Run To You

He could say more and embarrass me, I think, because really I’m not just leaning. I’m almost sliding off my chair. If he were standing beside me now I’d slump into his side, and I’m not even sure I’d care. All that matters at the moment is how hard and high my heart is beating, how prickly my skin seems to be, how warm I am right at my centre.

I want to be my body and nothing else, for once.

And oh, it’s easy to be that way with him. He makes you forget without even really trying. He says one word and every frantic thought I’ve ever had just flies away.

‘Yes, you like that,’ he tells me, and I feel no need to say no. Saying no might make him stop, and, dear God, I don’t want that. His knuckles are just about to graze my jaw, and if I hold my breath I know he’ll do more. He’s right on the verge … right on the cusp … just a little bit more and then he gives it to me.

‘And this?’ he says, as his hand slides under the collar of my shirt.

He doesn’t go right for my breasts, however. Of course he doesn’t. Schoolboys with sweaty hands do things like that, and he’s the absolute opposite. He’s from another world where men are calm and cool, and capable of just letting the tips of their fingers trail over a woman’s collarbone.

I feel him press lightly, briefly, barely there, but just as I’m starting to enjoy it he backs away a bit. He lets those fingertips brush against the material instead of my skin, touching buttons in a suggestive way. He might undo them. He might not.

All I have to do is say.

So I do.

‘Yes, that,’ I tell him, fumbling and bumbling over word choice and finally settling on something that makes no sense. Yes, that, I think, and want to roll my eyes. He’s like the endless coils of a clever snake, and I’m this humiliatingly literal and oh, so basic creature.

Not that he cares. In fact, my stunted attempts at being a real person only seem to spur him on. I stutter out the only words I can and he responds with a sultry ‘and more, I’m sure?’

Before that maddening hand does just that. It gives me more – far more than I expect. Running through my head is the image of him cupping my breast, or maybe unbuttoning my shirt a little bit, before I explode. Instead he touches two fingers to his lips, like he’s blowing me a kiss.

And then he licks them. He licks them.

It’s probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Dirtier than actual sex I’ve had, dirtier than movies filled with sex. He’s still in his suit, and he looks so elegant and refined, and yet he’s lewdly easing his tongue all over and around his fingers, right in front of me.

Of course it’s then that I realise I’m not going to survive any of this. He hasn’t even done anything, and I’m staring like a maniac. I’m thinking like an unprepared teenager. I can’t even fathom why he’s doing what he’s doing, even though I should absolutely know. Why else would he be making his fingers all nice and wet?

He’s going to touch me, I think, but the thought doesn’t connect with his actions. I watch his hand lower back down to my trembling body, as though everything is suddenly in slow motion. My lips are parted; my eyes are wide. I must look pretty comical, following his fingers as they slide beneath the material of my shirt.

And even more comical, when they slide beneath the material of my bra. I make a little sound and come pretty close to grabbing his wrist, but I swear it’s not because I’m a prude. It’s because I’m far too excited. My nipples are stiff unbearable points, clearly visible through my shirt. I really need more time to compose myself before he does this.

But he gives me none.

He simply eases those slippery fingers over that one tight little tip, rubbing and rubbing before I’m ready. I’m still choking over the first burst of sensation, and he’s making slow, slick circles around one of the most sensitive spots on my body.

Or at least, it’s one of the most sensitive spots now. Great aching tingles surge down from that point of connection, turning most of my lower body to liquid. I’m shuddering all over, and so stuffed with heat I could set fire to the carpet with very little effort – and over such a minor thing. It’s nothing really, I think. It’s nothing.

And yet at the same time it’s everything.

He catches the stiff tip between those fingers, and I cry out. I strain towards his touch, without shame. How can I be ashamed when it feels so good? I think I could actually come like this, all mired in the heat and the tension of his presence, stirring restlessly beneath his cool and perfectly assured touch.

And I so desperately want to test that theory. I’m gagging to test that theory. Go on, go on, I think at him, just a little more. Just pinch it a little harder; just lick like that for me, again. Give me everything you’ve got, go on.

But instead he waits. He waits for the perfect moment, when I’m writhing and reckless and ready for so much more. Then he leans down as though he’s going to kiss me, and whispers in my ear:

‘Now tell me what you want to happen next.’

‘That isn’t fair.’

‘Of course it’s fair. If you want something, you have to ask.’ He walks around me again, only this time it’s more like pacing. It’s more like prowling. ‘I did say that you couldn’t expect me to do all the work. You have to offer me something at least, and really I’m requiring so little. Am I not?’

The answer is yes, obviously. Yes, you’re requiring so little. Words are barely anything when you really boil them down, and I know I could compress them even further. I could mash ‘fuck’ together with ‘me’ and he’d understand.

He would.

So why am I floundering? It’s simple, really.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘I’d like to touch you.’

There, I think. There.

And just as I do he strikes me down.

‘Liar,’ he says, like a fist rapping against glass.

A little harder and it will break.

A little gentler and everything will stay the same.

‘That’s not a lie.’

‘Of course it is. You don’t want to touch me. You want me to carry on touching you. You want me to peel off your blouse and your bra and get right underneath. And when I’m finished there, you want me to start on other items of clothing.’

He gestures to my skirt, though perhaps gesture is the wrong word. It’s much more like a caress, from the curve of my hip over and down my thigh to my knee. And I suppose it would be, if his hand wasn’t around two feet away from any of my actual body parts. It just dances through the air over certain places, and I shudder as though he really touched me.

I’m fighting a losing battle.

‘You’re wrong. I hate being naked.’

‘You hate being naked because you think you’re unappealing. But secretly you long to be confident … to have a man’s eyes following your every move as you strip out of your clothes, so sure and certain that he wants you. That he craves you. Isn’t that so?’

‘No.’

This time he stops in front of me, and tick-tocks his finger back and forth.

‘That’s another lie, Alissa.’

‘How can you always tell?’

‘I make my living from being able to tell.’

‘Really? True or false, then: I threw my childhood pet in a lake.’

‘Are you challenging me?’ he asks, laughter in his words. ‘Very well: true.’

‘You honestly believe I’d do something like that?’