Книга - Uncover Me

Uncover Me
AM Hartnett


The photos are becoming a compulsion for Carrie. As soon as she wakes up, she feels the need to engage with the readers of her erotic website, Dirty Pictures. No matter how hard she tries to focus on her real life the need is always there. The high is knowing that men desire her.One day a comment on her erotic website makes Carrie go cold: one of her readers, Brendan, has recognised a landmark in the window of one of her pictures. Brendan knows where to find her and has sent a tantalising private message. His invitation to play was so tempting in no time at all, in a variety of settings, their sensual adventures become wild. Her sexual and emotional reawakening reaches peaks she never imagined possible.But Carrie finds it difficult to treat their relationship as casual. Terrified of heartbreak, she breaks off her affair with Brendan. Her previous relationship left her in tatters and she’s too scared to take such a chance again. Brendan endured a broken marriage so she’s not alone in her confusion and reticence. But can Carrie ever hope to be more than his fantasy girl?









Uncover Me

A. M. Hartnett





(http://www.mischiefbooks.com)


Table of Contents

Cover (#u3601a996-6e23-54a6-8285-b9d6f1b4f138)

Title Page (#u9278e862-8ae5-5b92-90aa-e11104805940)

Chapter One (#ufdfdc288-58b6-5fd3-8c0e-4430b548f2ec)

Chapter Two (#ucd8675ac-63b2-5e82-94cd-b66d22accf0a)

Chapter Three (#ua1d5797e-371e-5c89-b601-cfbcc36598cf)

Chapter Four (#u292d9e3f-f963-5dcb-9a1f-7eed382efdfe)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#ulink_372d5e12-a07c-55c3-bf05-6ad1feaa8c78)


She didn’t think of it as porn.

Porn was something some men watched in front of their computer, cock in hand and a box of tissues next to their keyboard. Artificial boobs and bad acting. A hard cock in a wet pussy or mouth.

What Carrie was doing wasn’t porn. It was just her blog.

Standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped turban-style around her hair, she wiped away the film her shower had created and stared at the reflection of herself. She tossed around the idea of taking a picture. She knew her readers liked it when she was fresh out of the shower, her skin pink from the heat and the spray and still shining with moisture, but the pictures were like any other creative endeavour: the mood had to be just right.

Carrie hung up her bath towel and went from the steamy bathroom to the cool bedroom, damp feet slapping on the hardwood floor. She stretched, grateful for the open window and the breeze that skittered across her bare back on what already promised to be a hot one.

Before she’d been single, the windows had been closed all the time. It was a wonder she’d been able to get a wink of sleep in the year she’d been with an ex who wore socks to bed. She liked the fleeting exposure of open windows and blowing curtains, of a warm breeze skimming over bare flesh in the darkness.

She didn’t go near her phone as she dressed. She left her tablet computer alone. There would be at least twenty little red dots over her blog application’s icon. There would be more as North America woke up, lengthy comments or just little nods of approval.

What she’d posted the night before had been a blurry black and white shot of her touching herself through cotton panties. Nothing major, just a little tease, but even the subtle posts got a reaction.

Carrie wrapped herself in her robe and returned to the bathroom to dry her hair.

Besides, if she looked at the phone and saw what her pet perverts had written, that compulsion might come over her. It could strike at any hour of the day and she’d be off like a smoker on their first break of the morning. At some point during the day, she’d tuck her phone into her pocket and retreat to the washroom – not the communal stalls across the hall, but the single room by the coffee shop in the lobby, the one with the locked door. She’d take a few sneaky shots: an open blouse, the saucy peek of a garter, a finger toying with her pussy. She’d post the picture, and then return to her desk with a tea and start the wait all over again.

On a good day, she’d make it until quitting time, until she locked the front door behind her.

If it was a hard day, she’d make another trip to the bathroom, or even sneak a quick picture right there at her desk.

She still hadn’t touched her phone when, half an hour later, she was completely polished and lacquered, with the kettle bubbling on the kitchen counter. The urge was getting stronger.

She wished it was Sunday. Carrie worked her guts off on Saturday doing all those little things like laundry and groceries just so she could put on all those naughty things she’d been picking up since starting the blog and become Maggie, the woman of the blog. On Sunday she slept late and then, for as long as she was awake, allowed herself to be that persona she had created.

But it was Wednesday, and she had days left before she could give herself over to her dirty pictures.

Once she’d put her coat on, poured her tea into a travel mug and checked her purse for keys, she couldn’t wait any longer.

She picked up her phone and tapped the home button.

Forty-three comments.

I really should turn the notifications off, she thought.

But if you turned off the notifications, you’ll never know who liked, reblogged or commented on the pictures.

That was the problem. She wanted to know.

She opened the blogging app. Scrolling through the notifications gave her a rush, to know that so many strangers had seen the previous night’s impromptu display.

Somewhere, someone had gotten hard or wet at the sight of her fingers creeping beneath cotton. Someone had been overcome with a compulsion of their own. Someone grew flushed and breathless. Someone lost themselves in a fantasy about that woman in the chaste panties.

Many someones, if forty-three comments were an indication.

By the time she locked the front door behind her and headed down the stairs, the urge was stronger than ever.

She knew she’d never make it until noon.

She didn’t even make it to work.

The light at the corner of Republic and Oak was a painfully slow wait, but that morning it was just enough time. Carrie reached into her purse, opened her photo app and pulled up her skirt.

Beneath her smart black outfit, she’d paired sweet pink lace with black stockings and garters. With one foot on the brake, she lifted her other leg and angled the phone.

The final shot was saucy perfection.

At the next red light Carrie uploaded it, then dropped the phone back into her purse.

She felt lighter now, but she knew it would only be a few hours before the compulsion came back. She sucked in a deep breath as she eased into the clogged downtown core.

I might make it until five.

Buried in her purse, her phone peeped with a notification, and she knew she’d never make it.

* * *

‘Are you sure you can’t tough it out until the end of today?’

Carrie balanced the phone between her chin and her shoulder as she dug into the depths of her purse. She could hear the aspirin bottle rattling, but it was as though it darted from one end of her purse to the other in an attempt to escape its fate.

Much like the tearful young woman on the other end of the line.

‘I can’t,’ the woman said. ‘I just can’t. It’s too much.’

There was at least one of these failures in a month. No matter how well a person scored on their typing and computer tests, there was always a chance that they would prove utterly incapable of performing menial tasks in an office full of strangers.

