The Pleasure Quartet (33 page)

He looked up at her, past the flat of her torso, the soft curve of her waist and breasts and her throat and the sharp line of her chin. She had her eyes closed now, and was leaning her head backwards slightly. He could not see the expression on her face, his view was blocked by other parts of her body that he could have happily stared at for an age.

Is this what she wanted? For him to please her, or to hurt her? Were they one and the same, to Summer? To him? Noah wished that he could make more sense of the language of their shared desires, find some way to navigate through the complex web of want that had made captives of them both.

Summer clung to his thick locks with one hand, her grip shifting frantically between loose and tight as she feared that she would hurt him, and then lost control of herself and tugged with all the clawing strength that she possessed. She couldn’t help herself. She clutched at the wall behind her, snatched at thin air, hoped like hell that he would stop, she couldn’t take it anymore, prayed that he would never stop, that he would carry on exploring her with his tongue forever. And his fingers . . . oh god, his fingers.

‘Oh fuck, Noah . . . fuck . . . fuck!’

She loved to say his name. Two syllables that perfectly expressed everything that she felt about him in their intonation alone, like a magic spell.

Noah was doing things to her that Summer had never experienced before. Not quite like this.

Guilt twisted inside her. A momentary flash of Dominik in her mind – it was him, wasn’t it, who made her feel this way? She shouldn’t, couldn’t compare them. Knew that if he could, Dominik would give his blessing. Another stab of her conscience; Summer ought to be pleasuring Noah, he had been licking her for so long now. No matter how skilled her explorations of his cock, she would never be able to stimulate in him the same responses that he was stimulating in her.

Why was her mind wandering . . .

And then another firm lap against her clit, and all of her buzzing thoughts and guilt and shame and worry washed away and there was nothing but her and Noah, making love by his front door.

Her orgasm began to build. It started as a blooming warmth that radiated through her from her core to her extremities, then grew to a violent, tearing flow, a tidal wave of sensations that surged from her cunt to her mind and out through her fingertips as she jerked and writhed against his mouth and he held her and ignored the ache in his jaw and the bucking of her body that threatened to dislodge her from his grasp. Summer caught hold of that feeling and rode it, the dizziness, the spasms, the oh so fleeting sense of pure, unadulterated life and pleasure.

She came into his mouth. Not in a gush, not yet, but in a glorious wet mess that drenched his beard and dripped from his chin.

His fingers clenched tighter on her thighs. A rush of satisfaction coursed through him. His cock was still hard.

He couldn’t help noticing how much she glowed. As if the orgasm had allowed her access into another dimension, a world she had lost, where her inner light reigned supreme.

His heart tightened, unexpectedly moved by the way she had experienced her pleasure. Without shame or afterthought.

She leaned back against the wall, tried to prop herself up. Almost fell backwards and caught herself with one hand behind her and the other clutching his shoulder.

‘Noah, your knees, your jaw . . . you must ache,’ she said, laughing softly as he nearly lost his balance trying to hold her up.

He smiled at her. Helped her regain her footing and pushed himself up to standing.

‘Believe me,’ he replied, ‘that’s the last thing on my mind.’ He brushed his hand over his face.

Summer stumbled, her mind still not back in total control of her body. He held her hand. Led her. They walked up the stairs to the bedroom.

They had still not had sex.

The first time, the night slowed, ground almost to a halt as Noah lifted his body over hers, naked except for the thin sheath that covered his cock, that he wished like hell was not a necessary precaution, craving as he did for a total lack of barriers between them, skin and flesh. She groaned as he entered her. Her cunt so slick that lubricant was not necessary. They were in the much-maligned missionary position, their bodies close, skin on skin as he rode her until he came and she grabbed his thighs to pull him deeper into her, held onto his back, tangled her fingers through his hair, brought his mouth down to hers and they kissed, and kissed again.

Afterwards, she told him that she wished that she could feel him inside her, all of him. The smooth silk of his cock, unprotected. That she wanted to feel him explode inside her; she wanted to feel his come dripping down her thighs. She wanted him to taste his own juices inside her and then kiss them into her mouth.

