The Arrangement (Erotic Novella) (2 page)

I think it's that smell. I could smell it on the stairs up to
the flat and now it's even stronger here by the door, and I'm
starting to think he's either got a nasty new air-freshener or he's
got girly company. Oh God. The more I think about it, the more I'm
sure it's perfume. My heart's banging in a way it really shouldn't
be at the idea of another woman in Harry's flat. She's probably
just a mate, and even if they
are
bumping uglies right now, well who am I to
complain? It's just that Harry doesn't
do
that. He just never seemed
interested in anyone. And if he is... then... well, that's fine of
course. It's just a surprise. And I guess I'm just overtired and
hung-over because for some reason my eyes are stinging and my
breathing's all shot and - oh god - am I going to cry? Jesus,
what's wrong with me?! This is nuts. In fact - you know what - I'm
just going to turn around and come back later when I'm not having
some kind of lame, drink-induced emotional crisis.

"Em? What...
Where are you going?" Harry murmurs from the archway opening onto
his living room. And for a second I’m just relieved he’s not in his
bedroom shagging some perfumed hussy, but that soon abates when I
realize I’m meant to say something back.

I can feel him
watching me. I know just the pose he’ll have to match that baffled
voice - his broad frame hunched over, his hands stuffed into his
pockets while his head cocks to one side like a big unkempt
Labrador.

I’ve got such
an urge to look. To see if I’m right. To see if he’s looking just
as enticing as I imagine. But I can't exactly look at him with my
eyes all freakishly puffed-up and leaking. I'm just going to make a
grab for that latch and hightail it back down Charing Cross
Road.

Though I can't
can I? Not when he's sounding so confused and concerned, so I just
hover here, somewhere between coming and going.

“Are you OK?” he asks me, though surely I should be
asking
him
that.
After all, I’m the one who’s come to apologize.

“Hayfever,” I offer.
Oh, Lordy,
surely I could have done better than
hayfever
. But he lets it
slide. “Got company?” I ask, gesturing at a red suede handbag, as I
follow him into the living room.

Harry takes my
hand. We’re good, I think. He’s not upset over the cock thing. It’s
all blown over, no pun intended. Storm in a tea cup.

“Deanne. Friend
of Jake’s,” he shrugs.

Jake is Harry’s
older brother. The other - silent - half of Thrills. He works in
The City and couldn’t really give a crap about the lingerie
business which suits Harry just fine. “She’s in London a few days.
Going to crash here. I’ll introduce you when she’s done showering.”
He hands me a tissue and reassures me it’s probably clean.

Probably clean
will do. I take it and
offer him an apologetic half smile. “I didn’t mean that thing I
said. I think you’re great Harry. Really. You and Lily are like the
best people ever and your
my
best friends. I’m a twat.”

“Now, that’s a bit harsh. I wouldn’t say you’re a
twat
exactly
.”

“Oh, but I am
one,” I say, totally deadpan, eyes wide and innocent. “I’m a big
swollen twat, Harry. And the sooner we both accept it, the
better.”

He just can’t
help himself. He roars a full-on belly laugh and hugs me tight into
his chest. Thank God. He clearly wants to smooth things over as
much as I do, and I love him for making it easy. Oh, and I love
that big hard thing pressing firm against my stomach too.

“Something you want to tell me, boss? You like it when I talk
dirty, huh?” I tease. He’s creasing into me with laughter and I
just want to keep him like this forever. “Shall I keep going? Let’s
see… muffs, minges, big swinging todgers… bouncing come-drenched
melon tits… oh my God, you
love
this stuff don’t you?!” I say, grinding
mischievously against his cock. “Is that what you want, boss? You
want to drizzle your come all over my moo moos?”

“Christ!
Moo moos?!
” Harry can hardly breath for laughing.

I’m still kind
of snotty and messy, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I can’t hold
back with Harry. Just being near him makes me want to say stupid,
totally immature, dirty things. “Sure. Moo moos. You know… boobies,
bon-bons, butterballs, bra-stuffers, dumplings, cupcakes, oompas,
zepellins -”

“OK - stop -
I’m dying. Where the hell do you get this stuff, Em?” he pants,
nuzzling into me, his hands tight against the small of my back. But
I really do need to put a bit of space between us, otherwise I’m
going to leave teary snot-trails down his sexy red teeshirt.