Carrie had been in their shoes after her own university years. She couldn’t even count the number of times she’d stuffed envelopes in a cold boardroom, feeling sorry for herself as one after another curious bureaucrat came along to get a look at the temp, but she’d done it. That’s what you did when you were a temp, especially if you were a young temp with no experience. She just wished more of Turner & Associates Talent’s employees realised this.

‘All right, Brit,’ she said, ‘I’m going to need you to stick around until noon for me, OK? I’ll give the department manager a call and get her to sign your pay stub for you.’

‘I don’t care about the pay stub. I just want to leave.’

Carrie paused in her search for pills and clutched the phone. ‘Did something happen?’

‘No. I just don’t like it. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to wait for the department manager.’

‘You need to get paid.’

‘I don’t care.’ The girl sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. ‘I’m only doing this because my mom told me I had to do it or else she wouldn’t pay my rent.’

‘OK, OK. Just … just tell the supervisor you have an emergency call, go outside and get on the bus.’

She hung up the phone and bit back a scream at the thought of getting in touch with the office manager. Though polite on the surface, she was the breed of bitchy that was usually reserved for high-school math teachers. She would sigh and remind Carrie that this was the fourth temp in three months they had lost. Carrie would apologise and bite her tongue to keep from telling the old witch to fuck off and take her business elsewhere. Part of her hoped they would do it anyway. If they wanted another girl sent over, Carrie would have to figure out which of those on her roster she could sacrifice this time.

By the time she had finished her call and had suffered what was the verbal equivalent of being flayed an inch at a time, her raging headache was going nowhere and her pills seemed to want to stay that way. Abandoning her search, she tossed her purse aside and rolled her seat away from her desk. She was at the door of her office when she remembered her phone docked on the credenza.

She was surprised to realise this was the first time she’d thought about it since she’d sat down in front of her computer that morning.

And then the need hit her, wiping out thoughts of the headache and sarcastic clients. She needed to be alone. She needed to show off just a little.

She sucked in a deep breath and tried to will the urge away. The hardest thing she could have done that day was walk away, but walk away she did, straight to reception.

‘Kayla, do you have anything for a headache?’

The receptionist raised eyebrows that were dark and heavily pencilled. ‘That bad?’

‘I’m tired of talking to people. Tired of people who want, who need, who are never happy.’

‘Then you’re never going to get a moment’s peace in this line of work.’

Kayla opened her desk drawer, and Carrie marvelled at the order in which it was kept. She used to envy people like Kayla: married with children but still showed up at work looking refreshed, while Carrie herself could barely stand to get out of bed most mornings. Perhaps it was because Kayla didn’t have to work. Perhaps working was freedom for Kayla while it was a yoke for Carrie.

‘You have vacation time coming up, don’t you?’

Carrie nodded. ‘Two weeks.’

‘Going anywhere special?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it. I might fly into Montreal for a few days and then drive down into the States. Or I might just hang around in my apartment. Thanks.’ She accepted the tablets in her palm and slapped them into her mouth, letting them sit on her tongue while she filled a cone at the water cooler next to Kayla’s desk. She went on after she’d swallowed. ‘I might just split the difference with a few days in Montreal and a few days at home.’

‘What about Mexico or Cuba?’

‘I don’t do beach vacations. I sightsee, or else I read. Hey –’ she leaned on the edge of the reception counter ‘– have they started renovating in 605?’

‘Not yet, or at least I haven’t been driven insane by hammering yet. Why?’

‘Nothing, I just thought I heard something earlier.’ Carrie refilled the paper cone and drank in a gulp. ‘I’ve got calls in to three girls for Doyle & Follett. Can you do me a favour and just give them the basics if they call? I’m going out for lunch today.’

* * *

Suite 605 used to be the offices of Yellow Gate Realty. The company had exhibited a complete lack of creative thought when they’d chosen canary-yellow walls. On sunny days, the corridor in front of the office looked like it had been drawn over with a neon hi-lighter where the colour seeped through the glass panes flanking the door.

Not any more, as Carrie discovered – after finding that the door was unlocked. Some work had been done in the offices. The walls were now eggshell and, with the exception of a small, dusty pile of debris, the office appeared ready to be leased.

For now, anyway, it was Carrie’s studio.

She chose the corner office, locked the door behind her, just in case, and placed her purse on the floor. She remembered the husband-and-wife team who had owned Yellow Gate and probably shared this office. They were an older couple who only ever spoke business when they rode the elevator with Carrie. The woman, middle-aged and impeccably dressed, was always fiddling with her earrings while her husband toyed with his Blackberry. They hadn’t looked happy, and yet they had worked together day in and day out in that office for over twenty years and always seemed to be a united front. The business had folded when they ultimately divorced. Rumours in the building whispered of a fling with the secretary, though no one was ever really clear whether it had been the husband or wife doing the flinging.

No one is ever what they seem, Carrie thought as she plucked the buttons of her blouse. A neighbour likes it rough, your boss likes to watch his wife getting fucked by another man, the janitor is into pegging, and the courier who needs a signature for those fun little accessories you ordered goes back to his truck and jerks off to streaming porn.

Once she was down to her bra and panties, she returned to her purse and collected her phone and the thick paperback she now carried with her everywhere. She hadn’t read a word. Reading wasn’t what she had bought it for. It was a makeshift tripod, and with it she could tilt the phone high enough to capture her entire body but omit her face.

She rested it on the floor and, having opened the application with a self-timer, pressed the button, then stood facing the trio of large windows, her back to the camera.

Three seconds.

As she ran her hand along the curve of her ass, she turned.

One second.

Growing hornier by the second, Carrie dug her fingers into the plump flesh.

Click.

She started the timer again. This time she stood in profile as she unhooked her bra.

Three seconds.

The garment buckled, and a shudder went through her as the cool air puckered her nipples.

One second.

The garment fell, and she cupped her breasts.

Click.

Once more, one last time. Only now she laid the camera flat on the floor and knelt. She set the timer and watched the woman pull aside her panties.

Three seconds.

With her free hand, she stroked one finger along her sex. On-screen, her bare pussy shone with the arousal she’d built up just in the last few moments.

One second.

She slipped one finger inside herself.

Click.

