The Grumpy Count, page 11
His taste is as welcome as ice cream on a summer day. It floods through my senses with each breath we share. As I sink into the kiss, his scent surrounds me, intoxicates me. His heartbeat—or is it my own—thumps in my ears.
Breaking away from our kiss, Jonas pushes me up against the wall. I shake with anticipation.
As his gaze drops to my lips, it turns even darker. Famished. Possessive. And I like it.
He runs his hands up my sides to my neck, and encases my face for a moment, before coming back down onto my hips. But they don’t linger there. His fingers tangle through mine and he lifts our hands above my head, pinning me against the wall in a hot embrace.
I’m dizzy with lust.
When we come up for air, his hands slide down, exploring every curve, until they reach the hem of my pajama top. With one swift tug he pulls it off over my head and lets it fall to the floor. Then he wraps his arms around me again, exploring my upper body with his hands.
When he clasps my breasts in a half-worship, half-claim gesture, I shudder at the intensity his caress procures in me. He bends down and kisses, licks and bites my neck and shoulders, and then finally my breasts. Waves of pleasure shoot through every nerve ending in my body.
His new caress commands that I yield. And I do, over and over again, gladly.
But my touch makes him surrender to me, too. When my determined fingers push the hem of his tee upward, he takes it off at once. I lay my palms on his chest, applying the tiniest of pressures, and he draws back, so that I can look my fill.
I don’t look—I eat him up with my eyes.
I also fondle the planes of his broad chest to my heart’s content. Not only does he obey my tacit commands, but he seems to find my want and my appreciation of him satisfying. One might even say, fulfilling.
When my hands leave his chest, it’s an unspoken “over to you.”
He doesn’t need me to say that aloud. At once, he braces his hands on either side of my face and shoves a knee between my legs. His erection prods my tummy through the double layer of our pajama pants. He recaptures my mouth and thrusts his tongue into its depths. I suckle it greedily. In response, he rocks his hips once, twice, grinding his rigid cock against me. My center clenches and pulsates with a fierce, burning need.
Attention, please!
This woman might burst if this man doesn’t intervene now. He can use his hand, his tongue or his cock; I don’t care. Well, I do have a preference, but I’ll take whatever he offers. The bottom line is something needs to happen. Now!
I bear my pelvis down on the top of his thigh and rub.
Do you copy?
He folds his legs a little at the knees to lower himself while his right hand runs down my side until it settles between my legs. My heart leaps and my eyelids flutter shut.
Aaah. Finally.
He smooths his palm against my apex and strokes me through the cotton of my pajama bottoms.
With my arms around his neck, I cling to him, savoring his hard, masculine form. My breasts, crushed against his torso, delight in the heat emanating from his firm flesh. He’s raining kisses on my face that set fire to each point of contact. But in my haze of passion, it’s the fingers that he’s teasing over my clit that push me over to a place where I give up all control.
Desperate to touch him, I bring a hand down his abs, slip it inside the waistline of his pajama pants and curve my fingers around his glorious erection. He thrusts against my palm, delighting me.
There’s too much clothing!
Momentarily letting go of him, I push his pajama bottoms down over his hips. He takes them off and throws them aside while I remove mine and kick off my slippers.
A thrill runs through me as I feast my eyes on his magnificent frame.
He, too, takes a moment to rake his eyes over me.
“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he says, dipping his gaze into mine. “Margot, you’re perfect.”
I smile smugly and shift my gaze to his thick, straining manhood. “You talk too much.”
He dashes to his desk and returns with a condom.
I point my chin at the console table near us. “What a pretty thing! Is it sturdy enough, though? Or we could do it in a more civilized manner, on your bed…”
“You talk too much.”
I grin in response.
He tears open the packet and rolls the condom on.
I’m no longer grinning—I’m panting. Jonas steps closer and thrusts a long finger into my soaked vagina, even as he cups me with his palm, rubbing my clit with its heel. With a moan, I press down and gyrate my hips against his hand.
For a few moments, we caress each other with our hands, lips, tongues, chests and limbs. Instead of satiating me, it only makes me hungrier.
His big hands slide to my butt and he kneads the cheeks, his touch impatient and rough, before adjusting his grip to lift me off the floor. Clutching his neck, I wrap my legs around his waist. The tip of him prods my entrance as he pushes me harder against the wall. I whimper and roll my hips to facilitate his entry. When he slams into me and buries himself inside, I cry out at the exquisite rapture of that moment.
Jonas penetrates me deeper and deeper until I’m filled to the hilt.
His heartbeat quickens against me. I forget to breathe as he pulls out, holding me firmly in place, and then slams back into me. He does that again, and again, and again. Pressed firmly against the wall and enclosed between his arms and his body, I am impaled with force and precision. He pumps his hips, thrusting into me so deep I feel him all the way at the door of my womb. His every stroke harder than the previous one; he drives me wild with lust, with pleasure.
This kind of unapologetic shagging, as confident as it’s competent, is what I’ve always wanted, needed, longed for—and never had.