“I dunno,” I
murmur, pulling back to look at him as I faff with my tissue, and
for some reason it’s not at all funny when I tell him, “What can I
say?! I’ve got big tits. They get called a lot of names I
guess.”

I have no idea what he’s thinking. He’s looking at me like he
feels sorry for me. Like I shouldn’t have to put up with blokes
talking about my
oompas
, but - God - I’m not bothered by it, so why should
he
be? Or maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe it’s something else I’m seeing in his too-dark eyes. Regret?
Oh shit - is that it?! Is he regretting sleeping with such a big
slut?! But then he kisses my forehead oh-so-gently and hugs me
again, and I remember why I’m here. I’m making sure we’re OK. Me
and my fab mate, Harry. And he wants it too. We’re OK.
More
than OK.

Or so I think. But apparently I've got it all wrong. He
doesn't want to smooth things over. He doesn’t want us to be
OK
. He wants to keep me
here long enough to show me how much of a stud he is. Because once
I’ve hugged him back, wiped my nose and plonked my butt down on his
sofa, Deanne shows up. Tall, tanned, and totally naked except for
stockings, garter and fuck-me heels.

I hate her. And
I hate Harry a hundred times more. I hate him even though I’ve
probably got no right, but I don’t care.

"Fuck you," I
tell him as I haul myself up again and try to squeeze through the
narrow doorway where Deanne's standing.

She steps to
one side, though doesn't bother covering up, like she knows she's
stunning so what's to be ashamed of?

"Em, stop!
Wait!" Harry's yelling, and I almost pause because I don’t think
I’ve ever heard him raise his voice before, but my I'm already
twisting the latch, and there's nothing going to stop me.

Except perhaps
Deanne mumbling, "But Harry, you said you didn't have a
girlfriend!?” Because once she's said it, I flounder.

I'm being
unreasonable. I know it. And I owe it to Harry to set Deanne
straight. "He doesn't," I say. And at that moment it's me I hate
more than anyone else in this pokey hallway. But I'm not going to
think about that. I'm going through this door and I'm going to keep
on walking. I’m going to walk and walk and when I'm far enough away
that he can't possibly tell how much of an idiot I'm being, I'm
going to run.

3.

I've been home about five minutes when Harry shows up.
Unfortunately, I can't really complain that he lets himself in, not
when I just did the same to him. But I want to. Because, again,
I’ve just gotta say it: Harry doesn't
do
this kind of thing. He knocks. He
gives me space. Hell, he's only
got
my key in case of emergencies. Sod the double
standard, he's out of line.

"What?!" I
snap. "Normally, when a girl storms out it's coz she doesn't want
to talk to you."

And I expect Harry to say something like,
'Simmer down and stick the kettle on,'
or
'Untwist your knickers, Em,'
or at the very least he could roll his eyes and
tell me I'm being a div. But he doesn't do any of those things. He
does something I'd never expect him to do in a trillion
leap-years.

He picks me up,
pushing me against my living room wall, cupping my arse as my legs
instinctively cling to him. My laid back, gentle, fuck-buddy boss,
who usually takes all his sex cues from me, is suddenly -
wordlessly - initiating sex. My eyes still haven't stopped leaking
and I must look like such a mess, but he's looking at me like he's
just realized something amazing, and he can't wait to tell me.

But he's not going to tell me in words. He's going to tell me
with his gloriously solid dick. The one I told him was his only
positive attribute, or something like that. The one that's dry
humping me through his canvas shorts and through my little denim
hot-pants. Which sounds a bit teenagery and desperate, but God
I
love
that he's
being teenagery and desperate. I love that he can't hold back. And
I love the way his golden hair is mussing with my golden hair as he
leans down, resting his forehead against mine. Oh Christ, I love
him. In a platonic, fuck-buddy kind of way.