For a few seconds after the last shot, Carrie remained in her pose, watching the display that went on. Taking pictures at work had always proved problematic. By the time she had finished, she was always so horny she couldn’t wait to get home and finish off. Today at least she had a little bit of privacy.

Her eyes on the camera, she moved her fingers between her thighs. It was a ritual that had preceded technology: when she was younger, she used to prop a mirror between her legs and pretend it was someone else’s finger playing with her. Years later she’d tried a finger vibe, but in the end it was the fantasy of being toyed with by some unseen figure that made her come.

Behind two closed doors, she didn’t worry that anyone might hear the breathy little sounds she made. Each gasp of pleasure that followed the trail of her finger around her clit burst from the back of her throat.

The last thing she saw before the screen went to sleep was bare pink flesh shiny from contact with her sex.

She closed her eyes and sank on one hand. In her mind, a faceless stranger knelt behind her. She imagined his breadth and his strength eclipsing her. Her clit throbbed as she envisioned him mounting her. She pushed against her knees, rocking forward and backward to the motion of her hand, rubbing herself to match his unrelenting pace.

Unable to stay upright any longer, she bowed to the floor and pressed her face against the carpet. Her fantasy man grasped her hips and held her in place as he pumped her.

Her climax surged up and she squeezed her lips together to keep from screaming. The man of her imagination thrust hard one more time and vanished like dust. Everything vanished, everything but that throbbing burst of euphoria that held her in its grasp.

She rolled onto her side and sucked in a deep breath. Her fingers stilled around throbbing flesh. She threw her arm over her eyes, barring the light pouring in from outside. Blindly she felt around for her phone, then she peered at it from beneath her forearm.

Eighty-seven messages.

She posted her latest gallery and stretched out on the floor, too lethargic to get up. She knew that number would be more than doubled by the time she got home. It always did when she was feeling naughty at work.




Chapter Two (#ulink_58b34708-98ee-5c4d-adc1-e5a8f6b861a2)


I’ll have to rein it in before I get caught stripping and rubbing out at work, she thought as she headed home for the day.

The very thought of stopping bothered her. She liked the way she felt when she took her pictures. She liked the person she was in the pictures.

She had been nineteen when she’d first shared a grainy picture taken with an external webcam. She’d taken shots for boyfriends, and in her last relationship she had let Frank film her as she went down on him.

This was different. Taking them, sharing them was as exciting as foreplay. How could she get so turned on by the thought of someone out there, perhaps in some faraway country, getting off as he scrolled through a series of pictures of her stroking her wet pussy? How was it possible that posing alone in her living room, sunk into a chair with one leg slung over the arm and a camera between her thighs, made her so horny?

It had started when she stumbled across a blog linked by one of her favourite erotic writers. From there, she found blogs of women just like her, regular women and couples, who just liked sharing. She had been inspired by others who did it not for money but for the thrill of it.

The married couple who kept a sex diary of their swapping lifestyle, or the bisexual student who was cataloguing his post-small-town sexual experiences one Polaroid-style snapshot at a time. So many videos, photos and stories from ordinary people like her who were just eager to show off.

And so she’d started her blog, which she simply titled Dirty Pictures. She created a persona, Maggie, who liked to dress up in the most sinful lingerie and play with a collection of toys, who liked to show off for a faceless and adoring audience.

Dirty Pictures was her thrill, her compulsion, and it was becoming her addiction.

One that was starting to get out of hand, if having to break and enter that day was any indication. The urge was always with her, and it was getting worse. How does one quit exhibitionism?

The possibility of having to do so rankled with her as she approached the intersection where she had taken her pictures that morning. She wasn’t addicted. She just liked the novelty of her pictures. One day the novelty would wear off, and that would be the end of it.

This new obsession had everything to do with Frank and the shitty card he’d dealt her. She needed the pictures now. She needed the pictures to feel, to stamp out the embers of anger and betrayal that still rekindled themselves far too frequently.

As much as she wanted to retreat to the sanctuary of her apartment, she had run out of tea. Tea was her last excuse. As long as she had tea, she could put off going to the grocery store and just pick up her lunch at one of the dozens of shops that surrounded her workplace. She could pop down to the pizza shop at the end of her road, or head in the opposite direction for fish and chips to go, from the pub around the corner, but she would not do without her tea.

She pulled into the grocery store and, before getting out of the car, slipped her hand into her purse to touch her phone, then yanked it away.

I don’t have to look, she thought. Not yet. Not until I get home. There’ll be time enough for that after the dishes are clean.

And so she went shopping, gritting her teeth as she ‘excuse me’d and ‘sorry’d her way from aisle to aisle. By the time she’d amassed a cart full of goods to get her through another week, she was seething. She hated being in large crowds of people, or even small crowds. She’d made it less than an hour and was standing in the checkout line when she caved, reached into her purse and pulled out her phone.

It was a mistake to even look, but she just couldn’t help herself.

One hundred and eleven messages.

She smiled and opened the app.

‘I’ll bet it doesn’t take much to make you wet, Maggie.’

She peeked over her shoulder at the older man standing behind her with a scowl. He probably didn’t even own a computer and got his rocks off with the same VHS he’d had since the 80s, playing it in the same worn-out machine.

She scrolled down.

‘At work, rubbing myself under my desk. Can’t stop thinking about you touching yourself through your panties.’

Her finger quickly swiped through the messages, catching the ones from her favourite readers – though some professed as much, she still couldn’t bring herself to think of them as fans:

‘Gorgeous, but need more of that clear dildo opening you up to get me hard.’ This from a man in Ireland.

And from a bisexual tattoo artist in Oregon, ‘Would love to bury my face between your thighs.’

And from the couple who kept their own record of their swinging lifestyle, ‘Love it when you wear garters.’

The usual suspects, and a few newcomers, some of whom didn’t even read English and responded in what she guessed was Swedish.

She kept scrolling, contemplating her Sunday performance, when, in the midst of the adoration, a startling phrase caught her eye.

‘Keyes Tower?’

Her blood ran cold as she read on.

‘Can’t believe it. So close. PMed you. Please message me back.’

Keyes Tower.

Her office building.

Someone had recognised it.

Finger shaking, Carrie deleted the comment and dropped her phone back in her purse.

The next few minutes stretched on. She leaned on her cart feeling frozen.

Someone, some stranger, knew where to find her.

* * *

As soon as she threw open her front door she dropped her bags and headed straight for the computer. The damn machine seemed to take for ever to boot up. She clicked the shortcut for her blog and enlarged the last photo she had taken that afternoon.

