His Innocent Seduction

He looks around the lift, then back at me. His breath is forced, rushed, tortured. Good.

I shouldn’t be the only one struggling for air.

‘See that camera up there?’ he mutters, jerking his head over his shoulder.

Belatedly, I realise that there’s a familiar little globe in the lift. I blush. So maybe this wasn’t my best thought-out plan. Not the sex, just the stopping the lift part of it.

But then he angles my body, pushing me into the corner of the lift, his large frame concealing me from the camera’s view.

And his hand slides into my pants, his eyes watching mine as he pushes his fingers past the elastic waistband of my underwear. He touches my clit and I whimper. He drops his head, sucking my lower lip into his mouth, between his teeth. I whimper louder. His fingers move faster.

‘You’re wetter than the ocean, baby.’

I am. For him, I am. ‘Please.’ I say it again, simply but desperately.

He kisses me then, his head pinning mine to the wall of the lift as his fingers move over me. I thrust my chest forward, my nipples throbbing inside the lace of my bra, my whole body trembling. He slides a finger inside my pulsing core and I cry his name, breaking the kiss and moving my head over his shoulder. But he turns his head, catching my mouth in his, obscuring me from the camera’s view once again.

The lift beeps and then begins to move.

We’re going upwards but I don’t care. I’m flying up into the sky, like a bird or a meteor. I am on fire.

I dig my nails into his shirtfront, clinging on for dear life. I grind my hips down, needing more, needing so much more. His tongue duels with mine. The doors ping open. Neither of us makes a move to leave. He pulls his finger out of me and then runs his hand over my clit again, faster, harder, and my knees buckle. If it weren’t for his weight against me I think I’d collapse to the floor in a muddle.

I explode.

There’s no other way to explain it. I feel like my every cell has become a bolt of lightning, searing through my skin and zapping out into the world. I feel like I am a goddess. Eternal and all-powerful. I don’t realise I’m screaming his name until he grins and kisses me, swallowing the cries into his mouth and soul.

I smile against his mouth, weak now, and strong too.

‘Come inside, Millie.’ He pulls away from me, standing straighter, holding an arm out to stop the lift doors from pinging shut.

‘And you’ll fuck me?’

He laughs gruffly. ‘We’ll see.’

* * *

I have no idea what’s holding me back. It’s new terrain in that she’s a virgin but sex, at the end of the day, is sex. So why? Why am I standing in my kitchen feeling like I’m the victim of some kind of abstinence torture, aching to possess her, feeling at the same time like I can’t? Like I shouldn’t.

Because there’s some kind of vulnerability to her. I feel like...there’s something. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s an air of sadness that lies just beneath the surface.

And while I have slept with more than my fair share of women, it’s never been out of anything other than mutual desire.

I’m not someone women regret. At least I don’t want to be.

Would she regret me?

Probably.

And there it is.

The reason I’m pouring us a wine instead of carrying her over my shoulder into my room and throwing her down on the bed like she’s been begging me to do.

She’s a twenty-three-year-old virgin and that makes no sense. There has to be a reason for it. A long-term relationship gone bad? Maybe she’s run away from a cult? Or she’s a member of a religious faction? In any event, something’s changed and, whatever that is, I’m pretty sure it’s something I definitely don’t want on my conscience.

She wants me to fuck her but it’s like she’s got a lion on her heels.

Why?

Does it matter? My dick is indignant.

My brain holds tight. It matters. A bit. Enough to stall me.

I carry two wine glasses through the apartment. She’s on the deck, her arms braced on the railing, her eyes glancing across the view. There’s a huge black void—the ocean—but you can hear and smell the sea, the boats coming and going, the water lapping, to know it’s there.

The city is to the other side, all shining lights and high-rises, old wars and ancient grudges.

I hand her a wine. She turns to face me. ‘To good old-fashioned sex.’

I laugh, despite my misgivings. ‘Not too old-fashioned, I hope.’

She shakes her head and her cheeks are still stained pink from how I made her come in the lift. God, that was hot. She was hot. She’s like a livewire, ready to blow.

‘Tell me why.’

It’s a challenge now and, before she can offer a whimsical demurral, I shake my head.

‘Tell me why.’

Her teeth massage her lower lip. I drop my hand to my side, perfectly still. Watchful.

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you a virgin?’

‘I haven’t had sex,’ she replies very literally.

I respect that—the quickness of her mind. ‘Why not?’

She swallows, her eyes flicking away. My brain surges, certain that I’m onto something. This isn’t just happenstance—what happenstance could explain this, anyway? There’s a reason. A mystery. Something behind her choice not to have sex—and now, something behind her choice to sleep with me.

‘I just haven’t.’

‘I don’t buy it.’

‘Tough.’

I laugh. ‘Now, now, don’t get all defensive. Don’t you think I have a right to know?’