Chapter Five Forbidden Tastes #3
“You were touching me. In places no one ever has.” I lick my lips.
The sensation of playing with fire is suddenly very real.
I know I shouldn’t push. I know I shouldn't admit to how the feelings of want come back, just thinking about touching Sam as he was touching me. “Show me how I’m supposed to touch you, Sam. Show me, because if you don’t, you know I’ll go hunt down a book, or go visit some of the girls with more ‘varied’ pastimes who can tell me what I want to know. ”
“Susie...”
“You liked my gumption.” I boldly put my hand where he’s hardest, even though my stomach is doing flips.
Sam gives in with a groan, belt tugged open, hand hot and hard on mine, wrapping his fingers over mine as we press into the confines of his unbuttoned trousers.
We don’t talk. Can’t. Sam’s mouth demands mine, his tongue trapping mine, and his other hand squeezing my bottom to keep me in my strange sideways perch on his knee as our hands work together.
The thing I’m touching is like a living thing, so hot, so incredibly hard, and slightly wet. He gets wet like me. And that must mean the same kind of arousal, too.
“It can take a lot longer—if you weren’t already all over me, in my mouth, the scent of you in my lungs...” Sam inhales, and his hand presses down harder, locking me in some primal grip around his manhood.
The books say things like, “She was dizzy with lust.”
Yes. That’s a true medical condition. I’ve never heard a man talk like that, not in the books, not in the movies, and certainly not in Yonkers!
“But when I’m inside you, sweetheart?” Sam’s voice is muffled as his lips bite into my throat, and his teeth follow.
I’ll have a love bite, I just know it—and it’s rather thrilling, especially when I think about the words he just rasped against my skin.
“When I’m inside of you, I’m going to take my time. Take as long as you want.”
“I’ll never want to stop,” I moan, shamelessly rubbing my thighs together, squeezing to relieve that burgeoning pressure that won’t stay satiated.
Sam seems to know. He forces my hips back, so my thighs spread across his knee, and he holds me in place in a grip that’s surprisingly strong.
His knee is the perfect block for me to rub against, while we still work together to bring him to the same dizzying peak.
At this new angle, our hands move forward at an angle instead of simply straight up and down.
My palm caresses a silky smooth spot at the very top that makes Sam shudder.
“Move, or you’re going to get messy, baby.”
“You told me that was a good thing.”
“Mine is more—copious.”
I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Maybe it won’t. The point is, it’s part of whatever this is, this not-quite making love, a path I’ve dreamed about sharing with some fictional star from a movie, or hero in a book.
Sam is my real-life hero, and I’m his gal.
“Pet your little pussy for me, Sue, nice and hard,” he hisses, and his hand stills, gripping something thick and hard below the place my fist stops. Almost like he has an extra ring at his base, something men must have when they’re aroused.
Now I know the secrets nice girls don’t. And it feels deliciously, decadently naughty. “Do I lick my fingers when I’m done?” I ask, voice low and sultry. One hand strokes over his silky tip while the other obeys his command, and I rub my pussy while I rock on his knee.
In seconds, Sam’s eyes shut, and his body twitches hard. His lips maul mine as something hot and wet flows out over my hand.
“Oh. Oh, my.” I pant as my own finish catches up, and I realize what we’ve done, what we were doing with the front office door unlocked and cables and clients who could arrive any minute.
Maybe it makes me one of those no-class dames in the books, but somehow the danger makes it more exciting—and makes me want to do it again.
“Let me get you cleaned up,” Sam says in an exhausted voice.
Funny, his face already looks less swollen, and his eye is less puffy, just since this morning.
Goodness, how long have we been here?
“What you must think of me,” I whisper, remembering all the things I’ve said and felt with a rush of alarm. Pearly white streaks decorate my palm and fingers. All-consuming curiosity makes me dart a tongue to my forefinger, hoping Sam doesn’t notice.
He does. “Damn it, Susan Spade, you’ve no right to be this sweet and that sensual. A man can only handle so much before his heart gives out.”
“Oh, no! Oh, you’re not that old.”
“But I am crazy about you. And as for what I think of you? I think I’d like to take you to the city tomorrow night, for dinner and the theater. How about it?”
I want to squeal, but I try to keep my calm and composure. I’ve never been anywhere fancy in the city, and I’ve never been to a theater to see a big show. Maybe Sam means a nickel grill and the pictures.
It doesn’t matter. But it’s still the first bit of courting I’ve ever had, unless you count school dances and boys trying to steal kisses at the county fair.
Bobby Hickman could take me to the Waldorf or the Ritz, and I’d loathe it.
Sam takes me to the drugstore for lunch every day, and it’s heaven.
“I think that sounds wonderful,” I sigh, and let Sam kiss me again, messy, sweaty, and flushed.
If it had been one of the boys who used to chase me around the church picnic, I would have vomited, then slugged him.
It’s Sam.
It’s Sam, and everything feels perfectly, purely blissful.
If that doesn’t sound like love, I don’t know what is.