She had been so eager to take her pictures that she didn’t think about the view from the window. And there it was, behind the lewd woman in the pictures. It was barely noticeable in the corner, but unmistakable to anyone who worked or played downtown: the domed clock tower that squatted in the centre of the city. Behind it, the signal masts from the fortress in the background.

As careful as she had been to turn off geotagging, as careful as she had been to show as little of her apartment as possible, she had given herself away with a single landmark.

Carrie rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands.

Could it really have been so thrilling just hours ago when she took that picture? Could she really have been flooded with glee over being adored as she stood in the grocery lineup? And now she felt sick.

Since starting her blog, since becoming Maggie, Carrie had been careful to keep the persona separate from her true self. It was why she never showed her face. She wanted the adoration. She wanted the fantasy. She wanted to keep her obsession behind drawn curtains and locked doors.

Someone knew where to find her.

She sat back in her chair and placed her hand over the mouse. Click here, click there, and she reached her account page.

The arrow hovered over the delete button.

Stupid.

She could hear herself talking to Frank that night he had pulled out his camera. ‘No, I’m serious. Once it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Would you want the whole world seeing you sucking a dick?’ It had become a joke at the time, and in the end she’d agreed to let him take the video, but whenever she thought of it she wondered if he had deleted it when they’d called it quits, or if it was still on the memory card. Or maybe he had uploaded it. If his attempts at sexting after the break-up had been any indication, he probably still had it tucked away somewhere on his hard drive. When they had been together she had trusted he wouldn’t, but now, well, since she didn’t know Frank as well as she thought …

This picture, the one that told the world exactly where she had been when she took the picture, was out there. Even if she took it down, even if she deleted her account, it was out there, and whoever had contacted her would still know she had taken that picture in Keyes Tower.

She went to her private messages, scrolled through the junk she usually ignored and found the message with the header ‘Keyes Bldg’.

Carrie opened the message but didn’t read it, not at first. She needed a minute to brace herself for whatever the message contained, and so she dragged her groceries into the kitchen. She went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She poured herself a glass of wine, gulped down half right there at the counter, and returned to the living room and to the message.

‘First of all, don’t freak out. I’m not some creepy pervert trying to stalk you, it read. I work in an office about two blocks from where the picture was taken and recognised the view. I’ve been reading your blog for about two months now and wondering who in the hell you were. I’d love to find out in person. It’s not every day I get a chance to meet my fantasy woman. Below is a little something for you to put us both on the same level. Message me – B.’

Her heart in her throat, she clicked the link.

A video came up, frozen for a moment before starting, and then Carrie was looking at a man’s torso. He was well built, lean and muscled, with a tattoo on his shoulder – she couldn’t make out what it was. The screen wobbled, and the next thing she saw was a tanned woman with large breasts. She was on her back, thighs parted to show off a plump mound with a landing strip leading up from dark pussy lips. The camera panned lower, and the man’s cock came into view.

The woman cooed as he worked the tip in. The camera went in and out of focus as he began to fuck her, his cock wetter with each withdrawal. His pace picking up quickly as breathy sounds came across metallic through Carrie’s shitty computer speakers. He pumped hard and deep. The woman’s moans escalated as he reached down to finger her clit.

The video lasted just under five minutes, culminating with the mouth of the woman’s sex throbbing around his dick. He didn’t come. Instead, the camera panned back and displayed his hard erection hovering over the woman’s flushed pussy.

Carrie closed the video and sat unmoving. She was as wet as the woman in the video had been. The heat between her legs was unbearably hot. As always, with the first hint of her arousal she had the compulsion to reach for the camera and perform, but this time she repressed the urge. Instead, she drank her wine and stood. She was so slippery, and a little ashamed that she could feel the wet evidence that what she had seen had turned her on.

Just like she turned her readers on.

She watched the video again, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth as she gazed at the couple. When the video stopped for a second time, Carrie leaned over and clicked on the profile.

Nothing to indicate gender. Nothing at all, just a generic userpic. Not even a location. Aside from the video, ‘B’ didn’t exist.

Is he the messenger? Or is it her? Did it matter?

‘Unless it’s a crank,’ she said to herself as she returned to the kitchen. ‘Anyone familiar with the city would know the clock on sight.’

Another glass of wine. Another deep gulp. Then, a deflated moment of relief.

The clock, yes. Keyes Tower, specifically? No.

She sank back into her chair and went back to the private message.

The only way to know what she was dealing with was to message him or her back.

She hit reply and began to type.

‘Doesn’t put us on the same level. How do I know that’s you in the video. You could have gotten that anywhere.’

Sent.

She was on her third glass of wine when the reply peeped on her phone. She bypassed it and went for the computer.

‘It’s me. Here’s your proof.’

Attached to the message was a picture. Not the full picture, but enough. He stood before a window, naked from the waist up. The same build. The same-shaped tattoo on his shoulder – the mascot of a local university, she could see now. Behind him was a view of one of the harbour bridges.

She was still examining the photo when a second message came through.

‘Not nearly on a par with your cheesecake, but you get the picture. I almost missed the location when I first looked at your pictures. Was in the middle of jerking off when I noticed the clock. Turn your chat on.’

She stared at the screen. She didn’t even know that the website that hosted her blog had an option to chat. She clicked on every menu she could find without success, reaffirming her overall hatred for other forms of social media.

When she found the CHAT ON option hidden in a bar at the bottom of the screen, she hesitated. She knew she should just call the whole thing off, but he had piqued her curiosity. She wanted the bigger picture before she dismissed him. Having no idea how to actually initiate a conversation with him, and not entirely sure she wanted to, Carrie returned to her mailbox.

In the middle of composing her reply, a window popped up.

ACCEPT CHAT FROM BSANDMAN?

‘Eager, aren’t we?’ she muttered and accepted the request, then waited for his first words.

‘Your turn,’ he had typed.

‘Sorry.’

‘Your turn to prove this is really the girl in the pictures.’

Carrie snorted and took another sip of her wine before responding. ‘I don’t have to prove anything. You just want a private show.’

‘It was worth a try. Are you married?’

‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘Wow. I just want to know you better. You know where I live. Exactly where I live. You could probably stand at the bottom of my building and see me sitting here at the computer.’

