Chapter Five Forbidden Tastes #2
I nod, not fully understanding what he’s saying, only that there will be more—and I want more.
“For now, just relax and let me rub right here,” his fingers flatten to the soft mound of curls through my skirt, and push down, working towards the hard little nub that seems to be the on-switch for these dangerous new feelings. “When you read... Do your hands ever wander?”
I shake my head. “Mind wanders,” I barely squeak out.
“May I pet this little pussy, Susie? Show you where my mind wanders to lately?”
I know I’m nodding, but I can’t feel anything but his hand, moving my skirt, playing with my nipple, finally pushing the fabric of my skirt up over my thighs.
It’s like I’m watching something I’ve only dreamed of as his fingers stroke my stocking tops, pass over my garter belt, and tease over the slim French knickers I’m wearing, the kind Mother calls bloomers, even though they’re far more chic.
Sam’s hand settles between my thighs, four fingers rubbing up and down the private parts that nice girls don’t discuss and never think of. Sam called it a pussy, and I rather like it. Something soft and fuzzy, something that practically purrs under his touch? It’s accurate.
“Susie, you have to talk to me. Or at least breathe, or I have to stop, sweetheart,” Sam murmurs, kissing his way along my jaw.
“It feels so good. And part of it is knowing I’m not supposed to like it,” I admit with a sharp, pinched breath, as the fingers begin to rub steadily and insistently. I’m going to get his hand wet. The thought almost ruins the throbbing pleasure he’s building.
“What’s wrong? Why’d you go stiff, baby?
” He leans his temple to mine. “Because you’re not supposed to like it?
Nonsense. If a guy is good, his girl will like it.
And he should want her to like it,” Sam’s fingers move steadily, sliding down further now, pressing where I’m hot and wet, making a deep, cramping spot inside of me ache and burn.
I want him inside of me. All the girls who’ve done it and talked about it say it hurts at first, but this doesn’t feel like pain. It feels like need.
“He wants her to like it. To love it. To love him and love being with him. I’d do anything you wanted to make it feel good, Susie. I’m going to kiss you there. I’m going to make you come so many times before I ever ask for more, so you’ll love this. Because I—”
He doesn’t love me; I know that. I don’t love him. I care about him awfully, and I know this could turn into love. Right now, it’s passion, and I’m smart enough to know the difference. “You don’t have to tell me all the pretty words, Sam. It’ll happen, won’t it?”
“It will, angel. Because you’re my perfect girl, do you know that?”
“Unnhh,” I moan when his fingers target that little pulsing bead between my legs, and Sam slides a finger through the airy leg opening, his fingers touching the bare skin between my thighs. “Stop!” I squeak.
“What? Why?” Sam still, body shifting.
“Your hand will get wet,” I admit, brain battered with sensation and incapable of making an elegant lie.
Sam only smirks and moves in front of me, one hand on my shoulder now, his lips pressed to mine while his fingers invade and toy with my bare pussy, petting the soaking folds before honing in on the nub again.
“My hand will get wet because you feel good, honey. That’s what it’s supposed to do.
If you ever meet a man who says he doesn't want you wet, I want you to run—and I never even want another man to say that to you, because I want you to be mine, Susie. I want you to be mine. I want to love you like this every day, and I want—” Sam’s finger parts me and touches me inside as his thumb rotates over the hard nub that makes me see stars, “I want to be the only man who ever gets to touch you here. Worship you here. Claim you.”
“Oh, God, yes,” I whisper.
“Does my thumb feel good on your little love button, sweetheart?” Sam looks at me like he needs to know, as if my frantic squirming and gasping isn’t enough.
I must look like a fool, a mussed-up fool, with my skirts up and my breasts half exposed, face pink, hair clinging to my cheeks, and his hand in my knickers...
Why does he look at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen? Why is he the one on his knees, checking on me like I’m precious? Men take and grab, and simple girls from little towns, new, naive secretaries—girls like me—get used. If this is using... Sign me up.
“So good,” I finally manage to whisper.
“Good.” Sam’s breathing starts to match mine, erratic.
His kisses are almost like bites, and his body presses between my legs, his hand still mainly working the outside of me, giving me tiny hints of penetration to touch that pressure-filled ache without triggering an eruption.
“Come for me, sweetheart. Come on my fingers, Susie.”
