Page 13 of Wanting Mr Black

“Hurry up and choose something.”

He rakes a hand through his damp hair, causing a tendril to fall across his forehead. I want him.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the wardrobe. It’s been less than half an hour since we last had sex; I’m turning into some sex-crazed madwoman.

“I’m working on it,” I say distractedly, pulling a strappy black summer dress from its hanger.

He sidles up behind me, sliding his hands around my waist and putting his mouth to my ear. “You’re too slow.” He nips my neck with his teeth and twists me round, so we’re both facing the mirror. “Whenever I see you in black lace, I want to get you out of it.”

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. My core fizzes in anticipation of what’s to come.

He can’t. I can’t. We’ve only just …

He pushes a hand into my knickers, and his fingers graze my clitoris.

Yes, he can.

I lose my grip, and the dress falls in a heap at my feet. I relax backwards against him and feel the bulge in his groin press into my buttocks. His fingers massage my clit, sending a throb of delight shooting through me, and I tilt my head back and close my eyes as he nuzzles my neck.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he breathes into my ear. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

My eyes open, and I focus on us in the mirror as he carries on. The sight of him pleasuring me causes the ache in my centre to spike, and I moan, reaching up to grab his hair. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and I wriggle, arching my back as it gets to be too much. I come undone – a groaning, shuddering wreck – as he plants soft kisses on my neck, and I sag against him. He removes his hand from my underwear and curls his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Now, get dressed, or I can’t promise I won’t do it again.”

I throw him a cheeky smile. “That’s not much of an incentive.”

He untangles himself from me and strokes a hand across my bum. “I’m beginning to think I’m a bad influence on you.” He flashes a wicked grin and disappears out of the room.

I smile. So am I.

Eight

Ipull on the simple, strappy black sundress, slip my feet into flip-flops, pull my hair into a ponytail, and apply a little make-up before joining Art in the kitchen.

Two mugs of coffee are waiting on the glass dining table, next to two plates of toast and two bowls of something colourful and appetising. I’m pleased to find that the gentle breeze wafting through the open windows has helped get rid of the cigarette smoke and alcohol smells, erasing the final piece of evidence from the previous twenty-four hours.

“Breakfast is served, madam.” He gestures towards the dining table with a grin and pulls out a chair for me before settling down in the seat beside it.

“What do we have here?”

“Toast and fruit salad.” He picks up his mug and takes a sip.

“You’re branching out with your culinary skills,” I tease, picking up a fork and diving into the bowl of assorted fruit.

“Cooking’s not my strong point,” he admits, putting down his mug. “And I know this isn’t technically cooking, but for you, I’ll try.”

I beam, warmed by the fact that he’s trying for me.

My phone vibrates against the glass tabletop, and I pick it up.

Three text messages from Lucy. I skim through them; all are asking how I am. I should have texted her back last night, knowing she was bound to worry. But Art’s too much of a distraction, as always.

He takes a forkful of strawberry and glances at the phone in my hand. “Lucy?”

“Yeah, just checking how I am,” I reply as I text back.

Don’t worry. I’m fine. We’re fine. See you tomorrow x.

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