The Dare Collection December 2019. Clare Connelly

His face is serious, tense. There is an air of urgency in his movements now. The seat belt slides loose but his hand stays between my legs, and, with his eyes latched to mine, he begins to move his fingers, so that, through the leather of my trousers and the silk of the underwear he bought with me in mind, I feel a surge of pleasure forming, building, like a wave rushing to shore.

      ‘These pants are seriously fucking sexy, but, God, how I wish you were wearing a skirt,’ he mutters in his inimitable accent, his voice deep, like a growl.

      I can’t respond. I bite down on my lip and tilt my head back, my legs moving a little wider apart.

      He makes a sound of impatience and his hand shifts up so he can slide it inside the leather and silk and touch my flesh, my hot, wet flesh, his fingers finding their way easily, constrained by the tightness of my trousers but in no way hampered in their effectiveness.

      ‘Fuck.’ The word bites out from my mouth; desperation is swirling through me. Intensity fires in my soul and before I realise what I’m doing, I push up from the seat, dislodging his hand, straddling him in his seat. His cock is hard between my legs and, despite the layers of clothing separating us, I grind myself down on him, groaning at the waves of pleasure that fill me.

      I kiss him, hard; his hands tangle in my hair, pulling at it, pulling me down so our lips are entwined, and I grind harder, the power of this something I’ll never forget. Pleasure is shifting, building, running like sand through fingers, I am tipping over the edge and I can’t stop. I whimper as I feel the release starting, tingling low in my gut, and I move faster, more desperately.

      He’s speaking, words that are so low I don’t catch them, but the tone of his voice adds an extra layer to my needs. His hand curves around to my arse, holding me down as he pushes up, thrusting as if we’re having sex, and we sort of are, despite the regrettable lack of penetration.

      Pleasure bursts like a sunray, slicing me with heat. I moan, low in my throat, as I tip right over the edge, my nails digging into his shoulder, my body shivering.

      My breath is ragged. I lift up, blinking, bringing him into focus. His expression is like a mask of concentration, his skin flushed, his pupils dilated. My own release was intense but now I crave something else, something more. I want to make him feel like I do. I move quickly, back to my seat.

      The cockpit isn’t huge and as I climb back into place, my shoe flicks something.

      ‘Shoot. Sorry.’

      He angles his face to mine, his lips lifting at the corners.

      ‘Imogen, you could smash the windscreen right now and I wouldn’t give a shit.’

      I don’t answer. Instead, I reach across and undo his trousers, my eyes flicking to his, checking for his reaction. As though he might stop what I’m about to do. I free his cock, wrapping my hand around it and pulling it from his boxers, drawing my hand up and down a few times, pumping him until I feel a hint of his cum leak out.

      He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my blood simmer all over again and I want him properly, not in a cockpit, somewhere I can relish and savour every damned move.

      That will come.

      But first, this.

      I bend forward but, before I do, I catch the glint of speculation in his eyes and smile to myself. I’ve surprised him. He wasn’t expecting this. I like that, so much.

      I start slow, flicking his tip with my tongue, chasing a bead of cum, tasting its salt, letting a small sigh escape before I run my tongue over him a little more, his hard tip smooth beneath my exploration. He groans and my name is somewhere in that groan, almost indiscernible. I open my mouth and move down his shaft, slowly at first, exploring him with my tongue, lifting up and looking at him, so I see the tortured look on his features. I take him deep this time, faster, and bring my hand to his base, moving in time with my mouth, fast.

      ‘Imogen, fuck, do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?’

      I don’t stop.

      ‘I’m so fucking close,’ he groans, moving down in the seat a little further.

      I move my hand down a little, cupping his balls, and then I take his cock into my mouth completely, so I taste him right at the back of my throat.

      His hand comes to my head, his fingers there light, no pressure, more as though he just needs to hold onto something. To me.

      My stomach does a funny little dive.

      I move faster, and now his hand on my hair is almost pulling me away.

      ‘I’m going to come,’ he says, warning in his voice.

      I flicker my eyes to his, a smile on my lips.

      His eyes narrow. ‘You’re sure?’

      In response, I take him inside me with a fevered intensity so I feel the beginning of his spasm, the urgency of his movements as his hips lift a little so he thrusts into my open mouth, his hand on my arse, his fingers digging into my flesh as he begins to spill his seed. I keep him deep, I take him all, I hold him while he loses his control, and he holds me, his hands on my body as if he can’t possibly take them off.

      It is the hottest thing I’ve ever done—and it’s just the beginning.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘THE ORVILLE-GREENS ARE COMING, and the Weissinghams too.’

      My father lists two families who have daughters a few years younger than I am. ‘The Sinclairs, Morialtos, Lyons.’

      I grip the phone more tightly, telling myself not to react.

      I’ve been expecting this.

      ‘It’s going to be a New Year to remember. A new beginning.’

      I expel a harsh breath, reaching for my coffee. It’s a bleak, grey day, and I have more to do than I can put into words.

      ‘Anyway, we can go over the details at Christmas. You’re still planning to be home for Christmas?’

      I hear the apprehension in his voice and a fissure of sympathy opens up inside my impatient chest. Because at the root of all his bluster, my dad is worried. He’s worried about the family’s future, he’s worried about the fact they’re getting older and have no grandchildren, and he’s worried about me—that I’m going to waste my life with a string of different women, never doing the ‘responsible’ thing and taking up the reins of the Rothsmore estate.

      ‘Great.’ It’s too curt. I soften it slightly. ‘Yeah, I’ll be there. How’s Mother?’

      ‘Planning the party, you know.’ My father’s tone is a little weary. ‘In her element.’

      It’s true. My mother is never happier than when she has a social event looming, particularly in the grounds of Becksworth Hall. I can just picture it, strung with fairy lights, marquees set up with braziers of fire to keep guests warm; an orchestra serenading people as they arrive; a field given over to cars and helicopters; the guest rooms full to the brim.

      And this time, a bevy of eligible women for me to choose a bride.

      The thought bothers me more than it should. I’ve known this was coming. I’m almost thirty—how long did I expect I could put this off for?

      Out of nowhere, I think of Saffron, of how against our union I was at the start, how much I resented being set up and pushed into a relationship by my parents. It had felt wrong at the start, but we’d been well matched. They’d been right.

      Well, half-right.

      Saffy hadn’t seen the appeal, evidently.

      That was five years ago and I’m different now. I have no intention of getting involved with anyone I don’t feel I’m compatible