The Things That Make Me Give In Read Free Page A

then – oh,
then
– he begins to ruffle her skirt up, inch by inch.
    Suddenly his mouth is at her ear, his breath as hot as her own insides feel.
    ‘What do all good romance heroines get, Clara?’ he says and for a moment she can’t think. She has no idea. Hand-holding? Marriage? A yacht and three mansions and –
    ‘The hero!’ she says, and then is embarrassed that she has yelled it out, like a little apple polisher. Ever the A student, ever the good girl, and apparently also slightly more than the second-string character.
    Even if he isn’t the hero of anything.
    ‘And tell me, what are the heroes usually like, in a romance?’
    She can feel herself shaking now. He has his hand on the seat of her knickers, her skirt completely pushed up. As she answers, he strokes just one finger into the split of her buttocks through the material.
    ‘Aggressive. Arrogant. Dominant.’
    ‘And the women?’
    ‘Submissive. Pathetic.’
    ‘Is that what you really think? That they’re pathetic?’
    His finger strokes further into the crease, straining against the taut material. She gasps, and writes things that are not words.
    ‘Yes. Yes.’
    ‘And you hate arrogant men, cold men, nasty rotten rakes. You don’t like to write about them.’
    ‘I . . . find it hard. I find it hard to write about . . . dominant men.’
    ‘Shall I yank your knickers down?’
    ‘Yes! Jesus, yes.’
    She tries to find it in her to be embarrassed about the volume of that concession, but all that fills her is the thought of her knickers around her ankles and his big hands on her hips and how wet she is, how utterly wet.
    ‘You like me doing this, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ she says, but it comes out as three separate words, whined and childish.
    ‘You like me doing exactly what you want.’
    ‘I –’
    ‘Because after all, isn’t that what romance novels really are? Women detailing exactly what they’d like men to do and how to be?’
    She moans and twists against his hand.
    ‘They’re just fantasies.’
    He has her knickers pushed to one side now, and is sliding his fingers over one plump aching lip of her sex. She squirms some more, and cannot write at all, and holds her breath for that moment when he will rub his finger inwards and stroke against all the slickness along the seam.
    He leans in instead, and whispers hotly in her ear, ‘Does this feel like a fantasy? Or did you mean to write about someone else?’
    ‘I don’t really know you. You could be like anything – I had other ideas –’
    ‘Let’s start with this one,’ he says, and such a warm pulse of pleasure goes through her that it forces out a sound. The shame of admitting something like that turns in on itself and she feels her clit swell and the wetness that’s about to embarrass her some more spread and trickle into the space he has opened up between her flesh and her knickers.
    ‘How juicy you are,’ he says, and, sure enough, that tensing, embarrassed sensation floods her again. The heat, so supple and lovely and unavoidable, tugging at her pussy. ‘Do you sit in my class, getting as slick as this? Do you scribble down lots of things about firm fat cocks fucking mouths and cunts and arseholes, spurting their come into every hole, until you’re sure you can’t debase your character any further? Or is it all just pretty blossoms of her pleasure and stalks of his manhood? Marriage first, of course.’
    ‘You’ve read what I wrote.’
    ‘I’ve read what’s
underneath
your writing. I’m guessing that’s all you wrote – the scene that would be on page 197, though toned down, of course. Do you think they’d let you get away with your hero joyously jacking off all over the heroine’s tits, then licking his own spunk from her glistening nipples?’
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with keeping things to page 197,’ she says but even so she can feel the real words she wants to saybreaking against the waves of such a stupid protestation.
No more teasing
, she