It was true, and a bit of a relief. If indeed he was true, he lived in the tallest condo in the North End, not even a five-minute drive from her apartment. She’d been in it a few times when friends rented there. They were old, but nice.

‘Are you married?’ he persisted.

‘No. Currently single.’

‘Any children?’

‘When did this become online dating? You called me out on my blog.’

‘I wouldn’t say I called you out. More like a friendly wave hello.’

‘With your dick.’

‘Did you like it? Not specifically my dick, but the video.’

‘Fantastic. Kudos on not including a cumshot.’

‘Testy testy testy. Sent you another picture. Go look at it.’

Carrie expected full frontal, but instead she found herself looking at a completely casual shot of him sitting fully dressed in front of his computer. Dark hair. Thick eyebrows and the beginnings of a beard. He had a straight mouth that was twisted into a playful smile. He looked comfortable in a black hoodie.

‘Nice,’ she typed

‘Your turn.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Come on. I’m dying to see the face that goes with that amazing body.’

Carrie couldn’t help the little spark of pleasure at his words, but still typed NO.

‘All right. I’ll see it soon enough.’

‘You think so.’

‘I’ll wear you down. Speaking of your amazing body, when are you going to post more shots of you in fishnets?’

‘When I’m in the mood.’

‘You come harder when you wear them, don’t you?’

She paused, fingers over the keyboard. Were all her subscribers reading her so easily?

‘Gotcha,’ he typed. ‘It’s easy to tell. Your nipples get really hard and you get goose bumps. And you’re insanely wet.’

‘It’s a part of the fantasy. What do you want?’

‘To play with you. Literally.’

She glanced at the benign boy-next-door photo maximised behind the chat window. She mentally tried to pair that classically handsome face with the man in the video who’d played with his lover, and found herself out of breath. The slow heat between her legs burned as her imagination weaved a tapestry. She could see herself in those fishnets he loved, legs wrapped around his waist, lips painted red and parted with a gasp as he gave her one sinful inch at a time.

The chat window flashed as he sent another message. ‘You don’t seem like the type to scare off easily. Maybe I was wrong.’

‘Look, if you’re looking for a quick fuck, look elsewhere. Thanks for looking at my pictures and all that, but I’m not interested.’

‘Not looking for a quick fuck, but now that I’ve talked to you, you seem like a sweet girl in fuck-me heels. I’m more interested than ever. Just meet me once and we’ll see where things go from there. No expectation. No nothing. Just … coffee.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

She got up and headed back to the kitchen. The room swayed a little, but that didn’t stop her pouring out the last of the wine.

Why not? She could think of a million reasons, all of which involved ending up as a Dateline Mystery. She didn’t know him. He was just one of her pet perverts, nameless and faceless. He could be anyone. He could be dangerous.

And besides, she liked what she had going on. She could come and go as she pleased, getting off when she wanted and how she wanted it. She didn’t need a man in her life right now, even for a fling. It had taken her a long time to feel comfortable alone, and she wasn’t ready to give it up even for a few hours of sweating between the sheets.

His message was waiting for her when she stumbled back to the desk. ‘You pick the time and place. Broad daylight. One cup of coffee. A quick chat. You pull the plug whenever you want.’

Her curiosity growing, Carrie looked at the photo and then, cringing at her own weakness as she did, went back to the video. This time, she paid particular attention to the sound of his voice: the primal grunts that escalated as he pumped the woman harder, and within the woman’s shrieks the muttered words ‘That’s it, baby. Come over my cock.’

I don’t need this, she thought, going back to the chat window. She said it over and over in her head to convince herself.

I like being alone.

I’m not into casual sex.

I’m still healing.

The chat window flashed. ‘Still with me, Maggie?’

This is nuts.

Temptation won out. She could be that woman for real, for just an hour in a crowded coffee shop. Even if it was a disaster, she could be Maggie even for a little bit. She didn’t have to fuck him. She didn’t have to do anything but let him adore her in person.

She pulled the keyboard closer and sucked in a deep breath.

‘One cup of coffee. One hour. Get a pen, I’ll tell you when and where.’




Chapter Three (#ulink_59252988-9fc2-5549-8ac7-cf6f36aae632)


Sitting at a corner table with a steaming cup of tea in front of her, Carrie couldn’t remember the last time she was so wound up.

She’d arrived early, because that’s who she was. She always had to be prepared. She had to scope things out, look for distractions, escape routes, and to plot scenarios.

Since she had taken her seat, she’d found herself stuck on the same terrifying scenario. The video wasn’t really him. The man with the tattoo on his shoulder, the man who was in front of his computer in a North End condo, wasn’t the man who was coming to meet her. The pretty face and hot body were just lures, and she was waiting for some disgusting little man who had gotten tired of being shot down for intimate encounters on online dating sites.

As she sat there, part of her wished she had never started that damned blog. Giving herself a little exhibitionist thrill several times a day was simply not worth the anxiety that was killing her now.

You did this to yourself, not the blog. You could have pushed him back. You could have closed Dirty Pictures and started a new blog, taken new pictures and been more careful next time.

She brought her tea up to her lips and blew on it. She had no desire whatsoever to drink it, but wanted to hide behind it. Lift and blow. Lift and blow. All the while peeking at the door to see what this nightmare would bring her.

Every time a man walked in, her heart jumped into her throat and her stomach rolled.

You should have just told him to fuck off. You didn’t show your face. He’d never be able to prove it was you in 605. It could have been a cleaning lady, or any other woman in the building.

Yet there was no pinning it on him, at least not entirely. He hadn’t threatened her or so much as hinted at blackmail. He’d even given her the opportunity to say no, but she hadn’t, because she was curious. Because she wanted to know what would happen.

You’re not Maggie.

The door jingled open.

Lift and blow, and the young man made a beeline for a crowded table by the window.

Carrie wished she had picked a different coffee shop. This one was riddled with university students, but it was the only one she could think of that guaranteed she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew. She didn’t want to have to suffer interruptions and introductions. She wanted to be able to run when she pleased.

Carrie practised her escape in her head. If he came in and it wasn’t the man in the pictures, he didn’t know her face and she could retreat in just a few steps. She’d look at her watch, slide her sunglasses off her face and hike her purse over her shoulder. Then she’d breeze past him without the slightest acknowledgement.

Just like that, she’d leave. She’d go home, delete her blog and pray she never heard from him again.

