Rebound Page 8

  He should just let her go, but he couldn’t. His protective instincts wouldn’t allow it.

  She looked so vulnerable.

  He ran after her and fell into step at her side. For a strange few seconds he wondered if she was even aware he’d caught up – she was walking with her head dipped against the weather, and with the wind and the rain hammering down it was just about conceivable that she was not aware of his presence at her shoulder.

  Then she glanced sideways, meeting his look.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, raising his voice against the background hiss and rattle of the rain and wind. “I just want to make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

  That was open to interpretation, he knew. Okay, as in make sure she gets home safe. Or okay, as in not mad with him, not upset, not any confused emotional state in between.

  He just wanted to know she was okay. That he hadn’t broken one more thing.

  §

  The Travelodge was some distance behind them now. They’d walked past it without comment.

  He was merely seeing her home. Those protective instincts again. Making sure she was safe.

  Without warning, she turned down a narrow side street and Mitchell checked his stride, followed her.

  Her house was halfway along a Victorian terrace, narrow houses not much wider than a door and a window and a few bricks either side. He knew these houses, typical of the older parts of town: one room front and back with a staircase in between, leading up to two bedrooms; a ground floor extension for a kitchen and bathroom to the rear.

  He watched her fumble in her purse for her keys, and wondered if this was it: she would just let herself in without a word, and he’d be left to stew over the question of how much he had fucked things up.

  “I didn’t–”

  She silenced him with a shake of the head and a little smile, and he thought that maybe that was it, and at least he’d be able to walk away knowing he hadn’t fucked things up entirely, because she’d smiled and she wouldn’t do that if–

  She reached for him, took a handful of his wet jacket and, with surprising strength, pulled his head down to the level of hers.

  Where their first kiss had been tentative, a first contact that was gentle and growing firmer, a delicate probing of tongues before the passion rushed over them, this time there was no finesse. Her mouth was open, the fingers of her free hand burying themselves in his wet, tousled hair, clamping his face to hers with no ceremony.

  And where before their bodies had been pressed together, now there was a gap between them, Mitchell taken by surprise by her move, standing his distance, so it was only his head she drew close, their mouths that pressed, chins and noses, her hands in his hair. And somehow that made everything so much more intense, focusing all sensation on those few points of contact, his mouth and scalp sensitized to her touch.

  She drew away, and her fingers slid free, fingertips and nails sliding across his wet face, before falling away.

  She looked down, then back up, almost shyly, as if she’d surprised herself.

  Then he stepped forward, his arms looped around her waist, and their bodies pressed.

  He kissed her again, his tongue driving deep. Brief and passionate, then drawing back a little, before another pressing of mouths, a drag of his lips across the smoothness of her cheek, finding the line of her jaw, kissing the rain from her, pressing in against the lobe of her ear.

  He held her tight. Hard. That yielding contact of her body was all-possessing.

  If ever there had been a point of pulling back, playing safe, they had long since passed it.

  They staggered against her door, and it swung in, slamming against the wall.

  The house was in darkness. He had a sense of space, the door opening directly into the main living area. They took an awkward shuffling step sideways, free of the door, her back against the wall now. Mitchell heard a scrape, felt something strike his shoulder, heard a thud of something landing on the carpet – they’d knocked a picture off the wall.

  Sunita reached to her left, pushing the door closed with a bang, and Mitchell kissed her slender neck, the skin so soft, and breathed in the scent of her wet hair.

  She let her bag fall. Her hands pulled at his jacket, just as he fumbled with hers, the wet leather and zips resisting the clumsy efforts of his cold-numbed hands.

  She reached an arm out again, and light flooded the room. Cream painted walls hung with glass picture frames, black and white prints. A leather sofa. All in his peripheral vision as he gazed down into her dark eyes.

  He reached for his jacket, tried to pull it away, but everything was so wet and it stuck to his arms, his shirt beneath.

  She laughed, struggling with her own jacket, too, not having any more luck than he’d had.

  She’d moved away from the wall, and now she followed Mitchell’s look, and they both laughed again at the wetness on the paintwork, the stains from her jacket. There were times to be house- proud, and then there were times to just...

  He kissed her, pinning her hard against the wall again so that when she grunted he wasn’t sure if it was passion or if he’d hurt her.

  Her hands found their way inside his wet jacket, clutching at his ribcage, pressing and exploring through the barrier of his wet shirt.

  One hand behind her head, cradling her skull, he moved the other down to her hip, her thigh. Drew her leg up so that her calf curled around the back of his leg and now, when he pressed against her, his thigh was hard against her sex, grinding through wet jeans, and now he knew those sounds she was making were anything but pain.

  He needed more. So much more!

  He leaned back a little, still pressing his thigh against her. Tugging at his jacket, he managed to pull it free of his shoulders, ease it down his arm. Even as he let it fall behind him Sunita was tugging at his tie, but the knot was stuck.

  He pulled at his shirt, felt something give, buttons popping. This wasn’t the time to care that these were the only clothes he had right now and they were soaked and ripped.

