Dirty Talk Page 5

  ‘They haven’t kissed,’ he says. ‘And I think, at this point in the story, they should do that.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, and my voice sounds all faint and far away.

  ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ I admit. I hadn’t thought beyond the hot, banging sex.

  ‘He would want to kiss her,’ Phil says. ‘He’s been in prison. If he hasn’t had sex with a woman in ages, then he hasn’t kissed one, either.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the sex be more important?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ he says. ‘Sex and kissing are two entirely different things. And he strikes me as the sort of man who would understand the importance of kissing.’

  ‘Kissing is important?’

  ‘It’s the most important thing of all.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, as he walks around to my side of the desk. I’ve never thought of kissing as particularly important. It’s not something I did a lot of with either of my boyfriends. It wasn’t that I found it unpleasant, I just didn’t find it particularly interesting, and I don’t think they did either. ‘I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about, to be honest.’

  Phil stops, looks down at me. ‘Seriously?’

  I try to shrug it off. It doesn’t really work. ‘Does it matter?’

  He’s looking at me strangely. He shakes his head a little. Then he reaches out, takes my hand, plays with my fingers. ‘I figured it was the morning after. He woke up late, in a strange bed in a strange house. It took him a moment to remember where he was. He got up, pulled on his clothes.’

  ‘She’d left new ones for him on the back of a chair in his room,’ I say. ‘Clean ones. They’re just servant’s things, nothing fancy.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Phil says. ‘It’s been so long since he had anything new, since he felt cared for. And that’s how it makes him feel. He puts them on, shirt and trousers and boots, and he goes in search of her. But the house is empty.’

  ‘She’s in the garden. Picking roses.’

  ‘He waits at the door, watching her. He’s afraid to go outside in case someone sees him.’

  ‘She knows he’s there. She can sense him.’

  He strokes the hair back from my face. ‘But she’s so beautiful,’ he says. ‘Her skin is perfect, and the early morning sunlight is shining in her hair. She cuts a rose, and he watches her stroke the soft pink petals, and he can’t resist. He has to be with her. So he leaves the house and crosses the garden.’

  He takes my hand, pulls me to my feet. His gaze never leaves my face. I look up at him, and I feel my breath catch. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

  ‘He pulls her close,’ Phil says softly. He sets his hands to my waist. I can feel them there, heavy and warm and strong. I know if I looked down, I would see that tattooed rose, but I don’t look down. I can’t. I’m lost in the pull of his eyes, his voice, his mouth so close to mine.

  I feel like the ground is moving under my feet as he leans closer, as he puts his mouth on mine. He kisses me gently. Politely. Tenderly.

  And then my legs start to fold underneath me, and he stops being a good boy and becomes something else. His hands leave my waist and find my arse, but I barely notice because his tongue has found its way inside my mouth, and he tastes of hazelnut syrup and a rough, hungry desire. I didn’t know desire had a taste until now. I didn’t know it could be like this. I didn’t know you could want someone so badly from just a kiss.

  I slide a hand round the nape of his neck, my fingers sliding into the softness of his close-cropped hair, and I kiss him back. I don’t even know if I’m doing it right, or well, or how he wants me to, but I can’t stop. We’re pressed tightly against each other, thighs, hips, mouths, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m tugging on his shirt and he’s pulling on my dress.

  The sound of my phone ringing snaps us apart. We both step back. We’re dishevelled, out of breath, messy, confused. I touch my mouth as he wipes the back of his hand across his. I try to straighten my dress, and he shoves his shirt back inside his trousers.

  I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking.

  ‘I have to get to work,’ he says, but he makes no move to go. And my phone is still ringing. He gestures to it. ‘You should probably answer that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I make a grab for it, but my hand is unsteady and I knock it to the floor.

  ‘I guess I’ll see you later then,’ he says, as I bend down to pick it up.

  By the time I straighten up, he’s gone. I drop into my chair, take a deep breath and answer it. ‘Booktopia, Amy speaking.’

