“You aren’t so old, yourself.”
“Old enough to know what I want, and more importantly what I don’t want.”
I chanced my arm. “So what do you want?”
“Dessert.”
He called the waiter.
***
Chapter Four
James
The splash of cold water did little to bring me to my senses. What the fuck are you doing, James? What the fuck? It was the eyes, her fucking eyes. Cat’s eyes. Pale turquoise eyes full of fuck me hard. Lydia Marsh was a sharp little cookie, a guarded little conker full of pain. Tough, and tight, and aching to be broken apart. Jesus pissing Christ.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
She’d driven me crazy this trip. The sight of her reverent fucking gaze as I’d delivered my pitch. Staring up at me like I was the God of fucking everything, standing in front of my PowerPoint deck like some kind of goddamn guru. Sweet fucking Christ. I recalled the gentle swell of her tits as she breathed, the slightest imprint of a lace bra under her blouse. Her sweeter than sweet little handshake, her quiet confidence, her eagerness to please. Yet, Lydia Marsh was clearly a fighter. Someone who bottles it all up inside, buries it deep. I’d avoided everything to do with her in the weeks since Kitchengate. Sworn abstinence and no fucking way. Yet here I was, my cock alive and kicking in spite of my better senses. Would she beg? Would she kneel on her soft little knees and plead for release? Would she sob under the cane like a broken little doll? Not easily...
A far off memory danced across my retinas. The gangly unease of inexperienced youth. The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I chase after Katreya. Katreya Moore, just a year older than me, but so much taller. Her white socks gather messily at her ankles, showing off pale, bruised legs as she runs. Dark hair streams behind her, tangled in tails. She turns to call after me, her face still streaked with the tears from her scolding indoors. The skidding halt of her body, long skinny fingers reaching for mine.
“I’m going to run away, James, come with me!” Her eyes pleading, wide and green, the palest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Where?”
“Who cares.”
“What about school?”
“Don’t be such a sissy.” Her savage eyes tease me. Cut me down before her. She smudges her tears with the back of her hand.
“I’m no sissy.”
“Sissy boy, James. You’re so fucking good. So nice. Such a good little boy, James Clarke.”
“Shut up, Kat.”
“Make me.”
My throat chokes up with childish desire, too young to understand how to really play this game.
“We said we weren’t going to do that again.”
“So? I changed my mind,” she giggles.
“No, Kat. They’ll think you’ve been fighting again.”
“Hurt me, James. I know you want to. I’ll show you where... places they can’t see.”
“We said no.”
“I’ve still got the marks from last time... I’ll show you... They told me off. Said I’m a bad girl, but I’ll be a good girl, for you, I promise. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, James. I’ll beg you if you like. Make me beg, James.”
Shit... I forced the past aside before it swallowed me whole, smoothing hair back from my forehead while I eyed myself in the mirror. Get a fucking grip, James. This trip was trouble, a whole pissing heap of trouble. Did he make you wet? Jesus Christ, what a fucking question. But she answered... her awkward little swallow, the darting of her eyes. So much I’d wanted to say. He doesn’t know how, does he? Doesn’t know how to fuck your little asshole raw... Doesn’t know how to stretch you all the way open... until you’re riding his fist like a wanton fucking whore and grunting for more... Ever had a tongue deep in your ass, Lydia Marsh? Ever had someone force their fist all the way inside you? Ever pissed down someone’s throat while they tongue your greedy little slit? Have you ever been hurt, Lydia? Really hurt? Anyone ever fucked you up? Slapped your tight little cunt until you cry? Ever gagged on cock until you puke, Lydia Marsh? Ever seen your titties swell purple? Ever choked for breath until the world turns black? I’ll make it feel good for you, Lydia, it’ll feel so fucking good. I’ll make you squirt all over my filthy fucking fingers.
Stop. Just stop.
I was running out of legitimate toilet break time. She’d be waiting, expecting me to come back all smiles and professionalism. Expecting me to steer the conversation back to White Hastings fucking McCarthy and our perfect day’s work.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
If only I hadn’t seen her cry...