‘You dirty bitch,’ he replied, purposefully softening his tone, rolling the words in his mouth with a smile.

‘Oh,’ she whispered, ‘I like it when you call me that.’

‘What else do you like?’

She blushed, too ashamed to tell him all the things she liked at once. The filthy things, the wrong things. The things she had been told she shouldn’t like at all.

He was hard again.

She brought his fingers to rest on her inner upper arm. He could feel something there, a hard ridge of a thing just beneath the surface of her soft skin. ‘An implant?’ he guessed. She nodded. ‘But we should still . . .’ he agreed. They would be safe, until they could both be checked, and then the next time, he would fuck her raw.

‘I’ll make you suck all of my come, and yours, from my cock . . .’ he promised her. ‘I’ll paint your body with it. I’ll use it to lubricate your arsehole and I’ll fuck you there too.’

The second time, and all the times after that, were a lazy procession of touches, embraces, revelations, endless couplings slow and fast, sweat, fluids. A concert of sighs, and deep felt emotions.

There were parts of this night that Noah thought he would never forget.

Undressing her.

Unveiling every square inch of her body like a preordained ritual, taking mental photographs at regular intervals to fix the moment in his brain, capturing memories that might have to last a lifetime, fodder for his feelings and joys and regrets. Isolating the texture of a nipple until, up close, it resembled the ridge of a lunar crater, a microscopic recreation of rough crumbled rock and powdered earth, but surprisingly soft to the touch, a braille translation of her innate essence. The delicate angle of the valley between her breasts where pearl drops of perspiration gathered like the bed of a sweet river while her whole body shuddered under his touch.

The Escher-like layers and jewelled intricacies of her ear lobe as he lowered his lips towards her while they fucked wildly; the way it changed its shade of pink as the waves of her arousal rose, crested and faded again.

The deep distant seas at the back of her eyes as their lovemaking cut the faltering ties that still bound her to the present and he could watch her float away in that way she had of seemingly untethering herself from reality and going to some other place where he couldn’t join her, where every word he spoke, every square inch of skin-to-skin contact provoked a chemical reaction hitherto unknown to science.

The sounds rising from her throat, animalistic, tender, savage, soft, loud, uncontrolled and grateful, a delicate blend of violence and joy animating her slender frame as he crushed her beneath him, almost afraid of his own rising strength but unable to restrain himself, her mere presence like a match to his ardour.

Feeling himself grow harder. And harder. Larger. And larger. Inside her mouth, lullabied by her tongue and lips. Inside her cunt, exploring her valley of heat and lust.

Groaning.

On the edge of screams.

Ascending.

Descending.

On that wonderful slope to nowhere, that inevitable destination that sex drew them towards. Naked. On the bed. Oblivious to the rest of the world. Struggling, fighting, loving as if nothing existed outside of his window.

Until the sounds became obscene, moans unrecognisable, the slap of wet skin against wet skin, groans turning to atonal music, cries becoming involuntary melodies, the pummelling of his cock in her holes drawing obscene rumblings in its animated and sudden displacement.

The uncensored beauty of sex.

The whisper of beautiful words in his ear.

A thumb drawing hieratic patterns through the invisible pale down in the small of her back.

The lingering raking of her nails against the skin of his shoulders, rousing lines of pain, torturing him sweetly to the rhythm of his own thrusts.

The way Summer ceased breathing for an instant when in the complicated geography of his movements his hands accidentally drew a path around her neck and an electric shiver ran across her, encouraging him to linger. Hold down against the delicate skin of her throat.

Feeling her, in furious mid fuck, suddenly insert a finger up his arse, instantly amplifying the wave of pleasure he was riding and almost bringing him to a rapid release until he somehow drew back from the edge and managed to delay the inevitable a little longer.

The sheets in the midst of which they scrambled growing increasingly humid, sticking to their fevered bodies.

A brief lull. Time to lie still, reflect, remain silent after their bodies and impulses had done all the talking.

