Under His Influence Page 9

  He was on top of her, eating her, consuming her, and then he took his mouth off hers and applied it to her neck, sucking and nuzzling and nipping until a continuous stream of moans poured from her and she began to buck beneath him like an animal in heat.

  “Good, Anna, good.” John’s voice was dark and triumphant, his breath steaming her neck. “My mark on you. You like that, don’t you?”

  “Mmm, oh.” She made the lace of her bra snag his jacket buttons, so he had to throw off the jacket and then bring his ravenous mouth to her breasts. First he sucked through the lace until it was soaked, then he pulled the cups down and feasted on the soft, white flesh with its stiff tips of pink.

  “Mine, Anna, all mine.”

  “Please…” He knew he drove her crazy; he knew how much he made her want it. The expensive knickers were slippery and scented with her arousal. When would he just rip them off and have at her, the way she wanted?

  “Every inch of you,” he muttered, shooting a feral glance up at her. “Every inch is mine. I want to mark it.” He licked and sucked and bit a trail from her breasts down across her belly, then he flipped her onto her stomach, wrenched down the knickers and added his signature to her bottom until it had to be patterned with little strawberry bruises from the fleshy globes to the sensitive undersides. Anna kept her thighs stretched wide, knowing that John was approaching no return, would have to obey his body’s imperative to mount and enter her before much longer. Oh, he was so close, so close…

  He rolled her back over and knelt on the bed, undressing with that speed and finesse she always admired, before leaning over her, his eyes meeting hers, overpowering them, filling her head with that strange fizzy feeling.

  “It’s our wedding night. You should be a virgin.”

  “I can’t change the past,” she said, confused, unsure whether this was a criticism or a lighthearted remark.

  “I can.”

  “John?”

  “Look at me. Look. You’re a virgin. Look at me. You’re a virgin, Anna.”

  He looked blue, green, blue again, his face constant yet mutating, and when he grabbed her by the legs and threw them over his shoulders, she almost felt as if it wasn’t her he was handling, but some doll, some other girl, whose sensations were filling her by proxy. She felt his cock sweep into her at last and then there was something holding it back, something, oh, it did feel just the way it did the first time. How could that happen?

  “Good girl, keep calm, it might hurt a little but I’ll be gentle, keep calm,” John murmured into her ear.

  But I’m not…but I am…I’m a virgin?

  It was like her first time, and yet it was also utterly different and better. The first time, with a fumbling Social Policy student at a grim all-night party, had taken place on a bed of coats and handbags and had hurt a lot. Anna recalled three blunt pushes, a cry that came from her, a low dragging pain and an apology from her deflowerer, who had reached his own release within half a minute of transferring her out of maidenhood. It had been so disappointing that she had avoided sexual situations for months afterward and, until John, she had still unconsciously steeled herself every time she opened her legs for a lover.

  But John had made everything new, and now it almost seemed literally so—a new maidenhead, which he was taking with an infinity of gentleness and patience, edging through the barrier with smooth blandishments in her ear. He held her at the wrists, preempting any sudden panic at the moment of defloration, and swept triumphantly past, all the way in.

  “There,” he said. “Yes.”

  And Anna could feel that ragged edge of pain below. It was so real. How had he made it so real? She tried to be curious, tried to be fearful, but he was working on her now, muting her thoughts and opening up her sensations, keeping her in that enthralled state he, and only he, could create. She let her questions drift and evaporate; now only his, taking him, accepting him, giving herself up to him until the bed seemed to spin and drop and they were all that existed in a realm of infinite ecstasy.

  “Nice.” Liam threw himself on the bed, as if testing the mattress for springiness and resistance. “Can you afford this? We should go dutch.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Mimi’s response was a mutter. Her shoulders tensed as she peered through the edge of the curtains, over to the wing that housed the bridal suite. “And just because I could only get a double room doesn’t mean…”

  “I know, I know. I’m not the creep you seem to assume I am, you know.” Liam opened the minibar with a hurt air. “Fantastic, Cobra beer!”

  “I’m sorry,” Mimi said, dropping the curtain and joining Liam at the fridge. “Crack open one of those for me, will you? I’m just a bit on edge. Can’t help thinking about what that man wants with Anna. I just can’t make it out.”

  “Perhaps he fancies her.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Mimi said, exasperated. “But that doesn’t mean he has to marry her, does it? Why has he gone and done that? So soon after the death of his first wife?”

  “Rebound? Loneliness?”

  “He’s dealt with the loneliness by throwing himself into this odd save-the-ozone-layer project he’s got going. Why would a man go from hedge fund management to the outer limits of exploratory physics? Is that even possible?”

  “Umm…not really an expert in either of those fields, to be honest.”

  “Well, neither is he. I looked him up—he has an A-Level in Physics, but that’s all. He did Politics, Philosophy and Economics at Oxford. How can he be involved in this cutting-edge research? How has he persuaded the government to help fund it? He doesn’t even work with anyone. Nobody else knows anything about it.”

  Liam shrugged, sipping from the beer bottle.

  “I think he’s pulling a lot of wool over a lot of eyes. I don’t want Anna to get hurt. God, I wish I could have talked her out of this.”

  She felt tears spark in her eyes. Liam placed an awkward hand on hers.

  “Maybe you should just let her get on with it?” he suggested, his voice soft. “You’re letting it upset you way more than it should. She seems really happy.”