A group of students loaded with enormous backpacks headed for the door. One pushed it open, and suddenly they were all parting like the Red Sea for a man coming in from the outside.

Carrie raised her cup.

It was him, the man in the webcam shot. He wore a look of expectation on his face as he looked around, his gaze going from table to table.

Her stomach fluttered.

There was no way to tell that this was the man on the video, but he was as attractive as the picture. Tall, but not too tall, with an average build. When he looked in her direction Carrie glanced down, but not before she saw those soulful brown eyes.

She took a sip. She still hadn’t made up her mind what to do. He was good looking, but he was new and terrifying and had come into her life in the most cosmically fucked-up way she could imagine.

She glanced up and her heart stopped. He looked directly at her. Their gazes actually locked, like in a book or an old movie.

Fighting away the shakes, Carrie pushed away her tea.

You don’t have to speak to him. You don’t have to look at him. Just walk past him.

But she didn’t. She raised her chin and looked at him, and he walked towards her.

‘Maggie?’

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and she felt silly nodding at him.

So much for playing the vamp when you meet him. See? Not Maggie.

A smile came across his wide mouth as he pulled out the chair opposite hers.

In the moments after he took his seat, they simply sat regarding one another. He looked perfectly comfortable in the silence while Carrie wanted to squirm.

Close up, she could see the lines around his mouth and a few flecks of grey in his hair. He was about her age, maybe a couple of years older, and definitely someone she would have given a second glance if they had passed one another on the street.

He didn’t look like someone who spent all day looking at naked pictures on the Internet.

Then again, she didn’t look like someone who took them.

‘I’m surprised you came,’ he said, his gaze sliding over her face.

‘So am I.’

He leaned forward and folded his arms in front of him on the table. ‘I knew it was you. As soon as I spotted you, I knew. You look like a woman who’s wearing dirty things under her clothes.’

‘Do I really?’ She was genuinely surprised, and suspicious. He seemed so … sly.

‘When I first contacted you, I was expecting someone a little wilder, someone who would scare me off,’ he said. ‘I never would have done it if I’d thought you would react the way you did. I almost cancelled. I didn’t want to be the asshole that made you do something you didn’t want to do.’

Once again, his gaze moved downwards.

Curious.

Interested.

A long-forgotten fluttery feeling came over her: the blossoming pleasure of being admired by a good-looking man.

By the time his attention turned to her face, she was hot all over and she knew her cheeks showed it. She looked at the table top and wrapped her hands around the paper cup in front of her. After a moment’s silence, she realised he was waiting for her to speak.

She took a sip to wet her mouth and then looked at him. ‘Do you have a name?’

‘Brendan, and … Maggie isn’t your real name, I take it?’

‘No, and I don’t want to tell you my real name yet.’ She looked him straight in the eye as she spoke. She couldn’t help how defensive she was getting. ‘Not yet. For now, you can call me Maggie.’

He leaned back and grinned. ‘Well, Maggie, I’m going to get a cup of coffee and hope you’re still here when I come back. And then I think we should get out of here.’

‘I don’t think we should,’ she said with a scowl. ‘I don’t know what you were expecting, but –’

‘No, you misunderstand me. I just meant we should take our coffees and get out of this noisy little hole in the wall, head down the street to the park and get to know one another.’

Brendan stood over her. Carrie hated to look up at anyone and so she didn’t. She simply took another sip.

He chuckled, a delightful rumbling sound that ran right through her. ‘Can I get you another one?’

She hugged her cup between her hands and shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

After he’d moved away, she lifted her chin and took a second look. He looked so normal, like any other man, and so far he had been nothing but sweet to her. The very act of speaking to the barista and slipping his debit card into the machine seemed out of place as she thought of how he had come out of the masturbatory haze of her blog. Tingles sparked along her arms and down her back, and she felt ashamed of her shyness in the face of a man who had seen so much of her from afar.

His slight swagger as he moved down the counter to wait for his drink painted a more accurate picture of confidence. The video had proved that. He had filmed himself fucking the woman because he had wanted to be seen. Perhaps it had started off as a private thing, but somewhere along the way he had decided to give it to the world to get off to.

Just like me, she thought.

Curiosity burned through her anxiety as she watched him and, in spite of herself, she wanted to know more. So she rose from the table and collected her things and met him at the door as he took his cup filled with ice and red liquid.

‘You can relax,’ he said as soon as they were out in the daylight together. ‘I know you’ll take it with a grain of salt, but I just want to talk. No expectations.’

‘Good. I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of prostitute.’

‘I was thinking the complete opposite, actually.’

He led the way along a sidewalk busy with students hobbling like hunchbacks between campuses for coffee and lunch. A step behind him, Carrie let her gaze move over him and wondered if the back was as nice as the front when he was stripped down.

‘It’s funny how all these months I’ve been visiting your blog, getting myself off two or three times a day, and you were just a few steps away all this time.’

‘I don’t find it funny.’

‘No, I don’t expect you would, hiding in plain sight like that.’ He peered at her as they trotted along. ‘You’re very skittish, aren’t you?’

‘I’m cautious.’

‘Are you a virgin?’

Carrie stopped dead. ‘Because I didn’t immediately invite you for a fuck, you assume I’m a virgin?’

‘That got a rise out of you.’ He turned, his mouth in a mischievous twist. ‘I know you’re not a virgin, at least not in the clinical sense. I’ve seen all of your pictures. Maybe not skittish. More …’

‘Cautious.’

‘I want to say repressed.’

‘I’m not repressed.’ She was so annoyed she could have thrown her tea in his face. Instead, she tilted her nose in the air and glared at him. ‘Let’s talk about you now. You’re so well put together, so chatty, but you’re still a man who sits in front of a computer and jerks off to a woman with her panties twisted around her knees.’

His smile unwavering, Brendan leaned forward. ‘And you’re the type of woman who would shove her panties down to her knees and take a picture of her wet pussy so a man like me can jerk off to it.’

As he drew back, Carrie caught a whiff of his aftershave, a subtle mixture of menthol and something earthy and green. He never broke eye contact as he stood away from her, triumph on his handsome face.

After a moment, he shook his head. ‘I’m really not going to get into a pissing match with you. If you want to part ways right here, I’ll let you go … but I really don’t want to, and I don’t think you do either. You’re just as curious about me as I am about you.’

‘I don’t want to be analysed like a thing in an aquarium.’