I’m flying to my climax, and there is no stopping me. On a particularly deep plunge, he pushes his tongue into my mouth, and my tipping point jumps forward, hitting me right there and then. I come so hard I scream.
As I tremble in the wake of my peak, still spasming around him, his pounding grows more frantic. His cock is engorged, swollen. Even with the condom on, I know exactly when he ejaculates. Grimacing in pleasure-pain, he throws his head back as he throbs inside me.
His orgasm is a joy to watch.
We remain still for a few moments before Jonas pulls out of me and lowers me to my feet.
“Now,” he says, peeling off the condom, “we can do it on the bed… like civilized people.”
CHAPTER 23
JONAS
While Margot giggles at my inside joke, I toss the condom in the trash and grab a couple more from the drawer of my desk. Meanwhile, she pads to the king-size bed and climbs under the covers.
“Water?” I ask her.
“Yes, please.”
I grab the Pellegrino on my desk. “Sparkling, opened an hour ago and drunk from? Or still, fresh from the tap?”
“Pellegrino, please, unless you have a cold.”
“Considering the amounts of saliva we exchanged over the past twenty minutes…”
She clamps a hand on her forehead. “Duh! Then, definitely, Pellegrino!”
I join her under the duvet, and we drink, taking turns.
She’s sitting up with the duvet pulled over her breasts. Our bodies don’t touch. But her scent, her flushed face and swollen lips, her very presence in my bed is enough to make my cock semihard.
Interlacing my fingers behind my head, I lean back on the cushioned headboard and slant Margot a look. “Was the hors d’oeuvre to your taste, Madam?”
“Indeed, it was most pleasing,” she mimics my flowery Georgian speak.
I can’t help but grin. The orgasm that rocked her was hard to miss, but hearing Margot acknowledge the fact in such a candid and unequivocal manner is very—is most—gratifying.
She surveys my face. “If I may be so bold, my lord, your solicitousness in this matter amazes me.”
“Pray tell, why would a gentleman not ask his paramour such an evident question?”
“In view of said gentleman’s opinions, ’twas nary to be expected that he would give consideration to the issue of female corporeal felicity.”
Ouch.
Is that how she sees me? A brute who couldn’t care less if the woman enjoyed his lovemaking?
The sting makes me mean.
“My opinions are rooted in science,” I say. “In nature, it’s the male pleasure that drives reproduction. Rival males fight, and the winner gets to breed, whether the female likes him or not, whether she’s in the mood for sex or not.”
“You’re grossly oversimplifying.”
“Perhaps, but it’s the truth,” I say. “Mother Nature is all about optimization. The males’ pleasure is enough to increase the chances of survival of the flock, herd, or pack. The females’ pleasure is, therefore, redundant.”
She eyes me narrowly. “Yet here we are, human females, with our libidos and our clitorises…”
“Sounds like an anomaly to me.”
“Not so fast! Science has shown that female primates enjoy sex, too. And don’t get me started on the dolphins!”
“I want to hear about the dolphins.”
“They have sex all the time, even when the female is pregnant and there is no chance of reproduction.”
My mouth curves into a small smirk. “Cute, but does that prove the females take pleasure in it?”
“Their vulvas, very similar to ours, become engorged with blood when the female dolphin is sexually stimulated. And their clits are strewn with nerve endings.”
I feel my smirk turn into a smile. “Good for them.”
“And while we’re in the marine environment, the male argonaut octopus has something to say about your claim on the preeminence of male pleasure.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “He does?”
“Oh, yes!”
It occurs to me that she might be bullshitting me. “You’re making this up. How would you know these things?”
“Research, silly! I wrote an article for a feminist webzine a few months ago.”
“About marine sex?”
Her lips curve up. “Among other things.”
“OK, tell me about the male argonaut octopus.”
“His penis is detachable.” She gives me a moment to process that.
I cringe in horror.
Looking very pleased with herself, she goes on, “The male argonaut octopus propels his penis in the direction of the female who catches his eye. The penis swims off to her.”
“What, all by itself? Completely detached?”
“Completely! And when it mates with the female, the act procures the male no pleasure at all.”
I shake my head with compassion. “Poor guy!”
“Wait until I tell you what happens next!”
“Let me guess—he can’t grow a new penis.” I give a heavy sigh. “Tragic.”
“After the male has been separated from his appendage, he dies.”
My mouth gapes in shock. “No! It’s too cruel!”
“Mother Nature can be a bitch.”
“She can when necessary,” I concede. “But that particular setup doesn’t make any sense in evolutionary terms.”
“It does, if you consider that the female argonaut octopus is ten times bigger than the male. Without his penis, he’s useless.”
“Poor guy,” I repeat, drawing a mental picture of the male argonaut octopus. “Poor, little guy!”
She laughs at that, and I laugh with her, loving the sound of her laughter. It hits me how much I enjoy Margot’s company. I’ve never met a woman who stimulated me the way she does, both physically and intellectually. Which explains why, instead of making sure that I get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow, I’m sitting here with her discussing the sexual life of the argonaut octopus.
