Old Enough Read online

  Softening my death grip on her hips, I dip one hand between her legs. Her pussy is warm and wet under my fingers. I drape an arm around her breasts and find her lips. Our kiss is gentle and unrushed, an extension of what we’ve started this afternoon. Holding her to me like this, I walk her to the bedroom. I bring her with me onto the mattress, letting her lie face-down. When I’ve positioned her in the middle of the bed, I stretch out on top of her, fully clothed. There’s not an inch of skin I don’t taste, starting at the nape of her neck and working my way down her spine and buttocks to the dips of her knees and the hollows of her feet. I kiss her arms and suck her fingers into my mouth, leaving the best for last. By the time I push her legs apart, she’s breathing as hard as I am. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to eat her pussy out until she climaxes there and then. Tonight, she’s coming while I’m climaxing inside her. I only steal a taste, unable to drag my eyes or tongue away from the sweetness of her pussy.

  Before I’m unable to stop myself from going down on her, I push to my knees and start to undress. My instruction is gruff, my voice giving away the thin thread of my control. “Turn around.”

  She obeys immediately, stretching out on her back with her arms raised above her head. I climb between her legs, stretching them with my hips, and bring our palms together. Our fingers intertwine. Our gazes lock. My cock is painfully hard, pressing on the soft skin of her thigh as I seek the heat of her mouth. The kiss is a gentle exploration, a searing caress that brands my soul. As I take my time with her, foreplay becomes something other than a simple means of getting a woman wet. It’s more than a clinical preparation to take my cock painlessly. It adopts a whole different meaning as she lies vulnerable and small under me, not only allowing me to invade her body, but also intangible parts of her past and present.

  Her eyes are two huge sapphire gemstones, her gaze clinging to mine as I position my cock. I commit her expression to memory as I slowly, reverently push into her tightness, impaling her inch by inch. Her fingers clench around mine when I hit a barrier. Pulling back an inch, I start to move. Her head falls back, and her hips rock to my rhythm, taking my lead. It’s a slow dance of agonizing seduction. Every breath is a battle not to break and fuck her like a madman, but as we move toward our pleasure together, the dance becomes easier. It builds, second by sweet second, until I don’t want it to end.

  Her fingernails dig into the back of my hands. Her features transform into a mask of pleasure or torment. It’s so intense, I can’t be sure which. I can’t tell the one from the other, because the pleasure is torture. It crescendos. Our release demands a harsher pace, but I fill her with unhurried, deep strokes, giving everything I’m capable of. The effect is earth-shattering. Tremors of a pending explosion wrack my body. The end-result is lethal. The tenderness of the act is more intense than any hard fucking I’ve done. It binds me to her, my soul intertwining with hers like our fingers. I’m helpless to stop it. I’m helpless to prevent the climax from gathering at the base at my spine. My breaths turn into grunts as I angle my cock so the friction is aimed at her clit.

  She lifts her hips and locks her ankles around my ass to assist my efforts. It builds like a tsunami. I can’t even speak to warn her. All I can do is grind my teeth and brace myself as the wave hits. It spills through me like a never-ending fountain of brutal ecstasy. I can’t move. The release locks me inside her, my cock swelling as I fill her with jets of cum. Shivers run over me. It takes a few seconds before I have the full function of my body back, before I can resume my rhythm to bring her with me to the finish line.

  It takes a short while before she’s there. Her pussy is slick with my cum. Her muscles clench around my cock as her orgasm hits. It’s the sweetest damn sensation. Claiming her lips, I revel in the feeling, keeping our bodies connected. I turn on my side without pulling out, selfishly not wanting to wash my seed from her thighs. Holding her in a steel embrace, I let her fall asleep with sticky semen drying on her legs, until I wake up in the middle of the night harder than ever, still inside her. And then I take her again. And again. My lust for her is an insatiable monster. She won’t walk straight tomorrow, and still it’s not enough.