  ‘Hi Amy, it’s Jules.’

  At first, I wonder if she’s rung to talk about what happened yesterday. That maybe she’s finally come to her senses and realised what a complete jerk Dave is, and she’s going to say she’s sorry for the way he spoke to me when they came into the shop, but she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

  It doesn’t take long before she swings the conversation round to the topic of the bet. Actually, that’s a lie. It doesn’t take any time at all, because she launches straight into it. ‘Amy,’ she says, ‘I know it’s really naughty of me to ask this, but I was wondering if I could read some of your story. I wouldn’t tell Dave, obviously. It would just be our little secret.’

  It would be a lot more convincing if I couldn’t hear Dave muttering in the background.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ I say. ‘I don’t really want to show it to anyone until it’s finished.’

  ‘But that’s another two days!’ Jules squawks. ‘Come on, Amy. Just a couple of pages. We’re best friends, remember?’

  Yes, I remember. I remember when she had my back, and I had hers. I remember when she’d stick up for me, when we’d spend time together, when we enjoyed each other’s company. I remember who she was before she met Dave. But she isn’t that person any more, and I’m tired of being hurt by the person she is now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. I should just set her straight. But I don’t. I don’t want to hurt her, and somehow I know that if I bring the death of our friendship out into the open, that’s exactly what I will do.

  ‘Come on, Amy,’ she begs. ‘It’s only me. Go on. I’m dying to read it.’

  There’s desperation in her tone, and I feel a bit sorry for her, if I’m honest. And I remember when we used to go shopping together to see who could put together the worst outfit, who could eat the most ice cream, when we used to argue for hours about whether Mr Darcy was better than Heathcliff.

  Then I hear Dave laugh. And right then, right at the point where I might have weakened, where I might have shared it with her, I know that I won’t. ‘No,’ I say.

  There’s a pause, an angry silence. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘By the way, I saw Phil waiting outside the shop this morning. What’s going on with you and him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I tell her.

  ‘I can always tell when you’re lying.’

  I bite my lip. She does have a point. She always found me easy to read. ‘He’s…he’s been helping me.’

  ‘Helping you with what?’

  ‘With…with my story.’

  ‘That wasn’t part of the deal! That’s cheating, Amy!’

  ‘And you ringing me up, trying to persuade me to send you mine so Dave can read it, isn’t?’

  ‘I told you, that’s just for me!’

  ‘I can hear him, Jules. I know he’s there.’

  She hangs up.

  I feel guilty and horrible, slightly like I might cry. I stare at my phone, think about calling her back to tell her I’m sorry and I didn’t mean it and it’s fine, I’ll give up now and Dave can win the bet. What does it really matter, anyway?

  But I don’t do it.

  Because it matters to me. After what happened with Phil this morning, it matters more than anything. I might have been bullied into writing this story, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be bullied out of writing it. I’m discovering something about myself,
and I’m not ready to give that up just yet.

  And I’m not ready to give up Phil, either.

  As soon as I get home, I ring him.

  ‘Hey, Amy,’ he says.

  ‘Can I come over?’ I blurt out.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Sure. Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, I just thought maybe we could work on the last part of my story. I really want to get it finished.’ I don’t tell him that I haven’t recovered from the fact that he kissed me, or that I don’t think that I ever will. I don’t tell him that I’m only using the story as an excuse to see him. That maybe it’s been an excuse all along.

  Because maybe he was just thinking about the story when he kissed me this morning. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Maybe he always kisses like that, and the only reason I’m feeling this way is because I’ve never been kissed like that before.

  I don’t say out loud I want to have sex with you, because as far as I know we’re both still pretending that we’re just working on the story together. As long as we both ignore what else we’re doing, it’s almost like it isn’t really happening. First rule of having sex with a friend is that you don’t talk about the sex you’re having.

