Page 27 of Good Girl
Very slowly, I remove my hand from between her legs and take a moment to enjoy her sexily dishevelled state. Her whole body is slack and floppy now in her chair.
My work here is done.
For now.
Finally, she peers down at me through half-closed lids, a small, slightly sheepish smile on her face.
‘Whoa. That was intense,’ she murmurs. But I can tell from the awe in her tone that she enjoyed it.
I smile at her and get up from my kneeling position. ‘There’s another lesson for you—how to stay focussed through distraction.’
‘I’m not sure I did so well with that one,’ she half-moans, half-laughs. ‘But I have to admit,’ she adds huskily, ‘it’s a great incentive to work hard while you’re around if that’s the kind of help I can expect to get.’
Juno
I wake up the next morning with a smile on my face.
After our lesson in ‘maintaining focus under pressure’ Sandro persuaded me to finish working for the day, which I have to admit didn’t take much persuasion, what with my body and brain feeling like jelly, and we went out for food at a lovely family-run restaurant round the corner, away from the tourist trail.
Even though Sandro seemed happy with how sequestered it was from the bustle of the city, I’m pretty sure I spotted someone standing around on the pavement opposite holding up a camera in our direction when we were leaving. But I was probably just being paranoid again. How they’d known that the two of us would be there, I couldn’t begin to imagine. I doubt very much a paparazzo would waste his time trailing around the city after us. We can’t be of that much interest to the press here.
I push the worry about it out of my mind. It was probably just a tourist taking a picture of the quaint little backstreet and had nothing to do with us being there at all. Being around Sandro and his electrifying presence seems to be messing with my perception of reality.
Speaking of which, it really is time I figured out how to return some of the sexual pleasure he’s been giving me. I’m intensely aware that I’ve barely even touched him. He must be beginning to get fed up with how unforthcoming I am in that department and I want him to feel as wanted as he’s making me feel. Also, it’s something I really need to get a handle on if I’m going to feel confident about making my own sexual advances in the future.
Frankly, I think I need to learn how to give a damn good blow job.
Picking up my phone, I put it on the private-browsing setting and go about searching the Internet for the best tips and hints on how to do this. Some time later I come up for air, my mind buzzing with information and my body with nerves.
Once again I feel the weight of my inexperience pressing down on me. How does one go about offering a man fellatio? Especially one who doesn’t appear to be interested in getting an orgasm for himself. I want to do this for him, to show him I’m not a selfish lover, but also because I feel that he deserves it after all the work he’s putting into giving me the confidence I need.
I don’t want him to think it has to be all about me. I’m intensely aware that he’s not really getting anything out of this. He’s being so selfless. And that doesn’t sit right with me.
I’d like to pay my way, as it were.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Sandro sitting at the breakfast bar dressed in a pair of navy chinos and a soft-looking grey T-shirt that stretches becomingly across his broad, muscular back. My heart rate immediately picks up at the sight. It’s so unfair. The man could probably wear a bin bag and still look amazing. His hair is wet from the shower and shines a dark blue-black in the bright morning sunshine that’s pouring into the room.
His hair is a thing of real beauty. It looks perfectly rumpled all the time, as if he’s spent hours getting it that way, but I’ve not seen him touch it once. I think it just has the God-given ability to fall sexily into place without human intervention.
‘Good morning,bella,’ he rumbles in a just-rolled-out-of-bed voice and my body responds accordingly, sending a dart of pure need straight to my core.
‘Morning,’ I reply, annoyed that my own voice sounds so unattractively rough.
I flit around the kitchen, pouring myself coffee and buttering a piece of toast, before going over to join him.
He’s been sitting there watching me the whole time, drumming his fingers lightly on the countertop. There’s a restless sort of energy about him again this morning and, as I see him fiddle around with the teaspoon in front of him, winding it back and forth between his fingers, the action suddenly reminds me of a girl I was at school with who did the same thing with pencils. She also found it intensely difficult to sit still.
I smile at him as I sit on the stool on the other side of the counter. ‘Can I ask you something personal?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Do you ever have trouble staying interested in tasks that take a long time to complete?’ I have a suspicion I know what’s going on with him now but I want to know more before I suggest it.
‘I guess so. Sometimes. It depends what it is. If it’s something I love—like my sculpting, or sex—I can focus on it for hours, or days, without needing to take a break.’
‘But if it doesn’t interest you?’
He stares down at the counter and shrugs. ‘I can’t make myself sit down and do it, no matter how much I tell myself I need to. I guess I’m just not as smart as you.’