  Jane

  Like yesterday, I wake up alone with the hiss of the percolator and the aroma of coffee coming from the kitchen. I’m aching from last night’s loving. It hurts when I move. Picking up Brian’s shirt from the chair, I pull it on and inhale deeply. The fabric smells like him–pine body wash with a hint of clean sweat. Deliciously male. My skin is sticky and itchy all over. I desperately need a shower, but I need coffee more. Barefoot, I pad to the kitchen.

  Brian stands at the island counter, his palms resting on the countertop and a mug standing between them. His jeans ride low on his hips, exposing the deep grooves that cut from his hips to his groin. His naked torso is framed by the first sunlight spilling from the window. With his tousled hair and intense gaze, he drips animal sexuality and dangerous vitality. Arousal flutters in my abused lower region.

  He straightens when I enter, his gaze warming with approval as he takes in my attire. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a baby.”

  He prepares a mug of coffee the way I like it and puts it on the counter. “Come here.”

  His arms fold around me when I stop in front of him.

  His gaze turns scrutinizing. “Sore?”

  “A little.”

  He nuzzles my neck. “Sorry.”

  A gentle bite on the tender skin of my shoulder makes me squeal.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” he says, kissing the spot.

  “I’ll live.”

  He pulls away to look into my eyes. “You should rest today.”

  “I’m not fragile,” I chide with a chuckle.

  He cups my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks. “No, you’re not. And yet…”

  “Yet what?”

  “You’re so delicate. So vulnerable.” He takes my hand in his and studies the contrast. “So small.”

  “It only feels like it because you’re tall by average standards.”

  Kissing my knuckles, he lets me go. “Drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

  “Did I say thank you for the coffee? You’re spoiling me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He picks up his own mug and, turning to the window, takes a sip. A frown plays between his eyebrows as he looks into a distance much farther than my yard.

  I place a hand on his shoulder. “I need a shower. Join me?”

  He glances down, his eyes slipping to the juncture of my legs hidden under his shirt. “No.”

  “If you prefer to shower alone–”

  “I’ll have one at home.”

  “Oh.” I withdraw my touch. “Breakfast, then?”

  “No.” He walks to the sink and rinses his mug. “Your lawn needs mowing. I’ll come one afternoon in the week while Abby’s in school to do it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He pins me with a look. “I know.”

  “I’m moving soon, anyway.”

  His tone leaves no room for arguing. “In the meantime, you still live here.”

  He stalks across the floor, takes my face between his hands, and kisses me. It’s only the pressure of his lips against mine, nothing more than a couple of seconds. He lets me go as suddenly as he’s grabbed me, leaving me cold.

  Is this some kind of signal? Is he tired of me? Has he gotten what he’s wanted and he’s telling me in a non-verbal way not to make a scene? Conditioned by Francois’ refusal to fight or enter into any kind of discussion that could stir emotions, I do what I always do. I step aside. I grant him silence.

  What is he waiting for? Why isn’t he leaving?

  His gaze trails over my body, coming to a stop on my thighs again. Oh. I wiggle out of the shirt and hand it to him. He takes it automatically, staring at the shirt dangling from his fingers before blinking at me.

  “What are you doing, Jane?”

  “Ret
urning your shirt so you can go.” Hurt constricts the air in my ribs. I feel exposed, but I straighten my shoulders. I can handle being discarded. “It was fun.” I really mean the next words. “Thank you.”

  His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. “What are you saying?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m saying goodbye.”

  9

  Jane

  Brian takes a step back as if I’d punched him in the stomach. Emotions pass like shadows over his face. He works his jaw from side to side, scrunching the shirt in his fist. An internal battle rages in his handsome features, and then his expression stills in an obstinate mask.

  “No.” He closes the distance he’s taken, leaving no space between us. “You don’t get to say goodbye.”

  My naked body brushes against a hard wall of muscle. “What?”

  “I’m not your toy boy, Jane. You can’t sleep with me and kick me out the next morning.”

