Cooking up a Storm by Emma Holly Read Free Book Online Page B

A single evening in her presence told him she was his favourite sort of woman: not a virgin, but virtually unawakened to her erotic potential. Deep down where the self hides its secrets he knew she was hungry even if, on the surface, she merely wondered what the fuss was about.
    Oh, love, he thought, how happy I’ll be to show you.
    He closed his eyes. He must not be caught watching her watch him. She must believe herself alone and safe in her voyeurism.
    He lifted his hand from the oil and moved it over his erection. Fragrant droplets rolled down his fingers. They fell to the bobbing head, a warm, wet patter, then ran in tickly rivulets down his shaft and over his balls. He pulled his feet on to the cushion of the chair, narrow feet with long, agile toes. For an instant, he imagined them digging into her mattress as he pressed slowly inside her. Would her bed be soft like her? Would it smell of lavender and musk? Shaking off the image, he let his knees sag on to the chair’s plump arms. A cool breeze slipped between the shutters and ruffled the hair around his anus. He was completely exposed now.
    He dipped his hand in the oil again and let fall another rain of drops. His blood seemed to thicken in his veins. With the smallest sigh, he cupped his scrotal sac and began to massage his balls.
    Was she watching yet, he wondered behind his shuttered lids, and what would he wish her to see if she was? Something that would shock her a bit. Something that would capture her attention and refuse to let it go.
    He dipped his second hand in the oil and curled it into the furrow between his cheeks. Anal play excited him almost as much as bondage, but the risk was worth it. He would like her to know this about him, for the day when she changed from tempted to temptress.
    Blowing his breath out lightly, he circled the puckered ring of muscle, then pushed his left middle finger firmly inside, down to the webbing. His thumb he centred over the Jen-Mo spot, an acupressure point midway between his anus and scrotum. Thus poised to halt ejaculation the moment it threatened, he willed his hand to stillness. The two pressures, on his perineum and in his anus, were pleasurable but not unbearably so.
    And now to begin, he thought. With his right hand, he grasped his oily shaft, thumb on top and two fingers enclosing the ridge. He pulled upward, easing his grip as he approached the head, tightening it as he neared the less-sensitive root. Despite the precaution, his arousal spiked quickly. He couldn’t help but think of her watching; couldn’t help imagining how her hand would feel performing this service, small but strong, gentle but curious.
    The image was too powerful. He had to back off. He lightened his strokes until his touch barely skimmed the surface of his cock. Even so, his skin stung with sensitivity, especially the drum-tight surface of the head. He felt a drop that was not oil roll down the glans. He forced himself to breath deeply, slowly. When that didn’t calm him, he let go altogether.
    Relax, he told himself. You’ve done this hundreds of times. You are not going to lose control tonight. He breathed in. He breathed out. He took hold of his shaft and resumed the massage. This time he allowed his stroke to rise only to the flare of the head. C’est mieux , he thought, better.
    Just as he was congratulating himself, a bird took flight in the grassy space between the inn and the cottage. He started at the flurry of wings. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. He almost opened his eyes. Had Abby’s appearance at the window alarmed the bird? Was she truly there? His excitement level surged so abruptly he had to administer a bracing pinch to keep himself from going over the top.
    After a short rest, he began masturbating again, then stopped again. Four times, he repeated this pattern, each time rising more swiftly towards the point of no return. Thoughts of Abby disrupted his usual control: her soft pink lips tugging at his nipples,