Page 89 of For Real

I slumped over the desk, defeated. “Toby, I can’t.”

“It’s your choice, love.” He kissed the top of my ear, and I trembled helplessly, as though he’d whipped or cut me.

“Please don’t make me.”

“You don’t have to.”

I writhed in an anguish of lust, pushing my cock clumsily against something that was probably a drawer handle.

“Don’t hump the desk.” One of his hands closed around me from behind, and it felt so good, so perfect, so exactly what I needed that I couldn’t stop the rush of tears. “Have me.”

My mouth tasted of salt. God. I was actually crying.

He’d made me cry with nothing more than a choice. “I don’t want… I can’t let you—”

“Yeah, you can.” His palm was still slick with lube, gliding over too-taut, too-burning skin. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come.” Weeping. Shaking. Pressing into him.

Afraid if he stopped touching me, I’d stop breathing. “Okay.”

He put his lips against my shoulder and bit—not hard, just enough to feel the blunt pressure of his teeth and the heat of his mouth through my shirt. I cried out, claimed. And then he slid his fingers back inside me, and tightened his grip, and claimed me again.

It was surely a devil’s bargain, but oh, he made it sweet.

He didn’t tease me, but he drew it out, forcing pleasure upon pleasure, working me with his hands, his mouth, and words that soothed and inflamed me all at once.

I was gorgeous. He loved me. It was okay.

And I believed him. Sprawled over a desk, trousers down, arse up, ruthlessly finger-fucked in a pool of my own tears and sweat and pre-come, I felt…cherished. It was that, in the end, that sent me flying. Surrender and release, the accompanying orgasm almost incidental.

I was still bliss-struck and gasping when Toby rolled me over, straddled me, and kissed me hard. I probably tasted dreadful—raw and bitter from my tears—but his tongue took me even to the deepest corners of my mouth. He was ferociously hard and smelled musky with sex and too many colognes.

I reached for him, but he caught my hand and bore it down to the desk. Leaned over me, flushed and smiling, damp-haired, his eyes blurry with desire. “That was just for you.”

I could barely move my lips. “Thank you.”

We lay on the desk, neither of us wanting to move despite the discomfort. It was dark now—a tawny, Oxford dark, fat-mooned and starless, the night sky gleaming with silhouettes of spires.22

Then I caught a glimpse of the time—oh fuck—and limped off on wobbly legs to shower. When I came back, Toby was sitting in the room’s only chair, one leg crossed over the other, and for a tiny shocking second I almost didn’t recognise him. He was also freshly washed and wearing a double-breasted tuxedo with a satin shawl collar that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a film from the forties. It gave him a strangely timeless look. All he needed was a cigarette between his fingers, and I could have been on a date with the young Dirk Bogarde.

“You look—” I didn’t know how to finish, and then I did. “Stunning.”

He blushed and was Toby again, his hand drifting self-consciously towards his perfect bow tie. “Yeah? Not like a knob?”

“Not even a little bit like a knob.” God help me, I couldn’t work out if I wanted to lick the shining patent leather shoes of this elegant young man, or just fuck him senseless. Maybe both. “Where did you get a vintage tuxedo?”

He shrugged. “Granddad.”

I finished towelling my hair and began unzipping my suit carrier.

“Uh, Laurie…” I glanced over my shoulder to find the elegant young man holding a most inelegant object and grinning. “Forget something?”

I froze. “Toby, do I have—”

“No, you don’t have to.” Relief. “But you’d kind of be wriggling out of a deal.”

My thoughts turned anxiously. Maybe I could renege now, and he could punish me later. That would be fair? And then I wouldn’t have to… Then he wouldn’t… “What if I do?”

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