  “You’re the one who said you wanted to leave.”

  He scrunches up his face, searching my eyes. “I never said that.”

  “You implied it.”

  “How?”

  “You don’t want to shower or have breakfast with me. You kiss me like we didn’t spent the night having incredible sex, and you push me aside as if you can’t wait to get out of here.”

  Gripping his hair, he stares at me open-mouthed for two heartbeats. Then he slams his lips together and grabs my wrist.

  “We’re going to talk about this,” he says, dragging me to a chair.

  Before I have time to protest, he falls down in the seat with me in his lap.

  “Jane, there’s nothing I want more than sharing a shower and breakfast with you, but I haven’t seen my family for most of the weekend. If I get into a shower with you, I’m going to fuck you all morning. One, you’ve had about as much as your pussy can handle for one night. Two, I have responsibilities at home. Three, if I stay a minute longer I might not be able to leave at all. Is that clear enough for you?”

  “Oh. I thought…” Embarrassed, I fix my eyes on a spot on the floor.

  Gripping my chin, he lifts my face. “You don’t need to make assumptions about my behavior. If I have something to say, I’ll say it. If my reactions confuse you, you have to tell me. If something–anything at all, no matter how trivial you think it is–bothers you, you owe it to me to talk about it. Are we clear?”

  It feels like a dam breaks inside me. The stress of welling years’ worth of slush inside rushes away like a flood after the purging rain. I didn’t know how much I needed this grant of expression until now. Immense relief stoops my shoulders and leaves me boneless. Right here and now, I fall in love a little. How is it possible that he’s so perfect for me?

  “Are we clear?” he repeats.

  All I manage is a meek, “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, putting our foreheads together. “Now, where the hell did all that come from?”

  “I don’t know.” Or maybe I do.

  “Not good enough. Why did you feel you couldn’t talk to me? Are you afraid I won’t listen? Do you think I’ll judge you?”

  “My ex, he didn’t–doesn’t–like to talk things over.”

  “I’m not him, Jane. I’m not like anyone you’ve had.” He puts his arms around me, holding me close. “No one can worship you more.”

  “Who are you, Brian Michaels?”

  “I’m everything you’ll ever need.” He kisses the shell of my ear and buries his nose in my hair. “Come with me.”

  I turn my face to look at him. “What?”

  “Come home with me.” Urgency infuses his tone. “I don’t want to leave you. Not yet. We can still spend the day together.”

  My heart leaps with joy. I have no business going to his house or meeting his family. It’ll be another unwise decision, because Brian and I can never be more than a secret, but I’m curious about everything concerning him. The hunger to know him is equal to the hunger to be possessed, fucked, and gently loved by him, if not bigger.

  “Won’t your family mind?” I ask against my better judgment.

  “It’s just my mother and sister. A friend slept over to keep an eye on them, but he sent a text early this morning to let me know he had to leave.”

  Questions crowd my mind. Where is his father? Why did a friend have to keep an eye on his mother and sister? How do they spend their Sundays? Most families have big, traditional Sunday lunches. Won’t I impose?

  Biting my earlobe, he makes all my questions vanish.

  His warm breath tickles my ear. “Say yes.”

  “I’d love to come with you.”

  He beams. “In that case, we better make the shower quick. I’ll do my damnedest not to touch you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re showered and dressed. Brian announces that we’ll have breakfast at his place to save time. On the way, I send Abby a text to say good morning. Brian cranks up the music in his truck and places a possessive hand on my knee, which he only removes to change gears. We leave the Sunday quietness of my neighborhood behind and head toward the highway. I wind down my window and let the wind dry my shower-wet hair. The air smells like watermelon. The green perfume of Highveld grass drifts through the open window. It’s not too hot, yet. Dressed in a sundress and sandals with no make-up or hairstyle, I’m ridiculously happy. I never want to leave this cocoon of contentedness in the front seat of Brian’s truck, except for bringing Abby into my happy place. As with every day she’s not with me, I miss her.

