Charm. Flora Dain

I do like it. But it’s not just a punishment. I should have done it the minute we met. I wish to fuck I had. We wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

      His hand lands again and all at once this has stopped being a joke, it’s harsh and it stings. After a while I wonder if I’ll ever draw breath again. When I do nothing’s changed. His hand’s still landing, the blows still raining down. The first few knock all the breath out of me but as I start to relax long enough to draw in air they keep coming. Their pounding rhythm settles deep in my groin, making me ache with arousal. After a while the pain and the jolting fuse deep between my legs into an agonising, regular throb.

      At last he pauses to admire the view, keeping his elbow and his leg firmly in place. I hear him laugh softly as he runs his hand over my flaming backside. He’s out of breath. So am I, sobbing as I draw in air, my bottom on fire, and my groin an aching, needy furnace. Each blow delivers a violent jolt of arousal. His hand long ago lost the power to sting. Now my sex is all on fire, swollen and hot.

      Seconds later he finds this out for himself. ‘Did you enjoy that, Ella?’

      I sniffle. ‘You expect me to answer that?’ How can I? Heat, shame, fire and rage are burning me up all at the same time.

      His voice lowers. ‘I’ll give you a clue. From what I can feel down here –’ his fingers slip slowly and deliberately along my sex, making me writhe ‘– I’m guessing you did. Be honest with me. Why are you so wet?’

      I sniff again.’You have to ask? OK, I enjoyed it. Very much.’

      ‘Then maybe I’ll give you a tiny reward. Would you like to come?’

      What a question. I squirm but it’s no time for pride. I hiss a strangled ‘yes’ through clenched teeth.

      He caresses my punished backside with a loving sweep of his hand, cool now against my fiery skin. ‘Then you shall. But you’ll have to earn it. You’ll have to beg.’

      And now the torment really begins. His hand lands hard, making me cry out, and instantly his fingers sink into me and over my pulsing mound, barely grazing my hottest place.

      Yes, yes, I’m nearly there … I strain to reach his hand but he wrenches me back and removes his fingers, leaving my quivering orgasm poised in space. ‘Another?’

      I’m frantic now. ‘Yes, yes, another.’

      Nothing happens. ‘And the magic word?’

      I grit my teeth again, earning a painful tweak on my nipple. ‘Please. Another.’

      Another fearsome blow lands on one side of my fiery bottom and his fingers mercifully slide into me again. I lean into his hand as my climax edges even closer.

      Again he holds off. ‘Another?’

      I writhe and once more he takes his hand away.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Yes, yes, another already,’ I wail. With an effort I remember my manners. ‘Please.’

      It goes on far longer than I’d have thought possible. I start to tremble, tearful with the constant agony of denial. But at last he takes pity on me and his hand lingers, his fingertips circling gently. They slip along my wire-live sensitised folds, probing intimately as the jolt of his final blow jerks me against his fingers. My orgasm explodes and I convulse round his hand, shrieking at the suddenness of it and overwhelmed by the wave of rapture that engulfs me.

      I hang over his lap, sobbing. He sits very still and holds me in place over his knee. He waits in silence. As I grow calmer he hauls me off his lap onto the bed and I curl up in a ball, sobbing into the quilt. He curls round me in a warm, protective shell as the spasms fade into a deep, contented glow. He reaches between my legs to cup my still glowing mound, his hand warm and firm.

      For a while we talk, for a while I doze. He keeps his hand firmly in place, taking possession, staking his claim and stubbornly refusing to give ground. But I’m growing edgy. I want him inside me. I want him to fill me. He must want it too, surely?

      His erection juts at my back, hard, silky and hot. The very thought of it so tight and so close sparks new flames. My climax was spectacular and gut wrenching but I’m only half done. Sex is a game of two halves. Right now I need his half, the hot thrust of ridged gristle that completes my pleasure, fills me up, plunges and surges deep into my hidden, needy places and gives them purpose. But to my fury he still holds off.

      Why? If this is my punishment it’s pretty effective. Now I’m needier than ever, aching for him, still incomplete.

      His phone rings, making me jump. He slides his hand out from the warm, clinging nest deep between my legs and puts the phone to his ear.

      ‘Wolfe.’

      This time the message is brief. He switches it off with an impatient flick and sits up beside me. ‘We’ve got a trace on Mitchell. He’s back in Dallas.’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘You’re a what?’

      It’s late evening. We’re driving back to Dallas and sitting in the back of Darnley’s limo, either end of the softly cushioned rear seat. I’m glad of the distance between us. He seems indifferent.

      To pass the time he’s asking me what I do.

      It’s always a mistake to tell people. I glance out of the window at the ghost of my reflection. Its stern gaze warns me I should have kept quiet. Too late now. I’m used to this reaction but somehow it’s disappointing coming from him.

      I frown at myself. Why should he be any different? Beyond my shoulder I see his startling, predatory face. His brooding eyes are fixed on mine, waiting for an answer.

      He makes sure of his facts, something I never do. It’s led me to this and it’s led me to him. And now it looks like it’ll drive him away.

      I brace myself for his scorn, his laughter – I’ve heard it all – and try again. ‘I’m a poet. Well, when I say “poet” I really just play around with words. It’s a kind of hobby. I teach literature and drama at a small private academy near Boston. But I guess you knew that. That’s where Ryan and I –’ I break off at his sudden frown.

      He looks out of the window, seemingly unconcerned. ‘So how come you’re in Texas?’

      How does his mood change so fast? Barely an hour ago I was lying in his arms, hot for him. Now I wonder how we ever got close at all. His tone is distant and impersonal. It’s like we’ve barely met.

      ‘I told you, I’m meeting Ryan – or trying to. It might be easier if you didn’t muscle in whenever I get close.’

      His frown flickers again. ‘It might be easier if you told me the truth. You teach in Boston yet you flew here from Charlotte. We checked. So what took you to Charlotte? You were on a driving tour?’

      I sigh again. ‘Partly. I’m due to speak at a poetry summer school.’ I take a deep breath and feel my cheeks go pink. ‘They’ve asked me to read my new poem.’

      Try as I might it’s impossible to say this without a tiny spurt of pride. I wait for him to laugh.

      Instead he looks thoughtful. ‘You’re a poet? Say some.’

      I grin. ‘Don’t get me started. What do you like? Homer? Sylvia Plath? Kanye West?’

      He’s not smiling. His tone bristles with impatience. ‘Something of yours.’

      I want to tell him that’s not how it works. Poems don’t come to order.

      I take a deep breath and say the first words that come into my head. ‘You crave control but cannot tell me why.’

      For a split second emotion flickers over