And when his
lips stroke over the seam of my lips, forcing me to open for him -
well - by then I'm so wet down below that I think I might come just
from the slow lush push of his tongue in my mouth.

He laughs as he
kisses me. Whatever this amazing thing is - his eureka - his
epiphany - well apparently it's funny, though I'm clearly not in on
the joke.

But when I roll
my hips against him he stops laughing. He actually kind of growls.
And then we're on the move. He's carrying me like I'm no weight at
all, which isn't a million miles from the truth as far as he's
concerned. I mean we're ridiculous together. I'm a teeny weeny
pixie of a person and he's just this big excess of maleness. Six
foot three, broad as anything, and thick set. You'd peg him as
mid-twenties to look at him, though he's nearly thirty-five, but
he's just so full of energy and humour and warmth that he looks
years younger. Boyish somehow. Even though he's hairy and buff and
stubbly in a scruffy not-at-all-designer way.

And as he carries me into my bedroom, I
so
want to forget about naked Deanne
and her slinky stockings. But I can't. Oh fuck. I'm going to ruin
this savagely sexy moment by talking, even though my cunt is
screaming at me to shut the hell up.

"Harry - whoa!
Wait! Can we just talk first?!" I stammer, as he throws me onto the
bed and kneels between my legs.

"No talking.
Not ‘til I've fucked you." His eyes glimmer as he watches my
breasts which are so comically over-sized for my body that there's
no disguising how turned on I am when they heave up and down like
this.

"But your...
friend. Deanne..." I say because I need to know he's not screwing
her too. Even though I’ve no right to care.

"...is pretty
fucking hot, don't you think?" he finishes my sentence for me, and
I swear I almost push him away. "But I'm not interested. Never was.
She got it wrong is all. Now shut up and get your knickers
off."

Jesus. If anyone else said something like that to me I’d most
likely knee them in the goolies. But God,
Harry
said it. Harry who never assumes
I’m up for anything until I spell it out for him. And that’s just
so - well - wow…

I can’t resist
it. Harry dominant… that’s just too mouthwatering for words. So I
stop talking and I do what he says. At least I try to. But these
hot-pants don’t exactly slide off easily, and in the end Harry
yanks them down for me with a force that burns a little, though I
can’t say I mind, and my legs somehow end up resting on his
shoulders while he eases my silky white knickers past my knees.

I can’t breath.
He’s looking right between my legs, his eyes hooded and his mouth
hanging open, like my wet swollen cunt is the most delicious thing
he’s ever seen. He’s going to eat me, I think, and the second I
think it he
does
. Fast and hungry. He’s dipping his tongue
inside me hard and fierce and desperate, like he’s never tasted me
before. Like he’s been holding back. In all our three years of
fooling around, it’s never -
never
- been like this. My
back’s arching wildly and I’m fisting my hands in the bed sheets,
and I can’t help the words I seem to be yelling.

“Oh Christ!
Harry… Yeah - oh
God
- fuck me, Harry. Oh Jesus… fuck me.
Yeah, just like that… Harry your tongue… you’re making me… you’re
making me…” and I rake my fingers into his hair in an attempt to
slow him down. I don’t want to come yet, and I’m so
so
close. “Stop, Harry… stop. I want you inside me!” I gasp, and he
slowly raises his head, to see me all flushed and needy.

He licks his
lips as he looks at me with wicked, wicked eyes, and tells me with
amused authority, “When I say so.”

Oh God…
My body’s not my own any more. It’s writhing against the gentle
stroke of his fingers before they plunge, less gently, deep inside
my greedy passage.

“So wet for me,
Em,” he growls. “I’m going to fuck you like this. Like you need
it,” he says as he spears me again with two long, thick fingers,
his knuckles ratcheting against my slick opening again and
again.

“Harry!” I cry.
My body’s already tightening, shuddering with my approaching
orgasm, gripping his fingers inside me. And as his devilish lips
find my clit and suck… I’m completely undone. My release roars
through my muscles, my thighs clasping tight around Harry’s head as
he laughs, victorious and delicious against my sex.