As our laughter dies down, I stare off at the wall while my thoughts take a vexing turn. Tomorrow is the big day. I should be focused on my mission, on my game plan for getting Giselle Fisher to show me the key and then sell it to me.
I’d resisted my attraction to Margot for two weeks, and then I blew it. Having sex with her tonight, of all nights, was a monumental mistake.
But here she is with her libido and her clitoris, as she put it, and I’m a slave to my desire for her.
I nuzzle her neck. My eager, suckling mouth explores her throat, shoulders, collarbone and breasts. Her body responds to my every touch, and I relish it. My dick aches. I rub it against her thigh. The purring of delight that escapes her brings a smile to my face.
Lightning fast, I roll on a condom and tug the duvet off her.
God, what a dazzling sight!
A part of me wants to take the time to admire her, explore every nook and cranny of her body, lick her all over, and then concentrate on her clit until she comes. Another part of me wants to fuck her—now. To my shame, that part wins. I crawl on top of her, our limbs and breaths tangling. My chest flattens her soft, plump breasts. Never unpleasant, that trivial experience elicits a dizzying joy in me. I find it odd, almost suspicious. Something I’ve now said a bunch of times as Mr. Darcy springs to mind.
You have bewitched me.
I can hear Margot’s heartbeat ratchet up as I run my hands up and down her body, before settling one on the velvety skin of her lower abdomen. My other hand and elbow rest on the mattress, supporting my weight and allowing some wiggle room between us.
She whispers my name and spreads her legs wider.
Again, not an uncommon occurrence in my life, and perfectly within the range of female sexual behavior. But, accompanied by the warmth of her sweet breath on my face, and the fact that this female is Margot, the gesture affects me much more than it should. Our gazes lock together for a moment, before my mouth descends on hers.
As I fuck her with my tongue, all I can think of is that I need to get closer still, eliminate any remaining distance, insert myself as deep inside her as her body will let me.
Breaking the kiss, I grit, “I want you way too much, woman! That can’t be good for me.”
As her eyes regain focus, her lips inflamed from my kissing, paint a smug smile. “Take comfort in the knowledge it could’ve been worse.”
“In what way?”
“If you were a male argonaut octopus, you would’ve just signed your own death sentence.”
“True,” I admit. “Thank you for helping me maintain a positive outlook on life.”
“Anytime.” She warps her legs around me.
I lean down to kiss her again. As our tongues dance together, my need for her grows to an octopussian level of desperation. I’m going to fuck her now. I’ll do it thoroughly this time, until she’s clenching and screaming beneath me.
Without issuing a warning, I ram into her eager vagina. Her center lifts off the bed as she arches upward. With her arms and legs wrapped around me, she anchors herself to me as tightly as she can.
“Oh, God, yes!” she pants.
From that moment on, I fuck her hard, and I take her with everything in me. With my blood ringing in my ears and my vision blurring, I pump her. On some of the thrusts, my tip kisses her womb, which fills me with nearly unbearable pleasure. At every one of those brushes, her mouth forms an O, her eyelids come down, and her head falls back.
I keep banging into her. My cock, my body, my entire being is reduced to a single purpose now, a means to an end. The end is to get both of us to a point where we’re so ready, so wound up, that when the release arrives, it will feel like fireworks.
My awareness of Margot’s orgasm is triggered by a shaking in her thighs. She clamps down on me as her muscles quiver. Her pussy begins to contract around my dick, which is the next surefire sign. My own release looming, I drive harder into her. She comes and comes and comes, her wavy auburn hair fanning out like a halo around her flushed face.
I explode on her downward curve. She opens her eyes, unfixed and glazed from her orgasm. Staring into them, I rasp her name and begin to shoot cum.
Minutes later, I pull her into my embrace. She lays her head on my chest in a gesture so quintessentially feminine that no amount of egalitarian activism will ever take it out of the fairer sex.
The conversation we had about the Beauvoir-Sartre relationship comes to mind.
“Would you say that you get Simone a little better now?” I ask Margot.
“Now, meaning…?”
“Now that you fucked the man you disapprove of.”
“Perhaps, but…” After a moment’s hesitation, she says, “If anything, I despise her even more.”
“I don’t follow.”
Her fingers play with my chest hair. “Will it help if I told you that now I despise myself, too?”
“Nope. Still not following.”
“All the better.” She nestles up against me, kissing my pecs.
What a strange woman! Funny, beautiful, and sexy as hell. But very strange.
CHAPTER 24
MARGOT
Something is different about Jonas when we wake up in the morning. The change isn’t earth-shattering, but it’s marked enough to ruffle my sensitive little feathers. He’s with me physically, but his mind is miles away, but not in a dreamy, head-in-the-clouds way. Quite the contrary.
As we awkwardly say good morning, and he gives me space to pull on my pajamas, he appears intensely focused. Just not on me.
Jonas opens the door a crack and peeks out. “The coast is clear.”
I dash to my room.
Showered and dressed half an hour later, I amble into the kitchen. It’s half-empty. Most of the cast and crew have already had their breakfast.
Peter greets me warmly. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.”
Averting my eyes, I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a fresh croissant from the basket on the counter.
