Run To You (17 page)

I can’t because I’m pretty sure it’s yearning. It’s yearning, even though he has to know he has me. He has me so completely I almost say it then and there:
I’m yours. You don’t have to keep reaching for something I’ve already given.

But I know why he does, all the same.

It’s not because of something I’m not offering.

It’s because he doesn’t know how to accept it, even when it’s there.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do, in the aftermath. He manages to straighten my clothes, and follows it with straightening his. But his movements are not half as fluid as I’m used to. They’re all jerky, like his arms and legs are suddenly independent from his body. They belong to someone else, who didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of his semi-girlfriend in the back of a moving limousine.

And then I slowly start to realise what being in a moving limousine means. I forgot for a while – mostly due to all the overwhelming pleasure. However, once he’s seated opposite me and everything is almost normal, it’s hard to think of anything but. Did the driver hear us? He probably didn’t, thanks to what I’m hoping is a soundproof partition.

But that doesn’t solve the other problem:

Why are we still driving around? He must have told the driver to just keep going and going, and really there’s only one reason why. There’s only one reason why we’re in this lavish car, too. He knew we were going to be doing God knows what in the back, and wanted to make that experience as pleasant as possible.

He’s such a thoughtful guy.

Who can’t actually express any of the thoughts he’s having. For a long, long time he simply sits there, moving from trousers that need brushing to cuffs that need neatening to his hair, which is still barely out of place. You’d honestly never know that he just took me roughly against the back of this seat, if it wasn’t still warm from our bodies.

Though, if I strain, I can almost feel the indentations where his knees went. And when I do, other things become apparent – like how warm and wet and over-sensitised I am between my legs. My body is still completely raw and ripe from my orgasms, and any kind of pressure proves problematic.

I think my clit actually jumps and jitters when I accidentally press too hard against the seat. And my nipples definitely don’t like the brush of my bra over their tips. It makes this funny feeling buzz upwards through my body, before ending somewhere strange – like my teeth. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk when I get out of the car.

But he doesn’t seem to have that problem.

He doesn’t seem to have any problems. He just gazes out of the tinted window at nothing and no one, in a way that should seem completely cool and calm and at ease. In any other circumstances it would definitely give that impression – I can imagine him in the boardroom sitting like that, with one leg over the other and a faintly bored expression on his face.

However, in these circumstances it’s a little different. He’s not trying to get through another dull presentation. He’s trying to present a perfect front – and he’s failing quite badly. Everything just looks too poised and put on, like he slipped on a mask right after we’d finished. And though he wears it well, I can see the cracks around the edges.

Though I don’t have to.

After a long, long moment, he quite suddenly says:

‘I don’t know why I am the way I am.’

‘I was going to guess childhood trauma.’

‘No, no childhood trauma. No terrible event in my teens, no sudden grief that forever formed me into this closed-off creature who doesn’t even know how to talk after sex.’

He sighs, like it’s some minor inconvenience. Instead of a terrible truth that makes me kind of ache for him. And I think he knows it makes me ache, because my voice goes all soft and funny when I finally speak.

‘You’re talking now,’ I say, and he seems to like that. His mouth twists up on one side, at least, though after a second I realise it’s actually ruefulness.

‘Because we’re trapped together,’ he says, and then I’m
sure
it’s ruefulness.

He really knows how to beat himself up.

‘You could tell the driver to stop. You could get out.’

‘And fail at the one thing you wanted?’

‘I don’t think it would matter all that much. I can hardly remember what it was,’ I say, which is a complete and total lie, but never mind. It’s more important that he feels better right now, because I can’t bear him to be this strange and sad.

It’s tearing me in two.

‘It seemed important to you before.’

‘Well, maybe it isn’t now. Maybe it’s more important to me that you feel comfortable,’ I tell him, intending just that. But when he glances at me, his expression isn’t the least bit consoled. His eyes are the same as they were when I looked back at him over my shoulder – shot through with this vulnerability that shouldn’t suit him at all.

