and he finds me. My entire consciousness gathers in the pool of sensation between my legs; my whole self is at his fingertips as they inch across the fleshy mound and descend into the moist curls of hair. For perhaps a quarter of a minute he sits motionless, cupping me in his warm, large hand. Then one finger, the whole length of it, dips between the swollen, exquisitely sensitive lips. My hips pick up the rhythm and move against his hand.
“Like that?” he asks huskily.

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