Untaming Lily Wilde (12 page)

"I'm going to fuck you here ‘til you come, then you're coming to bed with me. No arguments.” I wasn’t planning on arguing.

He thrust into me again, clutching my butt. The rest of the room evaporated. All there was, was Seb; angry and tender and moving inside me, so slick and strong that there was no holding on to my impulses. I instinctively clenched my thighs, clamping him tight inside me, locking him there as my orgasm roared through me, deep and fierce. I wanted to grip him there, to ride it out to the end, and begin again, never letting go. But that wasn’t going to happen. My body slumped, betraying my intentions.

"Aw, so soon?" He teased. "Good, let's go."

He unstrapped me, unhooked me, and I guess somewhere along the line he ditched the condom. Because before I knew which way was up and which way down, he was adjusting my dress, then vaguely adjusting his fly, then slinging me over his shoulder fireman-style.

I'd barely been aware of anyone else in the room up to then, but as we left the hall (upside down in my case) I caught a snapshot glance of the party in full swing. Bodies sprawled exotically every which way, tongues, mouths, nipples, cocks, pulsing and gyrating to a shared energy. I remember thinking - Was I just a part of that?! - before it all spun out of view.

Now as it turns out, Seb Harper is a man with quite some stamina. When we reached the bottom of the huge staircase I said he should probably put me down. To which he slapped my butt and effortlessly climbed the stairs, with 120lb of Lily in tow.

His room (yes I did say his, not his ‘n’ hers) was first on the left. I was suddenly beyond curious. From my topsy-turvy position I scanned the place, trying to glean a fuller picture of the man I’d just allowed to fuck me on a public altar. A fourposter bed stood at one end of the huge room; above the headboard, a neat row of framed little photos. Oak bookshelves lined one wall. Taped up roughly on the other three was a series of twenty or so portrait photos. His work in progress. I craned my neck to get a better look. Each showed a crowd scene with one lone figure standing out in sharp focus against the hubbub. I recognised Piccadilly, Covent Garden, Times Square - maybe? Then my attention was pulled elsewhere.

He put me down - giddy as a drunken teenager - in the middle the room, and cupped my face in his hands, before he spoke: "I'm sorry for before. You proved your point. I behaved liked a dick. Now, take your knickers off."

Then, “No - wait…” he said, and he led me across the room, to a huge curtained window. Standing behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist, he lent me forward, until my palms pressed against the windowsill, supporting my weight.

"Nice apology," I said, half laughing, half gasping, as he tugged down my knickers.

"I'll admit it's not my strong suit," he said. He untied the strap of my halter-neck, then unhooked the famous new bra, finally freeing my breasts. Christ knows why that, of all things, should have felt so exposing. "Now, stay there,” he said, “Don't move a muscle."

O-kay… I thought, my knickers round my ankles, my naked behind thrust skyward.

Seb's footsteps beat a pulse across the floorboards as he turned on lamp after lamp, in quick succession, until the room glared bright as day. Then striding back to me, he thrust the curtains wide, so that the room's light reflected back off the window like a mirror.

I instantly dropped down and covered myself.

"What if someone's looking?" I said.

He just laughed, "So, now you care?"

Okay - fair point.

He knelt down and kissed my lips, parting them a fraction, then pressing his tongue against mine, moving with a slow, smooth pulse which sent euphoric little shudders coursing through me. He pulled back momentarily, then took hold of my hands, drawing each of my fingers into his mouth in turn, licking them, sucking them, while I tried to remember to breath.

"Now, we can stay down here if you like. But - it seems like everyone in this damn building has had the pleasure of watching me fuck you. Now, surely it's your turn. I want you to watch yourself while I make you come," he said. He planted another quick kiss on my lips, then stood up, reaching a hand out to me. "Too late to be shy, gorgeous."

Gulping down my sudden self-consciousness, I took his hand and stood back up. He kissed each of my palms softly, then placed them back on the window sill.

