Bang (A Club Deep Story)(25)

I thought I'd already come more than I could possibly come in one night,  but I feel my belly tighten and my legs clench all over again, watching  him pleasure himself. He starts to tense, his teeth clenched, his  breathing hard, and I can't help it. I lean closer, watching the way the  tendons in his arms are taut and his hand clenches hard around his  long, stiff cock.

I'm still leaning in when he lets out a loud, guttural growl, and comes,  his hand still pumping. I startle, jumping back, but some of his cum  lands on my cheek. I wipe it off, startled, and stare at the smooth  white liquid on my finger, surprised by the warmth, not to mention the  scent that's filling the room, wafting off him in waves. So different  from the way I smell. It's a mix of sex and pure him, his heady, dark  scent. It makes me want to lift my finger to my mouth and taste him.  Find out if he tastes as good as he smells.

When I look up again, expecting him to urge me to lick his cock or  something else I won't want to do, he's already zipping his jeans  closed. His eyes are faraway, focused somewhere else, and he leaves the  room quickly, without a backwards glance, shoulders drawn tight. Almost  like he regrets what happened.         

     



 

I stare after him, confused. Then, alone with no one to witness, I lift  my finger to my lips and flick my tongue across his cum lightly.

I shiver.

Because it doesn't taste like I expected. He tastes better. Addictive.





4





It's been two days since I last saw Farrow. The cook brings my meals to  the room, and every time she comes by, she scolds me, saying I need to  get out of this room, stretch my legs.

"You're going to make yourself sick in here," she says with a narrowed glare.

But I don't listen to her until nearly the end of the second day. Then,  finally, the boredom and restlessness begin to take its toll.

I start exploring the upstairs hallway. But aside from a few more  bedrooms, and a locked door that I can only assume must be Farrow's  room, I don't find much of interest. I head downstairs, and eventually  find myself in a huge, mostly empty room. There's a piano in the corner,  but nothing else, not even a sofa or chair.

On the walls, however, there are paintings. Tons of them, some  landscapes and animals, a caged bird, a wild fox creeping through a  glen. But mostly, there are portraits of two people. A little boy, in  various stages of growth-a toddler, running through the grass; a  schoolboy in uniform fidgeting on a chair-and a beautiful woman. A woman  whose haunting, icy blue eyes look familiar.

I'm staring at the largest portrait of her, when I hear someone step up  behind me. I draw in a sharp breath and whip around, almost expecting to  find Farrow there, ready to scold me or punish me for sneaking around  this room, a room that, while unlocked, has the air of abandonment and  privacy.

But it's not him. It's the cook again, watching me, a hint of suspicion in her eye.

"You said I should go for a walk," I point out, and she half-smiles, then quickly wipes it away, grimacing again.

We stand there for a few moments, but she doesn't ask me to leave. She  doesn't leave either, so eventually I clear my throat and point at the  portrait. "Who is she?"

The cook hesitates. "Lady Lochlan."

My spine tingles. Farrow's mother. To judge by the unused room and the  way the portraits hang, gathering dust, alone and unwatched, I have to  guess that she isn't around to care for them anymore. Isn't around to  play this piano, or commission more portraits.

"What happened to her?" I ask quietly.

The cook sighs. "It's not my job to educate people on their father's sins."

I blink, confused. But that's when I notice she has something in her hands. A covered silver tray.

"Lord Lochlan is back," she says, and my stomach twists to hear her refer to him that way. Lord.

But it also twists for another reason, one I don't care to admit. Could it be I actually feel excited to see him?

But no. It's probably just boredom. Being alone in this drafty old house  with nobody to talk to except the lone servant who doesn't deign to  speak more than two words to me will do that.

"I made up a lunch for you both," the cook adds, holding the tray out to me. "He's in the garden. Take this out to him."

I accept the tray with a nervous swallow. But what else do I have to do?  It's not like I can pretend that I'm busy at the moment. "Thank you," I  tell her, but she only bows her head and backs out of the room.