  Industrial buildings start to fill up the open expanse. Quickly, only concrete and fences remain. Factories billowing long ribbons of smoke into the sky dot the horizon, the biggest of them bearing an ISCOR sign. Iron And Steel Corporation. Half of Harryville and Pretoria West are employed by ISCOR. We cross train tracks black with coal residue and enter Harryville through a narrow tunnel. The deeper we enter into the suburb, the more rapidly the scenery changes. There’s Harryville, and then there’s Harryville.

  Brian pulls into a street polluted with noise from the highway. We drive by several houses. The redbrick structures with their peeling tin roofs are sad, but their gardens are pure melancholy. Overgrown grass, weeds, and junk compete for space. The rusted frame of a tricycle stands on what is visible of a garden path. A swing made out of half a tractor tire dangles askew on one rope from the branches of a loquat tree in another garden. The fruit ripened too early. Most of them are peppered with holes where the birds got to them, and the rest is rotting on the ground, the smell of fermentation and decay reaching the interior of the truck fleetingly, but leaving a lingering ambience of dejection.

  We stop in front of a house almost at the end of the street. It’s the only one with a mowed lawn. There are no flowers or other plants, but the grass edges are neatly trimmed around the fence. Shooting me a bright smile, Brian jumps out to open the gate. He parks under a shade awning at the side of the house. The house is similar to the others in the street, but the red A-line roof is freshly painted. There’s a covered porch with steps leading to a back door. The rest of the small building is square.

  My nerves get the better of me. What will his family think of him bringing home an older woman? How will he introduce me? How will he explain my presence?

  None of these worries seem to bother him as he comes around to open my door and takes my hand to help me out. He doesn’t let go as he leads me to the door, and I’m grateful for that point of contact.

  “Mom? Sam?” he calls as he pushes open the door.

  A young voice sounds from deeper in the house. “Brian!”

  Footsteps funnel toward us, and then a girl close to Abby’s size flies through the door and throws her arms around his middle. He’s obliged to let me go.

  He chuckles. “Hey, piglet. You’ll knock us both to the ground.”

  She releases him and plants her hands on her hips. “What took you so long?”

  “This is Jane, my lady friend.”

  Sam turns a frown on me. />
  “This is Samantha, my sister.”

  “Hi.” I smile, feeling out of place.

  “Where’s Mom?” Brian asks.

  Sam makes a face. “In the lounge.”

  Either her face or the way in which she said the words alarms him, because Brian utters a curse and hurries from the room, Sam hot on his heels. For a moment, I remain on the spot, indecisive. Something’s wrong. What’s expected of me? Do I wait here or go see if I can help? He didn’t say to stay, so I make a split-second decision and go after them. There’s only one door at the right end of the hallway. When I enter the room, the pungent smell of sour and damp hits me before I see the woman lying on her stomach on a sofa bed. Her head is hanging over the edge. Dark hair spills around her face. A puddle of vomit stains the carpet, and next to it stands an almost empty bottle of gin.

  “I tried to clean it,” Sam says, pointing at a heap of crumbled paper towels.

  “You should have called me,” Brian says gently, moving to the woman’s side.

  “Last night, Mom said you were probably with your girlfriend.” She glances at me. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  He wipes the hair from the woman’s face, touching her forehead. “You call me anytime, no matter what. That’s our rule, okay?”

  “Okay,” Sam says.

  “When did Clive leave?” Brian asks, grunting as he turns the woman onto her back.

  “I think it was seven.”

  “When did she start?”

  “She was at it all night,” Sam replies. “You know how she gets.”

  “I’m going to kill Clive. He shouldn’t have left.”

  “I don’t think Clive realized,” Sam says. “She came out of the bedroom after he’d left, and she passed out not so long ago.”

  Moving his arms under her knees and armpits, he lifts the woman’s limp body. She’s dressed in a pink nightdress and fleece robe.