‘You can do that later,’ I say softly. ‘Afterwards.’
He raises his eyebrows, studying my face. He’s still smiling, but it’s a different kind of smile now. ‘Afterwards?’
‘Why not?’ I take his hand and place it on my breast. I must have failed to turn the radiator up earlier, because my nipples are erect from the cold. Either that or from my growing excitement. ‘Unless you’re too tired after work?’
For an answer, he leans forward slowly and sucks on my nipple. Hard and deliberate. The physical contact is like an electric shock running through me. Sheer voltage. My back arches and I jerk upwards, groaning. He clamps that breast with his hand, squeezing it, and then bends his head to the other one, teasing me, circling my nipple with his tongue before licking it.
‘Suck it,’ I order him.
His gaze flicks to my face, a little surprised, but he obeys.
‘Yes,’ I say hoarsely, and grip the sheet so hard I feel one edge lift free of the mattress. ‘Yes, like that.’
He laughs under his breath. ‘You’re eager.’
‘I’m starving.’
‘But not for food, apparently.’
I lean back and part my thighs invitingly. ‘There are better things than food. Though if you’re so hungry, darling, I’ve got something here you can eat.’
Now his surprise is undisguised. ‘Cat?’
‘Dom?’
‘But you don’t like it when I—’
‘Hush.’ I slip my hands up his spine, and draw him close, moulding him against me. ‘A girl can change her mind, can’t she? I like it now,’ I whisper in his ear, and then lick his throat for good measure. ‘Come on, baby. I need your tongue inside me. How much longer are you going to keep me waiting?’
‘My God,’ he begins, laughing as he pulls away, and I sit up, raking my nails down his bare back. He jerks back at once, angry. ‘Shit, that hurt.’
‘Then stop talking and fuck me.’
‘Hey, watch it!’
‘Jesus, you’re so boring these days.’ I pretend to yawn. ‘Come on, be a good boy and share. What does it take to get you excited? Seriously, when are you planning to live up to your name?’
He stares down at me, his eyes glittering with baffled rage. ‘My . . . what?’
‘Dom.’
There’s a stillness about him.
Then he snaps me back on the bed, his hands hard. ‘Oh, I see what you’re driving at. You want to be dominated, do you?’
‘Well, it would be nice for a change. So far, this is like watching paint dry. Actually, no, I’ve had more fun watching paint dry.’
‘Bitch.’
Hoisting my legs in the air, Dominic hooks them roughly over his shoulders and sinks his mouth between my thighs. I growl in approval. For all of five seconds. Because he’s not there to please me, I realise, suddenly aware that I’ve been outmanoeuvred. I shriek in pain as I feel sharp teeth make contact with my tender flesh there.
‘No!’
He only bites me harder though, and I thrash about wildly beneath him, trying in vain to dislodge his weight.
‘You . . . total . . . fuck!’
I hit his back and shoulders, pummelling him with my fists. He ignores me, licking and biting in swift succession, pleasuring me and hurting me cruelly.
‘Get off me, you bastard!’
He sucks hard, and I scream. They can probably hear me downstairs. But right then I don’t care. I don’t care if everyone in London can hear me. I just want him off me.
My upper body starts to thump up and down on the bed, my thighs locked like iron manacles about his neck, everything straining impossibly upwards as if I’m trying to reach the ceiling. I can’t breathe, my lungs burning from a lack of oxygen. I bite hard on my lower lip, tasting blood in my mouth. My own blood. Then my lips part and I scream again. Not in pain or distress, though it’s a close call.
I’m having an orgasm. The best damn orgasm of my life.
I gasp, my arms flailing about.
God, it feels amazing.
With one swift movement, he’s up and thrusting between my legs, rigid with excitement himself, harder than I’ve ever known him.
‘You nasty little bitch!’ Dominic pants into my face, our sweaty bodies sliding together like pistons. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it? To be screwed hard. To be taught a lesson.’
I turn my hot face into the pillow and say nothing. He’s hurting me, for sure. Hurting me good. But inside, I’m smiling. Because no, actually, getting screwed is not what I want.
But it will do for a start.
Chapter Forty-Three
Later, smiling secretly at each other, we get dressed again and go downstairs to the kitchen, where my parents and Jasmine are still playing Scrabble. Dad’s head shines under the ceiling spotlights. He’s got a little bald patch developing on top, I realise. Like a monk’s tonsure. Why did I never notice that before? They glance up as we come in, and see us hand in hand. Jasmine smiles and looks down at her letter tiles. Trying to pretend she’s not thinking what I know she’s thinking.
I drop Dominic’s hand – we’re hardly love-struck teenagers, for God’s sake – and stare over Jasmine’s shoulder at her letter tiles, too.
‘Winning?’ I ask.
‘Not even close. Your dad’s on fire.’
Christ, if only.
I study her letter tiles, then the partially completed Scrabble board, and give a wry smile of my own.
BAGGAGE.
The universe does love to have its little jokes, doesn’t it?
‘Cup of tea, darling?’ my mother asks, jumping up rather too quickly. There’s an odd note in her voice. ‘And . . . and you too, Dominic? What can I get you?’
Clearly they heard us having sex.
Ah, bless. Mother’s embarrassed because we made so much noise upstairs. Screwing each other into the ground. Twice.
How delightfully quaint.
As though I’ve never heard her and Dad having it off. Poor old bastard, puffing away manfully, and her moaning, trying to sound excited, though really they both know she’s thinking about that young man at the gym.
Pyotr. Her personal trainer for the past six months. Polish-born and hung like a horse, by the sound of it.
Not that my mother’s ever mentioned his equipment. It’s the way she hasn’t mentioned it that tells its own story. Not a story she’d like to share with my father either, I’m guessing. Despite his own ill-disguised appreciation for all things Polish.
‘Such a nice young man, that Pyotr,’ she says every time she comes back from her personal training sessions, a slight sheen to her face, her pupils dilated. What is she now? Fifty? Older? Still with plenty of ambition in the bedroom though, oh yes. ‘Such a very nice young man.’
She’s gagging for it, obviously.
And she’s not the only one.
Mouth dry, I make straight for the fridge. ‘No tea for me, thank you very much. I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime.’ I swing open the door and check the wine bottles in the door. Pinot Grigio. That’ll do. I extract one of the open bottles and fill a large glass without hesitation, then glance back at my husband. ‘Wine, Dom?’
He shakes his head.
My father looks from me to Dominic and frowns. Disapproval. Perhaps even suspicion. What’s his problem? He’s not usually as prudish about sex as Mum.
But maybe he doesn’t like the thigh-length silver dress I’m wearing. I suppose it is a little snug about the chest, and the hips, and . . . well, snug all over. Even Dominic raised his eyebrows when he saw me take it out of the wardrobe. He seemed to approve though, going by the way he smacked my backside several times on our way downstairs.
Clearing his throat, my father reaches for the tile bag to complete his letter allowance, head bent as he fumbles about inside the bag.
I swig back a generous mouthful of Pinot Grigio, studying my father’s profile as I ponder the question. It can’t be jealousy, surely? That would be kind of sweet. Not to mention sick and illegal, of course.
Definitely one for the blackmail list.