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Easier to run

By pfangirl

Romance / Adventure

Chapter 1

This one was eager. She was still fumbling with a fistful of keys when she felt lips against the nape of her neck. Fingers slid inside the collar of her shirt, pushing the fabric off her shoulder, plucking at her bra strap.

She let herself be turned around. Instantly his mouth was on hers. She threw her arms around his neck as he drove them back against the door.

His hands slid up and down her sides, over the curve of her breasts, her ribs, her hip bones exposed over the top of her ridiculous skinny jeans

So much for the fake courtesy of inviting him back to her place for another drink. Even if his fingers weren't happily exploring, his probing tongue made his intentions perfectly clear.

She preferred it this way. No stupid societal-imposed courting games and layers of lies to veil their wants. It was straightforward, unlike so much in life. Needs identified and then satisfied. A simple two-step dance. One. Two. Repeat.

Somehow, working blind and backwards, she managed to insert the right key into the lock. She turned the door handle and they shuffled inside the flat, their kiss still unbroken.

The lamp in the living room had been left on so there was no need to grope for a switch. That was a good thing.

She was drunk.

Laughably, despite everything she had done over the past five years, it was the only way she could work up the courage to do what she was doing. For the most part it helped her to disengage her mind, and just let her body run with its desires.

Right then her hands were tugging at his belt as they continued their wobbled waltz across the room. His jacket already shed, he was peeling hers off her shoulders.

They collided with a side table, toppling a Satsuma vase.

She lunged and caught it five inches above the floor. Then replaced it on its pedestal.

"Good save," he laughed.

"That's not all I'm good at."

His smile practically glowed in the gloom. "Show me."

She grinned back. "With pleasure."

A rum-flavoured tongue forced her lips apart. She moaned into his mouth. Fumbling at his belt again, her fingertips skimmed the ridges of deliciously defined abs. It would be easy to respond to him. Already his touch had triggered a deep throbbing between her legs.

She guided him into her bedroom; letting him tug her shirt over her head as she unbuttoned his.

She ran her fingertips over his stomach again before sliding them down into his jeans. There was just enough space to stroke his length. While doing that she teethed her bottom lip and looked up at his face, making sure to make eye contact in order to convey her full appreciation. If felt horribly theatrical on her part but they always seemed to like it – that they could provoke such a girlish reaction from her.

He moved to throw her onto the mattress, but she side-stepped and spun, letting his momentum carry him forward. He landed first. He seemed amused by the role reversal, chuckling from where he lay on his back, arms outstretched.

She smiled down at him.

Then she yanked his pants and boxers down around his ankles.

There was a moment then where the colour crept up into her cheeks and she had to suppress a jolt of skittish energy in her limbs. She wanted to stammer and turn away at the sight of his shameless exposure. But the world knew her for her brashness. So did he, evidently. He was waiting.

She forced a look of heavily-lidded satisfaction; then groped in the back pocket of her jeans for the condom she had stowed there before going out.

She kicked off her shoes and pants. She shimmied out of her underwear. His grin widened. She knew that the light coming in from the living room camouflaged even the worst of her scars. Not that the marks had put off any of her lovers. She just hated it when they did spot the puckered, pale tissue and fixated on it. She didn't like the old wounds being stared at; let alone traced by curious fingers.

She approached the bed. Her hand closed around him and for a few moments she enjoyed teasing him, watching his reaction to her simple, slow motions. The way his lip twitched. How his breath caught in his chest. The muscles straining to keep his head raised so that he could watch her standing before him nude. A genuine celebrity having her way with him. He would have such bragging rights with his friends tomorrow. Hopefully the story would end with them. If The Sun or Daily Mail caught wind of it, it was guaranteed to be messy, and it would hasten her departure from the country when she wasn't quite ready to leave.

Better not disappoint then.

Without breaking their gaze, she ripped open the foil packet and rolled on the condom.

Everything in place, she straddled him. And immediately gasped at the sensation of fullness.

This. This was what she needed.

"God," he exhaled beneath her as she began to move.

He sat up then. She wasn't expecting that. If he hadn't clasped her in an embrace she probably would have fallen backwards. Too much alcohol had that effect on her. It threw her reflexes and concentration completely. It lowered her defences. All of them.

She couldn't stop herself moaning as his mouth left hers and began travelling along the sensitive skin of her throat.

The way his lips explored the channel between her breasts…


Her fists clenched in fine black hair. Feather-soft kisses across her chest bone that made her break out in goosebumps. The faint scent of vanilla. It was a preposterously named celebrity fragrance in an over-engineered bottle. One day archeologists would find an example and be left scratching their heads over humanity's – what? – Neo-Techno-Hedonistic Period of the early Twenty First Century.

The day she had been dragged on the shopping expedition to find the perfume. She had been sprayed, spritzed and dabbed with so many concoctions that she eventually had a sneezing fit. Right there in Harrods in front of a snooty saleswoman. She hadn't been able to stop laughing in the aftermath. Two giggling college girls who fled before security escorted them out. To avoid losing each other in the mad dash, they clasped hands. That first time, she felt…


No.

Not now. There was no place for those memories now.

She shoved her partner back against the mattress. Before he could sit up again, she clamped her palms over his wrists.

Leaning over, she growled, "I take what I want. You must have heard that about me?"

He nodded, eyes wide.

"Good."

She smirked. And then began to ride him with more vigour. But she had miscalculated. She was too drunk. Too numb. Shit.

She tried to focus on the physical sensations; to bring every shift in pressure and friction into high definition clarity. Drawing them out of the murkiness of her body. He had broken free of her hold. Gripping her hips, he was far closer to climax than she was.

"Oh no you don't," she muttered.

She seized a handful of his hair. As intended, it threw him out of his rhythm. He looked startled.

"Wha-?"

She kissed him roughly, biting down on his bottom lip. When he winced and tried to pull away, she hissed, "Wait for me."

Partly aroused, partly unnerved and predominantly intoxicated, he lay there, just gazing up at her. She tried to appreciate her position of power, but she'd been rattled. Her pure, uncomplicated lust had been muddled with longing. In the end she had to replay the memories she'd been trying so hard to dismiss.


Being pressed against her. How good that felt. How even better it was when their nipples brushed. It sent a jolt through her body, leaving her breathless, but it also made her laugh. She'd never realized how fun sex could be. It had always been so serious in the past, so convoluted, like she was auditioning for the cover of a romance novel. But this was completely different.

Even in charge, as she was then – responsible for another's pleasure – she felt liberated. She smiled and that smile was instantly returned by the face looking up at her. God, how she loved her. A life spent making her happy would be a life well spent.

Christ, now she sounded like a romance novel.

She was on the point of chuckling when hands cupped her cheeks.

Mouths pressed together.

And she forgot what was so comical.

Her taste.

Her touch.


She had just enough control not to cry it out, but a word was still on her lips as she climaxed.

Sam.

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