‘Then tell me something about you, Maggie. Tell me how you came to start your blog.’

She walked alongside him, her thoughts muddled as she not only processed the fact that she hadn’t walked away but delved into her memories for the moment when this all began.

After Frank? Yes, the blog started after Frank. But it was more than Frank, and somewhere along the way it had separated from him completely.

‘I had a boyfriend who worked as a teacher up north,’ she said. ‘Three months collecting the big money up there, three months back here. He didn’t have a good Internet connection, so instead of video chatting I sent him pictures. I didn’t want to, at first, but I loved him and it was horrible having him so far away.’

‘And then you came to like it.’

Carrie took a deep breath. ‘I did. I’d take pictures of the things I’d bought when he was away and model them for him. Back then I just used the camera on my computer. I worried that he’d show the pictures to someone else, but as far as I know he never did. He sent back his own, and there we were for about a year.’

‘Did you ever take pictures when he was in town?’

She hesitated, then sighed and relented. ‘Once. He filmed me. After it fell apart …’

She stopped, hating herself as she recalled sitting at her computer, tears streaming down her face as she deleted every single photo, video and email.

She didn’t want to talk about it.

Still, she felt a little less anxious. Scores less anxious, in fact. She tossed her tea into a trash bin and tucked her hands into her pockets.

‘I dated someone for a few months after it ended, mostly because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? But after a while I decided I wanted time to get to know myself again. Turns out I like taking pictures of myself. It’s got nothing to do with a failed relationship or anything like that. I just like it. It just feels good. Other people do it, so I do it too.’

‘You like looking, too?’

‘I have a few blogs I like to go to. People like me. Sometimes they just take pictures of themselves. Sometimes they’re with other people.’ Her voice shook as she made her admission. Releasing it into the atmosphere was as thrilling as it was terrifying. ‘There’s one I like the most: a woman in Scotland – some small village on the coast. She posts black and white pictures. She shows her face, but she never looks right at the camera. Her pictures say something about her. Every single one tells a story about the type of day she had. You can tell by what she’s wearing or what she’s doing to herself who she chose to be that day, or what she was forced to be by her real life. I don’t know if mine does that, but I like hers.’

‘You’ll have to share it with me. Any others that turn you on?’

Carrie shook her head. ‘You next. I want to know how you found my blog.’

‘By accident. I fired one of my employees for being a fuckwit and, when I sat down to have a look at his computer, he had the link in his bookmarks. The first one I opened up was you lying in bed with the sun creating this glow around you.’

His voice changed in the way people did when they were relishing a memory, and when Carrie looked at him his expression was almost blissful, a half-smile on his face as he stared down the street.

‘You weren’t completely naked. Your bra was pushed down to your ribs and your panties were twisted around your knees. You had your hand between your legs. It was like you were waiting for someone. I got so hard thinking about what came next I unzipped right there in my office and jerked off.’ He shook himself and looked at her. His smile turned mischievous. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘Of course.’

They arrived at an intersection and Carrie discovered that having to wait for the light brought back her anxiety. She kept looking straight ahead.

‘Who is the woman in the video you sent me?’

‘My wife.’ Carrie bristled, but she still didn’t look at him. Brendan chuckled. ‘My ex-wife, though your reaction was interesting.’

‘How else would I have reacted? For about five seconds there you were some creep trying to start an affair.’

‘It didn’t occur to you before you met me?’

‘I imagined much, much worse. The video could have been a fake. Besides, I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. For all I knew, you’d show up at my office with an envelope full of my pictures.’

‘I still could.’

The red hand turned into a little green man and they crossed, heading for the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the large garden showcased in the middle of downtown.

‘But you won’t,’ she said once they’d reached the swinging gate, and she turned to block his entrance. ‘Because you’re only here for one thing.’

Brendan drained his cup and crumpled it in his fist. ‘What do I want?’

‘Like you said in your message to me, you want to play.’

He stepped closer, backing her against the cold bars. ‘And what about Maggie? Does she want to come out to play with me?’

His mouth was so close to hers, she could touch her tongue to his if she dared. She’d bet he tasted sweet, like the red drink he had been slurping on their way here.

She stopped his kiss with a hand pressed against his chest. ‘I have more questions.’

‘Of course you do.’ He pushed forward, she thought to kiss her, but instead the gate swung inwards. ‘It’s my turn to ask a question, though, isn’t it? What do you do for a living?’

She shook her head. ‘No, ask me something else.’

‘Come on. You know where I live. You know where to find me.’

‘Who said I wanted to find you? And I don’t want you finding me, either.’

‘All right, enough of this bullshit.’ He stepped in front of her and blocked the gravel path. ‘I’ve left it wide open for you to walk away, but you’re still here, busting my balls about my motivations for being here when you’re here for the same thing.’

Carrie opened her mouth, but he just went on. ‘You won’t come right out and say it: it’s not taking the pictures that gets you off, it’s the thought of someone out there stroking off to those pictures. That’s why you do it. That’s why you like it. You’re just as dirty as the rest of us, and Maggie, let me tell you, I’m dying to show you how dirty things can get.’

There wasn’t even a hint of a smirk left on his face. His words bled into her skin and trickled through her veins.

Carrie wanted to back away from him, but found herself fixed to the ground like one of the statues around her. This small part of the world she shared with him seemed to close in, and she didn’t so much as flinch when he slipped his arm around her and splayed his hand at the small of her back.

‘You want to be fucked. Tell me, where do you want to be fucked?’

She licked her lips and watched him mirror the action. She felt his cock pressing between them. With the pressure of his hand drawing her closer, it was harder than ever to breathe.

She tilted her head. She intended to shake her head, ‘No,’ but lost the intention entirely halfway through.

‘My place is five minutes from here.’

The corner of his mouth turned up, delectable and tempting. ‘What’s your name?’

She brought her hand up and pressed it against his chest, not to push him away but to steady herself. She struggled through a deep breath and curled her fingers. ‘Carrie. My name is Carrie.’




Chapter Four (#ulink_a1d9ddb7-7240-51c9-a5dc-cd744fb5b129)


Having him in her space put her on edge.

Her knees wobbled as soon as she opened the door. She charged on through with Brendan trailing behind her. She found she couldn’t breathe as she stood with her back to him, stripped off her coat and tossed it on to the edge of the sofa.

She was terrified.

‘This is where all your money goes,’ he said quietly, and Carrie turned.