  ‘It’s late,’ he says. ‘How about I come to yours? I don’t like the idea of you being out in the dark on your own.’

  ‘No, I’d rather come to you,’ I reply. I need the fresh air, the walk. I need to get out of my flat, which feels cramped and messy and reminds me of Jules. ‘I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.’ I end the call before he can argue. I bundle myself into a pair of jeans and a cardigan, grab my laptop, and then I leave my flat. Outside, the air is cool, and it feels fresh and soothing against my skin. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself and start in the direction of Phil’s house.

  I barely get halfway there before I run into him.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, smiling at me.

  ‘Hey.’ I fold my arms a little bit tighter around myself. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t like the idea of you walking on your own. So I decided to come and meet you.’

  ‘My knight in shining armour.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he says, breathing on his nails and polishing them on his jacket. ‘But keep it to yourself. I don’t want everyone to know.’

  ‘I’m good at keeping secrets,’ I tell him.

  ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘You’re the original dark horse.’ He slings an arm around my shoulder as we walk in the direction of his house. ‘So what are our wealthy recluse and her jailbird lover up to now?’

  I’m glad it’s dark so he can’t see me blush. ‘Kissing,’ I say.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I need to write the next big scene,’ I say. I keep my gaze fixed firmly on the way ahead. ‘I think at this point in the story, they should probably, you know…’

  ‘Fuck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We walk on in silence for several minutes after that.

  ‘How should they do it?’ Phil asks. He seems to be walking a little faster, keeping me close to him as we cut through the centre of town.

  ‘The police have been to the house, looking for him. She knows exactly who he is now and she knows he can’t stay. They’ve got only a few more hours together, and then he has to leave. He’s going to go before it gets light.’

  ‘I see.’

  We’re almost at his front door now, and as he slides his key into the lock I feel a deep shiver of excitement, bundled up with a sickening amount of nerves. This is going to happen. This is actually going to happen, and I don’t know how I feel about that. Excited. Afraid. Mostly afraid. I’m not like his other girlfriends. What if he’s disappointed?

  Phil pushes open the door and gestures for me to go inside. I almost lose my nerve, but then I remember the phone call with Jules, and how it made me feel. And I remember how Phil made me feel, when he kissed me this morning. It’s time I faced up to it. This isn’t about the story any more, this is about me. It’s about the huge crush I have on my best friend, and it’s about the way he seems to bring out a side of me that I didn’t know existed. The story is just an excuse.

  It’s my get-out clause.

  He pushes the door closed and locks it, surrounding us with darkness. ‘So,’ he says. ‘What does she do?’

  ‘She’s decided to go to a party that evening,’ I say. ‘She’s in her bedroom, putting on her best evening gown, her diamonds.’

  ‘I thought she was a recluse?’

  ‘She is,’ I say. ‘But she can’t bear to watch him leave. So she’s decided to go out. That way, she won’t be tempted to beg him to stay with her. There she is, pulling on her stockings…’

  ‘Silk stockings?’

  ‘Naturally.’ I lean back against the wall, my legs suddenly unable to hold me up. ‘She’s stood in front of her dressing table, one foot resting on top of a little velvet stool, and he comes in.’

  ‘He can’t leave yet. Not while they still have unfinished business. He knows what she wants, and he intends to give it to her.’

  Phil takes my hand, leads me through the house into the kitchen. He turns on the lights, shoves a chair away from the kitchen table and turns me to face it. A hand between my shoulder blades has me leaning forwards. I’m so aroused I can hardly speak.

  ‘He pulls up her dress,’ I say breathlessly, as Phil tugs up my T-shirt and rubs his hand over my back. I feel my bra pull tight, and then he’s unfastened it, giving him free access to my breasts. He takes full advantage of it.

  ‘He’s rough with her,’ Phil says. ‘He doesn’t know how to be any other way.’ His fingers dig into my flesh, then find my nipples and tug on them. So this is what rough feels like, I think to myself as a delicious jolt of excitement arrows straight between my legs. I’m already wet, I can feel it.