"You really do have the most beautiful backside," he said, his reflection flashing me a devilish grin. I was putty in his hands. I felt the shuffle of his denim jeans, then watched as mirror-Seb ripped open a condom wrapper. Moments later, his fingers were exploring between my legs, testing my readiness. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse wildly erratic, as the tip of his cock pressed into me. Then, satisfied, he pushed the length of his cock deep inside me. His arms supported him, biceps pumping and flexing, hands gripping either side of the window frame, as he pushed into me, eased back, then thrust in again and again, deeper, harder.

I gaped at the panting hussy in the window. Was that really me? Lips and cheeks flushed crimson, eyes wide and wild. With each thrust, he filled me totally, withdrawing almost completely each time, then teetering just inside, teasing me, before plunging in deep towards my belly.

Then, the teasing stopped. His rhythm quickened, growing more urgent, more forceful, each slick jolt tipping me closer to the edge. “Watch yourself,” he said. “Watch your eyes as you come.”

The woman before me was now barely recognizable - feral, wanton - her pupils dilated, hurtling toward blissful oblivion. My legs began to buckle. Christ, I thought - I’m going to come - again… and then I’m going to fall over! But right on cue, he was there with me, and as the first waves of luscious orgasm convulsed through me, he plunged in one final time and held firm.

“Watch.”

I watched my reflection, open-mouthed, breathing raggedly, holding Seb deep inside me, as he found his release.

…So now I’ll say it: Thank you, Ana Pancheva, for allowing me to fuck your gorgeous husband. One question: Was sleeping in his bed part of the offer?

The next morning, I woke with my head nestled against his shoulder, and an ache in my chest reminding me this was just sex. Nothing more. We barely spoke. He asked if I was OK, but what could I say? I was far from OK. He asked if I regretted the previous night - I told him I didn’t. But maybe I SHOULD regret it. Some part of me believed Seb Harper, swallowing his line about not really being married. And that part of me is heading for one hell of a fall. Sitting up in bed, he moved in to kiss me, but already my defenses were rebuilding. I told him it probably wasn’t a good idea, and told my furious libido to settle down and get some perspective. He’s not mine. He won’t be mine. He has a wife - not a regular wife, admittedly - but still.

We’re meeting again. He suggested it. And yes, I know I should have said ‘no’ but I’d just been virtuous in turning down the kiss, and - OK - fine - I’m weak God damn it. So that's the plan. Not a date - just a ‘meet-up’. Next weekend. He’ll show me some exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, and it'll be friendly, polite, unromantic. So there.

Yours,

L x

10

Seb was waiting for her by the ticket gates as Lily came out of Embankment. He’d obviously seen her long before she noticed him, and a mischievous grin danced on his face, bright and warm as the Winter sun.

"Morning, gorgeous. Miss me?" he said, smiling widely as he reached out his hand.

She felt a giddy grin stretch across her face and fought it unsuccessfully. Who was she kidding; she fancied his pants off and it was written all over her. She may as well have carried a flashing neon sign saying as much.
LILY WANTS SEB. NAKED.
It was a small miracle no one was pointing and staring.

"Ready for a good ol' platonic date then?" he said. "Hand holding's allowed, right?"

"I guess,” she said, then faltered. “Well, actually, if we’re going to do this properly, then no. No hand holding. Just, you know, walking, talking, the usual friend stuff."

As she pulled back, Seb instinctively reached for his tobacco; his default, she guessed. His expert hands rolled on autopilot.

"You're the boss." he sighed. "No hand holding. How about eye contact?"

"Alright, Lord Harper, less of the sarcasm."

Seb lit up, and inhaled deeply, "Been to the gallery before?" he said, as they bustled hastily past rowdy tourists and bellowing street traders.

"Uh-huh. Not recently though. I used to love gallery hopping, but Tom always got like a bored kid in galleries and museums - you know - quick lap around the room then he'd be whining and sulking - kind of took the shine off. I guess I got out of the habit,” she said, instantly wanting to kick herself.
Great. Good one Lily. Start telling the hot man all about your ex-boyfriend.