I've stared out my window forlornly enough to know the way to the  garden. It takes me a couple tries to find the door outside through the  side galley. I hesitate in front of it, checking my dress in the glass.  It's the most demure thing that Farrow left for me to wear, which is to  say, not very. It's a sundress, short and tight, though thankfully it  covers my ass when I sit down, which is more than I can say about most  of the other skirts and dresses he chose.

I open the door and step into the garden. There are a few paths winding  through hedges and past ornate flower displays and rose bushes. It takes  me a while to find Farrow, tucked away under a trellis of roses,  sitting at a little iron table with a cup of coffee. I hesitate,  surprised, because there's an open sketchbook on his knees.

I didn't know he was an artist too.

He hasn't heard me approach. Doesn't notice I'm here. For a moment, I  enjoy the view. Not just of him, though Farrow looks as infuriatingly  handsome as ever in gray slacks, a white dress shirt rolled up at the  sleeves, and a dark gray vest that matches his slacks.         

     



 

Business attire. I wonder where he's been these past few days. Probably attending to his company somewhere.

But the sketch unfolding on his knees is at odds with the imperious,  controlling man I know. It's delicate, beautiful. A still life of the  roses that climb along the trellis overhead, some curling down toward  Farrow and others tilted up, petals lifted as though embracing the sun.

"You're talented," I say, finally, breaking the silence.

If I startled him, he doesn't show it. His shoulders tense for a second,  but then he glances back at me over them, the usual smirk planted on  his narrow mouth. "Being kind to me won't change our relationship," he  says.

"What relationship?" I respond sarcastically. Then I set the tray on the  table in front of him, next to his coffee. "Your cook sent this out."

"Mia always does worry about my diet," he jokes.

"Mine too, apparently," I mutter, and to my surprise, he laughs at that.

He lifts the lid from the tray and inspects the sandwiches underneath.  Tea sandwiches, some kind of chicken salad that smells delicious.  Everything his cook prepares does, actually.

"Well?" he asks, and I blink at him, startled. He's pointing to the chair beside his. "Are you joining me?"

I smooth my skirt beneath me and ease into the chair next to him as he  divides the sandwiches, passes me a plate, and takes the other for  himself. Before he does, he sets his half-finished sketch on the table.

"Who taught you?" I ask, before I take a bite of my own sandwich.

He doesn't answer, digging into his meal instead.

I finish chewing first, watch him. But he just takes a long sip of tea,  and continues to eat. Guess he's done being talkative. I shrug and lean  back in my chair, bored after two days without anyone to talk to. "My  mother taught me," I say, to break the ice.

He sits up straighter. Casts me a strange sideways look. Takes another long drink of tea. "I didn't know that," he says finally.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, I'd wager," I reply.

"I knew you were going to study art. I just didn't know why you got into it in the first place."

I narrow my eyes. "Great. So not only did you buy my virginity, but you stalked me before doing it. Why am I surprised?"

But instead of responding angrily, he passes me the sketchbook. "Draw something for me?"

It's a request. A simple one. But it's the first time he's ever asked me  to do anything rather than demanding. So I accept the pencil he passes  me and flip to a blank page, setting aside my half-finished sandwich.

I start to draw the same thing he'd been drawing-the flowers. My style  is more fluid than his, less exact to reality. He stands and leans over  my shoulder, watching as I draw. I'm just starting on the first rose,  when he touches my shoulder lightly. I inhale sharply, pausing. Then I  keep drawing.

He trails that hand up the side of my neck, then runs his fingers  through my hair, gently, almost a caress. I shiver and nearly draw a  line straight through the rose.

"You're not making this easy," I point out.

"It's not my problem you find me so distracting," he replies, that ever-present smirk in his tone.

I try to ignore him as best I can and keep drawing, but soon, his hand  is tracing along the neckline of my dress. Dipping beneath it to curve  over my lacy bra. His warm palm cups my breast and he squeezes gently.  He circles his fingers around my breast, closer and closer to my nipple,  which hardens at his touch. It's impossible to think, to catch my  breath with the way he's touching me. He pinches my nipple between his  thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth, and spikes of pleasure  build in my belly, rocketing along my spine.