I’m used to him being impenetrable, implacable, unable to show feeling.

But suddenly the feeling is starting to spill out.

‘Have I told you before how kind I find you?’ he says, in this low, grave voice that makes me shiver. ‘And it fills me with such pleasure, when I see all of these little gifts you give me, and all of these little allowances you make for me – but even with all of this, I cannot allow you such small matters. I cannot let go without feeling cut loose of my moorings. And more importantly: I cannot stay.’

‘And yet you’re still here.’

He nods, but it’s not the nodding I notice. It’s those ever-shifting eyes of his, running their way from almost wounded to something like warmth. Oh, they’re so warm I could sit by them, on a cold winter’s night.

‘That is true,’ he says, and there’s a short silence.

But this time it isn’t the least bit uncomfortable. It spreads between us instead, a great and beautiful blanket unfurling. All we have to do now is sit in its centre and talk a few things through. Maybe soothe each other little.

If I’m capable of something like that – which I’m sure I am.

‘It’s not a crime, you know,’ I say, and that seems like a good start. I can do this. I swear I can. ‘To want to control things and be aloof – in fact, I often wish that I could be the same way. It sounds like you get hurt a lot less often.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Are you hurting now?’

I ask it only half seriously, but he glances away once I’ve spoken. And it’s definitely not a dismissive move, either. It’s a full-on avoidance tactic that makes me want to do some damage control. The blanket is being folded back up as I sit here, slightly panicking.

So really it’s no wonder that I blunder my words out, searching in vain for whatever is making him suddenly suffer.

‘Because you should know: if you choose to stay, I won’t suddenly leave,’ I tell him, fumbling towards more before I’ve even fully formed the first part. ‘I won’t let you down. I don’t know if that’s what you’re thinking, but –’

He cuts me off before I can finish the thought, and I’m grateful. I’ve no idea what the thought was going to be, in all honesty. And besides, it’s better this way. Everything is better this way, because he doesn’t cut me off with some words of his own.

He does it by crossing over to where I’m sitting, so abruptly that my sentences fail me. Whatever was supposed to come after that just dies in my throat, and is replaced by something else entirely: a little sound, maybe, and most certainly a smile. Oh, I’m smiling so hard I fear my face might crack – mainly because it’s obvious why he’s done this. He doesn’t even have to do anything else.

But I’m glad he goes ahead anyway.

He takes my hand, without looking in my direction. He just does it while staring straight ahead, as though it’s nothing at all, really – even though it’s clearly taking every bit of willpower he has. The palm pressed against mine is slightly damp. I think he might be vibrating just a little bit.

And then he tells me, in a slightly unsteady voice:

‘Yes. I believe I will choose to stay.’

* * *

Things are different then, our meetings are different. Not hugely so, but if I look hard I can see the shift. Oh, he still likes to arrange everything, and be completely in control. And when he lets slip some hint of emotion or passion I can see that panic on his face. I can feel him vibrating with the urge to just cut out on me before things get too real.

But I can also see him resisting all of those impulses.

He’s resisting them now, as I put him through the conversation from hell.

‘There must be something you want.’

‘There are lots of things I want. I’ve done most of them to you.’

‘Well … I can’t argue with that.’

‘So what more could there be?’

‘There’s plenty more, and you know it.’

‘I know nothing of the sort.’

‘Come on – share your deviant secrets.’

He snorts, and I suppose I should be offended.

I can’t be, however. I know just what he means when he says:

‘I doubt you could handle my deviant secrets.’

‘I’ve handled stripping and semi-public sex and bondage.’

‘That was hardly bondage.’

‘So you want to twist me up like a pretzel. You want spreader bars and ball gags and blindfold and butt plugs?’

He snorts again and gives me a ‘no’, and sadly I can tell he isn’t lying. He really doesn’t want any of those things – though I’m hard pressed to uncover what he does want. Ever since we started playing the game the other way around, it’s been less of a kinky trick and more of a battle of wills.