  Now was the time where all he could think about was the hand she’d slipped inside the gap in his shirt, the first contact of her hand on the skin of his torso.

  He pulled at the shirt again, felt more tearing. Pulled at the tie, and managed to drag it painfully up over his head.

  She’d managed to undo the zip on her jacket and they stepped apart, that uncertainty from the doorstep returning briefly as they both gathered their breath. Mitchell’s senses were rushing, thrown into disarray by the passion, the pumping of his heart, and he knew she must feel the same.

  Had that been a cry of release, as he pressed against her? Had it indicated some kind of peak, or simply frustration at the barriers in their way?

  So many signals he hadn’t yet learned to read, the language of her body and her responses so new to him.

  She let her jacket fall, reached for the shapeless sweatshirt she somehow managed to make look sexy, and in one movement pulled it and the t-shirt beneath it up over her head, dropping them in a wet heap on the discarded jacket.

  Her bra was white, a delicious contrast to the mid-brown of her skin. Her breasts were small, cupped delicately, the nipples pressing through the lace of the bra.

  She was studying him, too, her gaze roving over his exposed torso where the ripped shirt hung open – her eyes drawn inevitably to the scars which mapped out a very personal history of torture and trauma in the line of duty. Would he have to come up with some kind of explanation? Was she repelled? Shocked? Was her mind racing, wondering who exactly he was?

  He reached for her, pressing one hand flat against the side of her ribcage, the heel of his thumb against the swell of a breast. His other hand stole behind her, found the clip, and deftly released it so that now the bra hung from her shoulders, sticking wetly to her breasts.

  He dipped his head and, pulling the bra clear with one hand, took a nipple between his lips, sucked it in deep so that he felt the soft mass of her breas
t against his face. He felt her whole body tensing in response, that gasp again that he was coming to learn was her involuntary signal of intense pleasure.

  He straightened, pulling his shirt over his head and then there was a moment where they stood apart, a moment more intense than anything they had yet shared.

  Their breath was ragged, fast, and their gazes were locked, almost like fighters waiting for the other to make the first move.

  He stood in a fighter’s pose, shoulders squared, arms hanging free, fists open and fingers clawed, flexing.

  How long did they stand like that? Probably only a fraction of a second, but it was a moment that froze itself in his consciousness.

  He’d never wanted anyone so much. Never felt such an ache of need in the pit of his belly. Every muscle was tensed, and he was hard for her, so hard it ached.

  Eyes still locked on hers, he reached for his waistband, released the button, drew the zipper down.

  She mirrored his movements, unfastening her own jeans, giving a little wiggle of the hips as she struggled to ease them down.

  His suit, a looser fit, came away more easily, and he pulled his trousers down, kicked his shoes clear and then the clothes that had bunched at his ankles.

  With a soft grunt of frustration, she finally managed to push the wet denim of her jeans down, step clear, and now she stood before him in tiny white panties that matched the bra that was now discarded on the floor.

  When his look returned to her eyes, he saw that her gaze was exploring his body again – none of the self- consciousness of that first pause when she’d seen his scars, this was pure hunger, passion.

  Still, they stood, an armspan apart, the tension between them heady, intense.

  Now, he became incredibly aware of where her gaze had lingered, of his achingly hard erection stretching the fabric of his black shorts tight, pulling the waistband away from his abdomen.

  He put his hand flat on his belly, saw a slight sag in her jaw in response. Let his hand slide down, fingers slipping inside that gap at the waistband, brushing against the base of his shaft.

  He hooked the thumb of his other hand into the waistband, and then, slowly, teasingly, started to edge his shorts down.

  For a second or two, his erection dragged downward, then he let it spring clear, swinging sharply up, as if reaching for her.

  Her eyes had widened, and the tip of her tongue moistened her lips.

  He pushed his shorts down, let them fall to his ankles, kicked them clear.

  Stood there, aching for her.

  He reached for her, fingertips brushing against her jaw. Such a delicate contact, when all he wanted was to take her in his harms and drive himself deep inside her right up against that wall.

  He stepped toward her, now cupping her jaw in his hand, his other hand finding a breast, taking its weight, his thumb flipping across the stiff nipple.

  He groaned, a harsh, animal sound, as she found him with her hands.

  The sudden contact, the tightness of her grip, the pull as she drew him toward her, the skin of his dick sliding over the hard core. One hand cupped the head, the palm wrapping around his glans, sliding with his juices.

  He had to have her.

  Right now.

  He kissed her, tongue driving deep, lips pressing, grinding.

  He tasted the metal tang of blood, didn’t know if it was his or hers, that hard sharpness of teeth on lips, tongues.

  He pressed her hard against the wall.

  Bodies pressing, skin on skin, bone and muscle pushing and grinding.

  The length of his hard manhood slid up between them against the softness of her belly and he felt the base of his shaft against her sex, felt her body tensing as he pushed hard, heard her give that little grunt of pleasure again.

  Her leg curled up around him once more, tilting her pelvis against him.