‘Excuse me?’

He stood in front of the door, gaze roaming over every inch of her apartment. ‘You’ve got nice things, expensive things.’

Carrie crossed her arms over her chest, mostly to keep her hands from shaking, but also to show her annoyance. ‘So I like nice things. I buy nice things. What else would I do with my money?’

‘How much did that mirror cost?’

‘What does it matter?’

Brendan shrugged. ‘Just thinking of the other fun things you could have bought with the money.’

She shrugged. ‘It’s a knock-off. Forty bucks at Pier One.’

‘Forty bucks could still get you a lot of goodies to show off.’

He glanced at his shoes and then at her, and with a smirk pushed them off his feet. A mad little panic skittered through her belly.

If he gets too cosy, I can’t push him out the door.

‘Do you want to give me the tour or should I just make myself comfortable?’

‘Right. Sorry.’ She stepped to the centre of the room, ‘This is the living room, obviously. Behind you to the left is the kitchen. It’s not huge or anything, but I only cook once a week and … what?’

He was grinning. ‘I’m not interviewing you for a lifestyle magazine. I just need to know my away around.’

Carrie sucked in a deep breath and tried to relax, but she couldn’t bring herself to unclamp her arms from across her chest. ‘I’m sorry. I’m nervous.’

‘Then you’ll have to settle down.’ He padded around the sofa in his socked feet. ‘Allow me. Living room, obviously.’

As he went to every corner of the room, touching and feeling her things, Carrie just got tighter and tighter. The enormity of what she had done grew with every step he took. As he peered from her window onto the street, she suddenly wanted him out, but now that he was in she had no idea how to make that happen.

Her head was a mess. Part of her wanted to go forward. Part of her wanted to go back to her safe little life.

‘Kitchen. Tiny, but a little bit of counter space,’ he said as he walked through the hall. ‘Bathroom. Big. Big enough for two or more.’

She followed and stood in the doorway as he sized up the tub. ‘You’re looking at every single surface in here and gauging it for … for …’

‘Stability? Comfort? Fuckability? No, not really. Anyone can fuck anywhere if they want it bad enough, but now that you mention it –’ he stepped into the tub and sat down ‘– it’s been a while since I had any fun under running water. Too tricky unless there’s enough room to move. I wouldn’t fuck in here, but there’s definitely enough room to play.’

He stretched out his legs and rested his feet on the lip of the bath, then folded his hands behind his head. ‘You have another camera, don’t you? One with a tripod. Is it waterproof?’

Carrie nodded. The thought of being wet and slippery under the spray with him … oh, my.

‘I always wondered …’ he began, then shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It’s just, the way you come off in those pictures it’s obvious you like the appearance of being fucked. I was wondering if that’s why you decided to go almost completely bare.’ Carrie just burned as, chuckling, he extracted himself from the tub. ‘I’d say that one day you indulged a little while shaving, and you’ve been that way ever since because you like the way it looks and feels.’

The butterflies in her stomach went mad as he paused in the bedroom door. ‘Now this is telling me something. There’s never a good shot, but I had my suspicions.’

‘What?’

‘This bed.’ He hopped onto the mattress and knelt at the foot of the bed, one hand on the iron poster and the other resting on the throw tossed over the footboard. ‘I mean, Jesus Christ, this is the type of bed a woman buys when she wants to be fucked hard.’

She stepped forward and fingered one of the sheer curtains. ‘I bought this because –’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. You bought the bed so you could block out as much light as possible. You bought it because it was on sale. You bought it because it was the only one on the showroom floor. You can come up with a hundred reasons but experience tells me otherwise: a woman doesn’t buy a bed because it’s pretty, she buys it to get off in.’ He grinned and leaned back. ‘My dick’s wet just imagining the things you could get up to in this bed.’

And just like that, the mood shifted in the room. Brendan’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes lost their merriment and softened. The heat of embarrassment that had been simmering under the surface of Carrie’s skin lost its sting and cooled to a warm, liquid river that ran through her.

Brendan’s presence seemed to give off an atmosphere all its own. It surrounded her.

She knew she would follow where he led her.

She curled her fingers around the curtain and waited, speechless, for Brendan to say something.

‘How many men have been in this bed?’

None, she tried to say, but the word stuck in her throat. It gave her enough time to change her mind.

‘A few,’ she lied, badly, and lowered her gaze.

‘Carrie.’ He came swiftly to the side of the bed where she stood and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. ‘I’m not here to help you keep your secrets. Do you want to be fucked in this bed?’

It seemed to take for ever, but Carrie managed to meet his gaze. Still, she couldn’t open up to answer his question.

Instead, she said, ‘I won’t do it without a condom. If you don’t have one I have some in the bathroom cabinet.’

‘We don’t need condoms today. That’s not what I have planned for you.’

‘Then what?’

His fingers pressed down on her pulse. The corner of his mouth turned up at one corner. ‘Your heart is going crazy.’

‘I don’t know you and here you are on my bed.’

He placed his other hand on her waist and pulled her closer until their thighs touched. ‘I want to watch you blush like that when you don’t have a stitch of clothing on you, watch you get breathless and crazy and wet.’

He slowly moved his hand across her hip to the small of her back, then lower, until his fingers splayed across her bum.

Closer.

She stirred to move, to do anything, but he clenched his arm around her. ‘Don’t. Not yet. Feel how hard I am.’

‘I feel it,’ she whispered, her voice rasping from the ache that was throbbing everywhere, but nowhere more than where his cock pressed through the layers between them. Carrie kept her gaze on his mouth as arousal oozed through her.

If he hadn’t been holding her, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to stand on her own feet.

‘This morning when I was getting dressed,’ he said, ‘I wanted to jerk off so bad, but I didn’t. I waited. The thought of laying you down and spreading you open followed me around all day.’

‘And here you are,’ she whispered. Her voice was thick, unrecognisable. Like … Maggie.

God, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted his tongue gliding over hers, licking, sucking, devouring. She tipped her head back, but he just kept watching her.

‘I’ll bet you’re as wet as I am hard right now. I’ll bet you’re dripping through your panties.’ His tongue snaked out, quick as lightening, and skimmed over her bottom lip. Carrie was electrified in an instant. His grip loosened. ‘Unzip me. Take my cock out.’

The hardest thing in the world at that moment was separating from him. To be that close, to be in that timeless moment of promise, was perfection.





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