‘Something worse, then. Something appalling.’

‘Like pliers and fingernails?’

‘I didn’t really believe that, OK? Stop bringing it up!’ I say, but I can tell he’s teasing me before I’ve even finished speaking. He’s got that gleaming-eyed look on his face that says he’s come out of this triumphant. He’s made me take a different path – just like he always does – and I hardly even know I’m lost until I glance around and discover I’m surrounded by gnarly old trees.

‘I think you did really believe that. You think I’m secretly some sort of mobster.’

‘I do not. And stop changing the subject.’

‘This was hardly a subject change. It was just a little diversion.’

‘Yeah, I know all about you and your diversions. Next thing I know I’ll be sprawled all over the bed with your face between my legs, and then I’ll hardly be able to think about any of this at all.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’

‘No?’

‘Absolutely not. I wasn’t thinking of going down on you.’

‘Well, good,’ I say, and yes I’m aware that I sound singularly unconvincing. My voice wavers all over the place, and now my head is full of nothing but the feel of his mouth on my spread sex. The problem is that he’s just too good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He can get me to concede anything just by talking about licking my clit or fingering my pussy.

I’ve never had oral sex that made me come so hard or want it so much. In fact, I’ve never really had much oral sex, full stop – and he knows it.

And he knows other things, too.

‘I was thinking of taking you out onto the balcony, so everyone can see. And then … maybe just lifting your dress a little …’

‘That’s so … that is very …’

‘Rude? Yes, I’m aware. So shall we?’

He puts a hand out, and I
almost
stand to take it. I teeter on the brink for about ten seconds, muscles tensing in readiness, body sliding forward to send me off the edge of the chair. In fact, my ass is actually off the seat, when I suddenly realise.

‘You know, you almost had me there,’ I say, and to my great delight he snaps his fingers. The way other, sillier people do, when their plans have been foiled again. Curses, I think, and then am filled with the strangest glee.

He’s becoming a different person right before my eyes, and oh, I adore him for it.

‘Damn, I thought I’d gotten away with it.’

‘You’ll never get away with it any more – you know that, don’t you? I did learn from the master, after all.’

‘I’ve created a monster.’

‘I won’t deny it. Now, where were we?’

‘You were telling me all about the appalling things I might want. Apparently, exposing your pussy to the whole of London wasn’t quite enough.’

‘Well, it’s probably enough for me. But I doubt it’s enough for you.’

‘And you’re sure of that?’

‘I’m absolutely positive. When I hit the truth, you tend to glance away.’

His eyes widen a little at that – but not in a way I’ve ever seen before. This expression is still ripe with shock, but there’s something else there too. There’s a hint of disbelief, as though he never imagined I’d guess. And more importantly, I can see he kind of likes it.

I think he might even be a little impressed.

‘So you think I have a tell, like in poker’ he says, but I’m certain he’s just trying to deflect.

He
knows
he has a tell.

‘And you often check yourself for flaws that aren’t there,’ I say, and he gives me the strangest look. I don’t even know how to describe it. His eyes almost close, but I can see him rolling them through the little slits he leaves. And he lets out such a breath, too. It’s almost a frustrated snort, but not quite.

If I was going to pin a label on it, I’d call it withering regret.

But the word ‘busted’ seems to suit, too.

‘I’m going to have to stop doing that.’

‘You really are. It’s very revealing.’

‘Yes, I can see how it would be.’

‘I mean, it’s not just the fact that you do it when you’re uncomfortable or trying to avoid the truth. It’s also the act itself – searching yourself for flaws, doing your best to remove them, making sure you’re completely perfect …’

‘All right, all right,’ he says, but he’s smiling when he does. And his smiles are getting so much broader, too. They almost have substance, now. I see teeth on at least two out of every three occasions. ‘You win.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes. And I can see how much you like it, too, so don’t pretend,’ he says, then, after a moment of the best sort of bliss, he goes one better. ‘You are so inescapably lovely when you smile. I can hardly begrudge you it.’