“The mess,” I swallow a cry as my hands tighten on his shoulders, and my hips squeeze forward, trying hard to capture something just out of reach.
“It’s not a mess. It’s proof that I’m making love to you, that you’re getting off, too. No mate of mine is going to go unsatisfied.”
I think Sam said mate, which strikes me as odd, but I couldn’t care less.
He could call me a wingtip or an inkwell for all it matters right now, as the sensation I just discovered by my own hand returns, a hundred times stronger.
I’m a puddle, literally and figuratively, clinging to Sam as tiny curses puff past my lips.
“Oh, God. Oh, damn, Sam, that’s... That’s so good,” I almost sob.
I feel the trembling build and build, and burst until I’m a shaking, sopping mess.
Sam keeps me close, lifts me like I’m nothing but a feather, sits me back on his lap—and licks his fingers clean.
That’s filthy.
Wicked.
Heathen.
“You taste amazing, baby. If you ever end up as Mrs. Silverman, I don’t need you to make me coffee every morning. I need you to give me a shot of this sweet pussy every morning.”
“You shouldn’t... Can we do that?” I whisper.
“Do what? Get married or enjoy every part of each other’s bodies?”
I might faint if he keeps talking like this. I thought I read racy books, but this man is an entire derby. “B-both?” I suddenly stammer, not sure if it’s because I can’t breathe right, or because I’m suddenly shy as I consider what we just did.
“Well, I’m sure your folks would faint if you came home with a husband on your arm after only knowing me for two weeks.
But once a guy and his gal are married? I’ve always heard that husbands and wives are free to indulge in whatever they like in the sanctity of their own home.
” Sam helps button me up, his motions strained. “I’d like to indulge in you.”
“I’d like that, too,” I decide, and I wonder what’s happening with Sam.
I know, at least I hope, that he wants me like I want him.
I’m not sure what a girl can do to relieve her beau.
Hands? Mouths? I heard whispers from some of the girls at Beezledorf’s, but it was mainly a lot of nudging and winking.
“How do I indulge you? For now?” I ask, smoothing my hair.
Sam looks surprised. “I don’t know if you’d better. Not yet.”
“But you just—”
“It’s different. Trust me, it might sound different.
If things didn’t work out, I would never want you to feel like we crossed that particular line,” he says softly.
“I didn’t do that for payback, Susan. I did it because I’m falling for you, hard and fast, for all the dozens of little ways you add sparkle to my life.
For the way you ran to me when I look like a spoiled steak,” he laughs and touches his bruised eye, “and you still kiss me like I’m some piece of art.
I’m older, and wiser, and come with a ton of problems that you’re smart enough to figure out. But you still like me.”
“I more than like you, silly,” I whisper, and I stay in his lap, hugging him.
Feeling his hardness against my hip. “Is that...”
“That’s because I want to be inside of you.”
The way he says that sets off a blast furnace in my chest.
Inside of me. Him, his parts, those parts I’ve only caught glimpses of on baby angels in pictures of old artwork, or a glimpse when the boys are running and squealing from the tub, their towels hanging precariously low.
An adult man is certainly something I’ve never seen or touched up close, and never in this sort of a situation.
Even the words. Inside me. Images of hot, wet bodies, soft meeting hard...
“What if I just... What if I was just kissing you while you indulged yourself?” I suggest.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I want to do that, Sam. I want to help. If things don’t work out, then I still had this with you.
I want that. If things don’t work out,” I choose my words carefully, “it won’t be because of you and me, Sam.
It’ll be because of something else. A war.
An accident.” I swallow hard. I’ve known Sam for two weeks, and only seen him for eight of those days, and I already can’t imagine life without his daily smiles and little winks, without his endless conversations at lunch, and the way his voice is always warm with me, and stern with some of the people he speaks to on the phone.
He seems to struggle with his answer, and then gives in. “Just kiss me and let me feel you near me. That’s all you have to do.”
That’s all I start out doing, but eventually, Sam’s hand heads to his trousers, and he tries to push me away. “I need to go finish this somewhere else,” he hisses, face a tight mask of suppressed pleasure.
“You finished me. You watched me make a fool of myself,” I argue, not budging.
“You weren’t a fool. You were a goddess, a glorious, beautiful goddess, just for one private worshipper,” he protests, shaking his head, gorgeous dark hair falling over one eye.
He looks so incredibly handsome like that.