Page 20 of Dirty Tricks

I chose my disguise, staged this dirty trick to fool her, so why does it cut my heart that she believes I’m Finn, when it’s what I wanted?

I capture her hand, pressing it flat next to its matching partner.

“Keep them there until I tell you otherwise,” I murmur, forgetting my voice changer is still inside the mask, biting my lips to keep them closed as I wait for her to notice, wait for her to say something.

But she doesn’t.

Perhaps because my voice is so husky with arousal that I barely recognise it myself.

It’s a sensual feast as I run my hands over her bare torso, carefully undoing the clasp of her bra, excited by her groan as I reach around, cupping her tits inside my hands. The weight of them turns on something deep, something primal in my brain. More than just the increasing frisson of sexual excitement. A possessive kick that keeps building.

I can’t give her up after this. She’s mine. We were meant to be together.

Regret tugs again at my chest. I want to spill my secrets, expose my identity, hoping against hope she’ll still want me after the reveal.

But instead of confessing, my fingers find the hem of her skirt, sliding it upwards, high on the whimpers as I blindly explore each newly exposed inch of skin. They slide into her lacy underwear, my thumbs rubbing over the smooth curves of her surprisingly plump arse.

Then I tug down the delicate fabric, all the way along her thighs, kneeling as I ease them to her calves, leaning forward to kiss the tender skin on the back of her knees, wishing I could see every inch of her while also relishing the dark.

When her underwear pools around her ankles, I help her lift each leg, getting them free of her boots, adding them to the pile of her removed clothing.

I kiss all the way back up her legs, letting my moans of pleasure evaporate against the tender flesh on the inside of her thighs, then her pussy, my thumbs spreading her apart while my tongue licks with slow strokes, chest muscles burning as I try to contain the emotion swelling within me, tasting the soft centre of her as her thighs shiver and her hips tilt, opening her further to me.

“You like that, angel?” I ask, forgoing my ban on speaking in my eagerness to seek her feedback, needing to know that I’m not forcing an unwanted gift on her, even as her body flashes signals of appreciation. “If you want me to go faster or slower or deeper or wider, you tell me, okay?”

A gasp escapes her throat, then she hums as I tease around her entrance with the pad of my finger, slowly, slowly easing it inside, her cunt slippery with welcome.

“Use your words, otherwise, I’ll have to decide for you. Or is that what you want? You just want me to give you what I think you need?”

She slaps her palms against the bench, the wordless sounds spurring me onwards. I curl the tip of my finger, working on instinct, guided by her whimpers, the ripples as her muscles clench, by the myriad small indicators signalling her enjoyment. My finger drags against her inner walls, creating friction, especially when I follow her encouragement and increase the angle, increase the pressure, listening to her breathing as it picks up speed.

My erection throbs between my legs, hating the constraint of my jeans, chafing against the dry fabric when all it wants is to seek somewhere wet as its home.

I get to my feet to adjust myself and then I can’t stop there, not when she’s spread in front of me, waiting. Not when my loss of vision means my other senses take the foreground and my ears are full of her moans and gasps, the slide of fabric against skin, the small tremors that spread out, echoing across the shelving.

My ears fill with those tiny cries, and my hands tingle from touching her, my tongue buzzes, buds dancing from her taste.

I roughly open my jeans, pulling myself free before I take hold of her hips.

“Stop.”

My head buzzes with an overload of desire. I struggle to push it back, gripping her extra hard for a split second before I wrestle my hands away, retreating a step, panting with need.

Electric tingles bounce across my forearms, an aftereffect of my skin caressing hers.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” I gasp, having to force myself back another step, move away from the temptation. The steady thump in my head takes on a new form, each beat whispering,found out. You’ve been found out.

I hear her turn, step nearer, fingertips bumping into me from the darkness.

“Your voice,” she whispers, and a light frost covers my skin. “I recognise your voice.”

I sidestep, getting closer to the door, ready to bolt if this conversation goes the wrong way. My body temperature continues to plummet, shivering to get back to stasis.

Her hands find me again, moving across my chest, across the sensitivity of my nipples, curving around the side of my neck while I wait for my world to implode, for my daydream to end.

A thumb strokes along the ridge of my jaw, then across my lips, then both hands cup my face, and she must be standing on tiptoes to reach me, her breath caressing my throat.

And because it’s her, I tilt my head forward, giving in to her silent beseechment. I bend my knees to make it easier for her fingertips to roam my face, for her to pull together my image in her mind’s eye.

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