9. Dirty
CHAPTER 9
Dirty
ALISTAIR
Neither of us feels like going to a formal restaurant, so we grab some comfort food and a pint at a nearby pub. We find a cozy booth and settle in. We sit close together, with Ivy’s leg over mine—it’s as close as we can get without drawing undue attention. Everything about the dinner is comforting: having Ivy so close, the flaky steak and Guinness pie, the dark porter I order from the bar. Ivy chooses gin over beer, and a vegetable lasagna, but she does eventually succumb to trying a forkful of my buttery pastry.
She groans and flutters her lashes. “God, that’s good.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I reply, arching my brows suggestively. I can’t wait to get her into bed.
Ivy gives me a wry smile. “I can’t believe you’re thinking about sex after the day you’ve had.”
“Ivy,” I say. “I can think about little else when you are in the room.”
In fact, even when she’s not in the room—or in the country—my desire for her burns through everything else. I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly as I stroke her thigh.
I kiss her on the cheek, slow and soft, and then murmur into her ear. “You are so delicious.”
She chuckles, a slight blush coloring her face. It could be the gin, or the warmth of the pub, but I hope it’s more than that. I hope she’s imagining what I’d like to do to her later.
“I’m sure you’re still reeling,” Ivy says, holding my hand. “It’ll take a while to process this whole … thing.”
“Yes,” I agree, rubbing my stubble. I need a hot shower and a shave. The last time I’d even looked in a mirror was in Moscow. As if reading my mind, Ivy drags her fingertips across my prickly chin.
“I can shave you when we get home if you like.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” I reply, “but I like to be in control of any razors near my throat. No offense.”
She smacks me on the shoulder. “You don’t trust me!”
“I do. Mostly.”
Ivy giggles, then acts aloof, crossing her arms. “Your loss. I’m an excellent barber.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why do I find that difficult to believe?”
Her jaw drops open in mock outrage. “I’ve had years of experience shaving chins.”
“You’re not old enough to have had years of experience in anything. Unless you have a facial hair problem you’ve kept under wraps. Or … you used to shave your yoga students after sweaty yoga.”
Ivy guffaws. “Gross. If you must know, I used to help Jamie shave.”
My smile fades. “Okay, that makes sense. My apologies for doubting one of your many talents.”
“Apology accepted.”
“Still,” I say, “I think I’ll stick to doing it myself. But thank you for the kind offer.”
“Such control issues,” Ivy muses.
“It’s not an issue. It’s a preference.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” She locks eyes with me. “I love it when you’re in control.”
That’s all the encouragement I need to whisk Ivy straight home. My phone keeps buzzing with new messages from my family, but I ignore them for now. We’ll all feel better and have more perspective in the morning. My eyes are scratchy from stress and lack of sleep, but my priorities remain the same.
“Can I shower with you?” asks Ivy, yawning.
“You never have to ask,” I reply. “As if I’d ever say no to having a naked goddess in my shower.”
Besides, it’s our shower now; Ivy is not a guest here. I watch as she peels her clothes off. Just seeing her undress makes me hard. I turn the shower on.
“Do you feel at home here?” I ask.
She hesitates, considering her answer. “I feel more at home here than I ever did in my flat.”
“What would make you feel more at home?”
Perhaps she wanted her favorite foods in the fridge. I have no experience in this kind of thing. All I know is that since she moved in, there’s been a light in the house that’s never been here before. She looks at me a while longer, thinking. I strip my clothes off. It’s a relief to shed them.
“I love this house,” Ivy says. “I love Brumilde and the dogs. But, honestly, I think I’d feel at home anywhere as long as I’m with you.”
I stride over and pick her up. She giggles. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to clean you,” I say, heading to the steamy bathroom.
She laughs. “Are you saying I’m dirty?”
“No. But I do love it when you are dirty.”
I pour shower gel onto a loofah and soap up every inch of Ivy’s skin. I work in gentle circles, polishing her body from her neck to her toes and kissing her as I work my way down. When I get to her feet she giggles.
“Ticklish,” she says.
Something about the way she’s laughing makes me want her even more. I drop the loofah and press her up against the wall. The jets of warm water massage my back as I push my chest into hers. I crush her lips with mine. She moans, and my cock hardens further against her belly.
I want to tell her how much I desire her, how sexy she is, but I don’t want to stop kissing her. Despite my force—or because of it—she softens under my touch, opening up to me, relaxing her body so that she is putty in my hands. When she is soft and open like this she is so … penetrable. I want to explore her every hole.
I moan into her mouth, and she returns it as I seek out her clit with my slippery fingers. I’m so fucking hard. I’m kissing her deep, rocking myself into the narrow divot beside her jutting hipbone while I massage her pussy. Despite the rush of the water, I can hear and feel her moan.
“Alistair,” she gasps. “Please fuck me.”
Needing no further encouragement, I grab the shower lube while Ivy turns toward the wall and puts her left foot up onto the tiled ledge, holding onto the railing for support. It turns me on so much that I grit my teeth. My slippery cock finds her entrance immediately as if it has a mind of its own. Ivy gasps with the first inch.
“Jesus,” she says. “So hard.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Hard for you. Can never get enough of you.”
I work another inch inside. It feels so fucking good. So tight.
Ivy gasps again. “Fuck.”
“You ready for more?” I haven’t prepared her, so it might feel like too much.
“Yes,” she hisses. “Yes. I want all of you.”
I ease my way in. Even though I’m going slowly, Ivy cries out when I’m in all the way. I stay like that for a while, giving her a moment to get used to me. Her body is stiff. I stay inside while I massage her boobs and pinch her nipples. Gradually, her body relaxes again and that's when I know I can start moving inside her. She arches her back, lifting her ass to encourage me. It's an invitation I can't resist. I start rocking into her, and when I feel her rhythm matching mine, I start fucking her in earnest. Ivy cries out again. I drive myself into her over and over until she is moaning so loudly I’m grateful for the soundproofing in the room. But I need to see her face.
I pull out, spin her around, and kiss her hard.
“Fuck, Alistair,” she whispers into my mouth. “I love you. I love your body. I love your cock. Fuck me.”
Her head lols back when I penetrate her again. Her muscles contract, which surprises me. I’m sure I haven’t worked hard enough to make her come. I squeeze her breast harder with my left hand and strum her clit with my right. She’s panting, mouth open, eyes scrunched closed.
“Yes. Harder,” she urges. “Right there. Right there.”
I drive my cock harder, deeper, faster. “Like this?” I’m out of breath.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she replies, nodding, her expression telling me she’s on the brink. I keep going, doing exactly what she wants. She’s so close. The look on her face makes my own orgasm rise up, a cascade of pure pleasure as my body stiffens, preparing to explode. Now I’m the one scrunching my eyes shut, gritting my teeth, trying to keep up the pace while holding my orgasm back. Ivy rolls her hips, and a long, guttural moan escapes her throat. I grab her face the way she likes me to and pound my last bit of energy into her, which is what it takes to ignite her orgasm.
Ivy sobs as her climax takes her out at the knees, as if she’s a puppet with her strings cut. I catch her in time, careful not to let her slip, and plunge once more into her pulsing pussy, letting myself go, yelling as I empty everything I have into her.
I don’t realize she’s crying until I open my eyes again.