  ‘She’s wet for him,’ I reply, though it comes out half strangled, and I almost can’t believe I just said it. The more we play at this, the more dirty words I seem able to say. It’s as if it has unlocked something inside me, opened up a part of me that I’ve denied my entire adult life.

  I like dirty words. I like saying dirty words. I like writing them, I like thinking about them, and I’m beginning to think that I like doing the things they describe, too.

  ‘Of course she is,’ Phil says, as he stops playing with my breasts and gets to work on my jeans. He’s rough with those too, tugging at the fabric and the zip, pulling the crotch up tight against my clit, making it ache. ‘He knows her. No one knows her the way he does.’

  After what feels like an age, he finally gets them undone and they slide to the floor, pooling around my ankles. He doesn’t bother to remove my knickers. Instead, he tugs them to the side and shoves his fingers deep inside me, and that invasion is rough and rude and horny.

  ‘She doesn’t want soft caresses,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t want a polite seduction. She wants something real. Something only he can give her.’

  Like the way Phil kissed me this morning. Like the way he’s touching me now. I close my eyes, let myself sink into the feeling of it.

  My eyes fly open when he smacks me on the arse. I squeal. ‘You didn’t expect him to be gentle, did you?’ he asks softly. ‘He’s a bad man, Amy. You already know that.’

  I hear the jingle of his belt as he unfastens his jeans, and I arch my back, angling my hips higher. He rewards me with a slap on the other buttock. Oh, this is delicious. This is wonderful. I know exactly how I’m going to describe it, the words that I’m going to use. I can picture the scene perfectly, with her in her beautiful gown. Even cleaned up, there’s no mistaking the sort of man he is.

  ‘Talk dirty to me,’ I say suddenly. Even to my own ears, I sound desperately excited. Desperately horny. ‘Talk to me how he would talk to her.’

  Let me pretend that I am her and you are him and that this is real.

  I feel the sudden invasion of his fingers pushing deep inside my pussy.
‘Tell me you want me,’ he says.

  ‘I want you.’

  ‘Tell me exactly what you want.’

  ‘I…I want you to fuck me,’ I say, knowing that those words won’t be enough. That he’ll demand more, and that I’ll give it to him.

  ‘And how do you want it?’

  ‘Rough,’ I tell him. ‘I want it rough and I want it hard and I want it now.’

  I hear the snap of a condom, and my fingers curl against the table top. I spread my legs, widening my stance, but Phil moves behind me, tucking his feet outside of mine, forcing me to alter my position. And when he fucks into me, when he makes that first thrust into my body, I understand why. In this position, I can feel everything. Everything.

  We both exhale. Neither of us moves. The weight of him has pushed me flat against the table top, my bare breasts pressed against the cold wood, making my nipples throb. And with my knees pressed together like this, my thighs put a firm, teasing pressure on my clit, making me completely aware of it. ‘I didn’t know you would be like this,’ I say, as he pulls out and thrusts into me again. ‘I didn’t know you were into this.’ I didn’t know that my gentle, quiet-spoken friend was a shamelessly rough lover.

  ‘You want it like this,’ he points out. ‘You want to know what it’s like to be fucked by a real man. I’m not one of your educated fancies. I fuck like I do everything else. Like every time might be the last time.’

  I try to push myself up on the table, try to get a hand between my legs so I can ease the terrible ache building there, but he sees me. He grabs my wrist and tugs it to the small of my back. He holds it there, fucks me harder, deeper, with a low groan of satisfaction. ‘This is no quick fuck, my lady. This is going to take time. We’re only going to do it once, so we’re going to do it right.’

  I let out an unsteady breath. I’ve never been pinned down like this, used like this, and there’s something very primitive and exciting about a man holding me down so he can have sex with me. I can feel the brutal thrust of his cock, and it feels almost like foreplay. Like this is just the beginning.