Another kiss.

Tender at first, then quickly passionate and grasping.

Bodies coming together again, like magnets unable to remain apart.

Dawn outside.

A further coupling, an animalistic clash of bodies, the bed a battlefield, sheets now crumpled across the floor, wet, stained, fragrant.

Night.

Now a slow fuck that could last until midday. Neither in any hurry, both teetering on the brink of consciousness, just fingertips, hands, mouths, genitals tired and swollen but sustaining their sated souls. His finger venturing unashamedly beyond the ring of her anus and drawing from her a squirm of delight. Licking the sweat now coating the underside of her breasts. Inside her but motionless, content to experience the feeling of peace now, his cock sensing the steady beat of her heart through the tight walls of her cunt.

Spent, unable to come again but still half hard and reluctant to withdraw from her sweet heat, Noah dozed off, vaguely aware that Summer, her legs wrapped tightly around him to accentuate the angle of his penetration, was likewise suspended between consciousness and dreams, fuck-drunk like him, exhausted and helpless.

Music.

In their dreams. At the conclusion of their journey towards each other.

Identical dreams?

Noah hoped so.

Lauralynn and Viggo were still in France, and Summer insisted on returning to their house most mornings after Noah had to go, albeit reluctantly and physically drained, to his work at the label. He had quickly offered her to move in with him, but she was at this stage unwilling to do so. He didn’t press her, still treading cautiously as he did through the quicksands of their budding relationship.

‘I’m not ready, Noah. I need time on my own to think,’ she pretexted.

But she was invariably there, waiting for him, every evening when he returned from the office. She kept hold of the spare key. Often had ordered takeaway food arranged to be delivered shortly after his own arrival when he invariably found the table was set. It became a welcome ritual in the first few weeks of their affair, an almost domestic routine.

‘I should leave you my credit card number; you can’t keep on paying for all the meals,’ Noah protested.

‘I can afford it.’

‘But still . . .’

‘Still what?’

Summer put her fingers to her lips, indicating the subject was closed, and they dug into the food. One evening Chinese, on others Indian, Italian, Thai, even vegetarian on occasion, Turkish, rustic French. Summer had quickly identified the best restaurants willing to make home deliveries in his area. On occasion she brought over bags of groceries and made seafood risotto with home-brewed stock, or flash-fried fillet steak – always cooked rare – and served it with salad or steamed vegetables and thick fries that she cut from sweet potatoes and rolled in spices.

Noah often wondered what she did during the day, but was too anxious to ask her. Right now, he still felt a sense of relief at seeing her again when he opened the door to his flat in the evening, always in fear that the bubble might have burst, the daydream shattered and his wanton princess flown in a burst of fairy smoke and Disney glitter, leaving him alone and bereft.

He also knew best not to harass her with questions about her plans. Nor her feelings. Summer’s only desire appeared to be to live in a cocoon of sex and unreality right now.

Bending, leaning over to put the dirty dishes in the mouth of the dishwasher. Her hand on the back of his neck, her breath cruising across his cheek, a faint breeze of wine and sugar, her heat nearing.

Placing her carefully on all fours and spreading her.

The furnace of her wet mouth grasping his balls, her tongue darting in all forbidden directions, distilling his pleasure with every movement.

Her pliant nipples gripped between his teeth until she moaned, her eyes open question marks of unimaginable depth.

The way she insists on keeping all the lights on when they fuck.

Tongue wrapped around tongue.

Reaching that stage of intimacy where words become unnecessary or meaningless and all communication is through touch alone, or conveyed by sounds, guttural, muted, soft, endearing, rageful, primeval.

Where the mind becomes body.

Thoughts translate into pleasure.

Joy becomes sustenance.

Even though there was an untenable tension underlying their sex together, as if they were both walking a tightrope, novices still uncertain where the limits lay, tentatively pushing boundaries and barely noticing when they crossed yet another invisible borderline as they kept discovering, exploring each other, there was also a profound sense of comfort when they were not locked in fevered embraces. They felt at ease together.