Tell Me More. Janet Mullany

      Tell Me More

      Janet Mullany

       www.spice-books.co.uk

      In memory of Macheath who always fell over for me

      1

      “I’M HERE FOR MY SKIS.”

      I looked at him lounging against the doorway. He’d rung the doorbell, an exercise in futility or good manners—I wasn’t sure which since both door and screen were open to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. Hugh was quite the lounger, particularly in others’ beds. Searching for a snappy comeback, I said, “And how’s the stick insect?”

      “Flowyr’s fine.”

      Flowyr. I’d been betrayed for a woman called Flowyr.

      “My skis, Jo.”

      I stepped back. “You know where they are.”

      He straightened himself and ambled into the house, accompanied by a few yellow leaves. I tried not to watch. There was something about Hugh in motion, any sort of motion, that still did things to me, a sort of knee-jerk hot-wire to desire. My body was in no hurry to change its habits.

      I heard him go into the basement. “Hugh, while you’re down there, would you look at the traps?”

      “I thought that was what your fucking cat was for.” Banging and thumping noises accompanied his words.

      “He can’t empty mousetraps.”

      After a while Hugh came back up the stairs carrying his ski gear. “Nothing.”

      “Was the peanut butter still on them?”

      “Christ, Jo, I don’t know.” He dropped his skis, poles and boots on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. “I didn’t look that close, okay? It’s dark down there. Do you have my Ken Burns DVDs?”

      I gestured toward the living room. “Feel free.”

      I followed him in anyway, telling myself it wasn’t for the pleasure of seeing his ski-and-tennis-toned body drop to a squat, only to make sure he didn’t take the Firth-Ehle Pride and Prejudice. He liked Jennifer Ehle and her astonishing elevated breasts; I liked all the astonishingly unfettered penises waving around inside the men’s pants.

      “So,” he said, catching me gazing at his thighs, “the thing is, Flowyr and I aren’t together anymore. I told you it was a onetime thing. An accident.”

      “An accident? You rear-ended her?”

      “Don’t yell, honey, you don’t want to go on the air sounding hoarse—”

      “Don’t call me honey.”

      He stood—without a tremor, quads in great shape—clutching a stack of DVDs. “Jo, I’m—”

      “I bought Shaun of the Dead,” I said, seeing it in his hands.

      “For my birthday, so it’s mine. Jo, I’m sorry.”

      I’m sorry. The words you never expect to hear from a man. But was his apology for letting Flowyr run his red light or for depriving me of one of my favorite movies?

      “I’m sorry,” he said again.

      I dropped to the couch, putting myself at eye level with a relatively unfettered penis uncurling behind his khakis.

       He had apologized.

      If only a moment could be bronzed. Hugh dropped to his knees, laid the DVDs on the floor and shuffled forward. His hands landed on the couch on either side of me. “Sorry. I’ve been so unhappy. I know you have been, too. I was dumb. I …”

      This was all too familiar; Hugh making himself available, those lovely toffee-colored eyes with the long lashes, his mouth and a slight dusting of late-day stubble, all within easy reach—all the above-the-neck parts I found sexy and irresistible. And he’d apologized, although I suspected it was pretty meaningless—Had the man no shame? Did he really want to keep Shaun of the Dead that badly? Wasn’t I intending to kick him out of my life (again) with no happy or unhappy returns?

      Well, yes. But.

      A quick calculation. When did I think I was next going to have the chance of brainless sex with someone who knew what he was doing and knew what I liked? Shouldn’t I be stocking up for the long famine ahead?

      A whiff of eau de Hugh wafted into my brain, or crotch, or somewhere.

      One of his hands moved to cup my hip.

      Our heads swayed, angled.

      His lips were slightly chapped. I hadn’t been around to remind him to carry his organic hemp lip salve, and however much mindless screwing he’d had with Flowyr (Flowyr!)—well, that slut wouldn’t be concerned about his lips. Or she might like it rough. Rough skin, that is, rasping on …

      Oh, my God. We were kissing and for a moment it was poignant and lovely before it became something equally lovely, but hot and driven. Hands delved into clothes, pushing up, aside, unbuttoning; the press and trail of fingertips, palms, as we became reacquainted with each other’s skin. My T-shirt was up around my collarbone, my bra unsnapped and his tongue in my mouth, on my neck. I had to push him away so I could get rid of my clothes. As I struggled through the dark folds of T-shirt and disentangled my bra, his hands went to work on my jeans, and I lifted my hips to help him get them off me.

      “Santa’s come early this year,” he commented at first sight of my panties.

      Well, I did need to do laundry, it was true. I watched as his fingers splayed over the faded jolly old elf, and dipped under the elastic, where things were getting very wet.

      I lunged at his shirt, unbuttoning, pushing it off him. “Get your pants off.”

      He stood to undo his khakis. His cock sprang free, waving around a bit as though just woken and taking a look around. Hmm, nice day, nice warm temperature, glad to be out of those boxers, and is that a pussy I see before me?

      I touched my clit through the cotton of my panties, while he shoved pants and boxers down, and toed off his sneakers and socks. I’d taught him that: always get your socks off, Hugh. There’s nothing as dumb as a guy with an erection in a pair of socks.

      He watched my finger, my middle finger, the one I always used. “Dirty girl,” he said softly. “Such wet panties, too.”

      I spread my legs a little more. “I can’t think how that happened.” I slid my finger beneath the elastic, where his finger had tickled and stirred. My clit was hard. I wanted to come. I wanted him to watch me. I wanted him inside me, that shiny pink cock all ready for me. I wanted his finger and tongue tickling me in rude and naughty places.

      “I want—” I said, and Hugh shoved his cock into my mouth. Obviously that’s the sort of thing you did to a dirty girl who played with herself in front of you, and hadn’t had the foresight to put on her special lace or silk panties, but sported her Christmas cottons (slightly grayed and ragged ones at that) two months early. Besides, I was right at crotch level, with my mouth half-open while I considered taking an orgasm before he obliged.

      I made a sound of mingled surprise and appreciation and clapped my hands to his nicely toned butt, my nose squished into his pubic hair, and swirled my tongue around his cock. I knew how he loved that, how he would groan and thread his fingers through my hair, and mutter a filthy stream-of-consciousness litany as he rocked in and out of my mouth.

      “Oh God yes oh God baby that’s right oh yes oh God yes oh yes like that keep doing that oh God Jo oh God baby make me come oh yes come in your mouth oh yes oh yes …”

      And as dumb as he sounded, it made me hot. Made me squirm against the sodden