Seb took a deep drag, averting his head to exhale. "You couldn't have gone alone?"

She hesitated. "Short answer, yes, I suppose so. Wasn't quite that simple."

Lily thought about this; thought how possessive Tom had been over her free time. Of course, she wouldn't have used that word back then, 'possessive', she'd have told herself it was doting, or some such nonsense; when in reality, she'd known for a long while Tom was just plain old jealous. He hadn't trusted her. Thought she'd nip off with some other fella if he let her have too much freedom. Oh the irony. It was different when Emma had been there to escort her, but on the couple of occasions Lily had insisted on doing something purely for her own interest, it'd ended badly.

The last time had been a few Summers ago, and Tom's behaviour had been so out of control that Lily had almost left him. Of course she wished now that she had. Lily had taken a specialist evening class with the London School of Journalism, writing arts reviews, something she'd always wanted to do. Something she might still be doing if Tom hadn't gone totally ape shit when he realised the class was all male. To make matters worse, the tutor, Luke, was younger than average, self-assured, and pretty hot in an unkempt sort of way. It wasn't like she'd planned it, just luck of the draw, and to be honest she'd have been glad of some female company to break up the self-important pseudo-intellectual banter of her class mates. She stuck with it though, even though Tom sulked before each class and grilled her for information afterward. But halfway through the course, things came to a head. Luke had phoned Lily at the flat and left a message on the answer machine. To this day she still didn't know entirely what he'd said, but she imagined it was probably largely innocent. Luke had a way about him which was naturally flirty, or might seem that way if you didn't know him, but he was like it with the guys too, not just Lily. Anyhow, whatever he'd said, Tom had heard it first and was convinced Lily was having a fling.

When Lily rolled in, hot and tired and laden with shopping bags, Tom had been waiting.

Lily only half noticed him at first.

"Can you grab the frozen stuff." She’d said, pulling her damp hair from her eyes.

Tom had said nothing.

She’d looked at him properly then. "What?" Silence.

"What? What's going on?" Lily had repeated.

"You tell me."

The beginnings of panic took root, snaking round her chest and squeezing. "What? What have I done?"

"You know what you've done."

"I haven't got a single sodding idea what you're -" she’d started.

Tom had snapped into action, then. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her so hard she could almost feel her bones rattle.

"You know! You just won't fucking admit it!" He’d yelled, just inches from her face, his fingers digging into her.

"I haven't done anything...” Though petrified, she’d forced herself to look him in the eye, and desperately tried to sound calm, “I...I don't know what you..."

"Lying fucking bitch!" he’d spat, pushing her to the ground.

And that was about the size of it; no black eyes, no broken bones. Just fury and fear. She'd come close to fearing him before; had often been twitchy when he quizzed her for details of innocent acquaintances with men. But this time, for those few minutes, he was raging.

Lily had edged slowly, quietly to the door, while Tom smashed mugs and punched walls. Finally he just seemed to burn out, slumping down onto the sofa and crying. Lily ran. Her phone had fallen onto the living room floor, but her Oyster card was firmly stashed in her pocket, with enough credit to get her to Emma’s house.

In a teary 2hr phone call, that evening, Tom had apologized for his behaviour, though he refused to entirely accept there'd been nothing going on behind his back. The next day, he’d called again, begging her to come home; he'd cried again too. The day after that, she’d gone back to him on the proviso that he went for counselling. All was, once again, reasonably rosy. Unsurprisingly though, the idea of casually visiting a gallery alone had seemed like more hassle than it was worth.

"So would I be correct in thinking your ex was a right piece of work?" Seb asked.

"Yep. That’s a pretty fair assessment,” she agreed. “Although most people would probably say the same about their exes, I suppose."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I've only had a couple of relationships and I'm on good terms with both of those exes."