  He reached for her panties, tugged them partway down and they stumbled as he stooped, pulled them the rest of the way down, yanked them clear.

  A brief pause as their eyes met, and then he stood again, took her hands in his, pinning them up over her head, against the wall.

  Her leg came up again, the sole of her foot against his calf just below the knee.

  He bent at the knees, pushing the point of contact lower, dragging his erection down against her belly, the soft smoothness of her mound.

  She pushed against him, rolling her hips, pressing her clit against the underside of his shaft.

  Another pause, as he drew his head back, looked at her, said, “Are you...? Is it okay? Do we need...?”

  “I... It’s okay. Yes. Yes!”

  She wriggled a hand free, reached down and took him in that tight grip again, dragging the wet head of his cock against her softness, her wetness.

  Sliding him between her labia until he was poised against her opening, starting to push, and her eyes widened and her jaw sagged, her head grinding back against the wall.

  Slowly, slowly, he pushed, savoring every instant as he slid inside her, every tensing of her body, every gasp.

  Pushed, until he was deep in her, pushing her up against the wall, taking her entire weight on the place where they joined.

  They started to move against each other, hips tilting and rolling, everything amplified by the angle, by the way her weight rode on him.

  Eyes locked. So intense a connection.

  Then... her eyes widening, eyebrows arching. That gasp of hers...

  She cried out and he felt a fluttering of muscles around his shaft.

  She dipped her head against his chest, clinging to him as the throbbing peaked and then started to ease, spread out and he held her there, that magical moment when now he could read her every response, when he knew to squeeze and press, to hold still, to tilt, drawing out her climax until finally she peered up at him and he had never seen such an intimate look on a woman’s face, had never known anything quite like this complete giving, complete sharing.

  Had never seen how an expression like that could slowly segue into something mischievous, something downright dirty, a slight smile tugging at her lips as she started to roll her hips, grinding her pelvis against him, as those muscles that had tremored in ecstasy moments before now squeezed around him like a third hand, working him.

  Had never experienced a moment like this when all of a sudden it was all he could do to brace himself with one hand on that wall, as she rolled and ground and squeezed and he felt his own climax blossoming deep in his belly, that sudden awakening, that rushing sensation.

  That moment when he had to curl an arm around her waist to clamp her tight against him and he felt his juices rushing up through his shaft and surging into her.

  And when finally they stood clutching at each other, their breathing ragged, neither able to stand alone.

  §

  The kiss.

  Tender, a brushing of the lips like a butterfly’s wings.

  One more moment when they looked into each other’s eyes and the intensity was still close to its peak.

  And then...

  Their bodies unlocking, unraveling, him taking her weight in his arms, easing her to her feet until he was sure her shaking legs could take her weight.

  That delicious sliding sensation as he drew back, out of her.

  The standing, an armspan apart again, looking at each other almost shyly.

  The uncertainty, the moment when you don’t know quite what to do after a time when you’d had no control over what you would do, and then she reached for him, took his hand in a delicate entangling of fingers, gave that shy little smile and led him through to the stairs.

  §

  He woke up, the room slowly coming into focus. Sunlight angled in through the bedroom’s small window. Morning sunlight.

  He closed his eyes again, remembered the night before. The mad, stop-start dash through the rain and sleet. The kiss in the crowded doorway of the King’s Head. Rushing after her, the overpowering need to know he had not broken her.


  Tumbling into her front room.

  The feel of her body against his, pressing her so hard against the wall that she slid up it, her feet lifting clear of the ground.

  The feel of her skin, the taste of her. That incredible wet, silky, tightness as he slid inside her.

  The look in her eyes when she came.

  The...

  He opened his eyes again, turning his head.

  Saw her there lying on her side, propped on one elbow so her upper body tilted up and she looked down at him, her black hair hanging in a cascade over her arm. The flawlessness of her skin. The perfect shape of her breasts.

  That smile.

  So hard to read. Happy. Wistful. There were layers to that smile, and suddenly Mitchell felt a lump sticking in his throat, and wished the moment could have frozen just a few seconds before.

  “We can’t do this,” she said, and it was like déjà vu, as if he’d already read those words in her expression.

  He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what it was they were doing, so he could hardly come up with an argument for why and how they should continue.

  “We shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have let it happen. You’ve just had a massive break-up. It’s too soon for... for anything like this. I don’t want to be your rebound. You need time to heal.”

  He opened his mouth, but stopped before saying anything.

  “No matter how much you might feel you need this, we have to step back.”

  “Do you feel you need this? Do you want it?”

  She looked away, and he didn’t know if that was a sign of how much she wanted this or simply that she was trying to extricate herself from a big mistake.

  Then she looked at him again, her head still tilted away and only her eyes finding him. “Maybe one day,” she said. “Another time, another world, this could be a thing. I’d like that, yes. But now...”

  “You don’t want to be my rebound.”

  That little, enigmatic smile again.

  “I can see you at least? Maybe meet for coffee? I’d like to get to know you better.” Such a crass thing to say to someone after a night like last night!