  Mimi pulled away savagely so that beer foamed over the lip of her bottle and dripped on the plush carpet.

  “If you aren’t with me on this, Liam, you can get out now. I’m giving you this chance. I can’t stand halfhearted men.”

  “I’m not halfhearted. I just…Look, I care about you. I care about Anna too. But I think you’re getting obsessed. I wish you’d calm down a bit. That’s all.”

  Mimi shut her eyes for a moment, then she opened them and smiled weakly at Liam.

  “Do you really? Care about me? That’s so sweet.”

  “I’m a sweet guy.”

  “Perhaps you could demonstrate that proposition for me.”

  Liam put down his bottle and took Mimi’s from her hand before taking her by the arm and leading her over to the bed.

  “Sit down then,” he whispered, exerting a tiny amount of pressure on her shoulder until they were side by side on the edge of the bed, looking at each other with a wide-eyed mix of fear and excitement and strange sadness.

  Liam picked up a limp, pearly-nailed hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing it briefly before ducking down to Mimi’s already pouted mouth.

  “I’ve always wanted to kiss you,” he asserted, as their cheeks touched. “I’ve always had a theory about you.”

  “A theory? You?”

  “Mock as much as you like. I think that the harder a woman’s veneer, the more sensual she is inside. Kind of like a peach in reverse—hard shell, soft stone. I want to know if that’s true. I think it’s true of you.”

  “Oh, give over. That almost sounded like you’d thought about it.” Mimi tried to sound scornful but there was a catch in her voice and she gave her lips up to Liam’s approach, wrapping possessive arms around his neck while the kiss lengthened and deepened.

  “I’ve always had a theory about you,” she said huskily, breaking off for
a moment to catch a breath.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that then?”

  “That you’d be a good kisser. I was right.”

  Liam snuffled a laugh into her hair, then moved to the next stage of proving Mimi’s point, introducing the tip of his tongue to her deep, warm mouth and falling sideways with her into the puffy, soft embrace of the bedspread.

  Liam’s angularity and Mimi’s voluptuous curves made for an unusually complementary combination and before too long they were grabbing, thrashing, rubbing, bucking against one another. Hands were in hair and on chests and backs and around necks and then moving lower, down over the expensive wedding-guest outfits, hoping to sear their way beneath, to the skin.

  Mimi’s long string of pearls clashed against Liam’s teeth, while his cuff links snagged in her hair.

  “You’ve laddered my stocking,” Mimi accused.

  “Shut up, I’m trying to snog you.”

  The writhing developed into an enjoyable tussle, Liam trying to overpower Mimi while she landed painful little jabs between his ribs or against his shins, until finally she had him where she wanted him. Flat on his back, staring up into her lascivious predatory grin.

  “Oh, you’re pretty,” she said, unbuckling his belt as she hovered above him, her pearls dangling over his eager face. “So very pretty. I want to eat you up.”

  She loosened his tie and pulled out the knot, enjoying the swish of the silk as it raced past his collar, to be discarded at the bedside. He made a tiny choking sound, his gaze darting from side to side, watching her unbutton him, slowly.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he breathed.

  “Don’t talk. Just lie back and let it happen. I want to watch your face.”

  The waistcoat was wide open now, and Mimi was working on the shirt, relishing the surrender of the crisp cotton as it fell away with each freed button. She had to make sure she paid attention to what she was doing—full attention. She did not need to be thinking of anything other than Liam’s beautiful, slightly stunned face and his taut young body. Intrusive thoughts were batted away with each revelation of firm flesh, smooth and almost hairless, down to the navel that lay in its shallow belly basin, showing off its cheerful downward path of dark fuzz.

  “All that working out.” Mimi’s voice was low and appreciative. “It pays dividends. I’d kill for a stomach like that.” She placed a palm against its flatness, pressing down to feel the spring of his abdominal muscles.

  “I like you just the way you are,” Liam said with breathless gallantry, only to be soundly hushed with a daggers look. Mimi bent down and kissed a trail from navel to the waistband of Liam’s trousers. Her chin came swiftly into contact with the stretched fabric and its promising lump beneath and she held on to a pleasurable breath, enjoying a moment of anticipation. The best bit was coming next; her favourite bit.

  She took the zip between her teeth and began to navigate it, slowly and carefully, over the rumpled terrain thrown into disarray by Liam’s erection.

  “Oh Christ,” she thought she heard him say, though the words weren’t particularly coherent. “Oh.”

  It was hard work and a couple of times the zip seemed to catch or stick, but she persevered—this had been a favourite party trick of hers at college—and eventually managed to unleash Liam’s cotton-covered cock into the room, watching it bounce up like a cheerful jack-in-the-box while she made efficient work of removing his trousers completely.

  “You’ve done that before,” he accused faintly, lifting his bottom in docile complicity when she came back for his boxers.

  “And I’ll do it again,” she murmured, gazing raptly at Liam’s naked hips and thighs and, best of all, his proud hard cock, just the right size for her big wet mouth.

  “Anytime,” he gasped, sounding shocked by her sudden swoop down, the urgent cupping and caressing of his balls and the slow, sweet descent of her cushiony lips around the hooded tip of his cock.

  “Oh! Mimi!” he groaned, and Mimi thought irrelevantly of the Little Red Riding Hood story. What a big mouth you’ve got. All the better to suck you with.

  She kept up a sliding suction, gripping the base of his shaft with one greedy hand, letting him scrabble at her dress, trying to get the top half of the shift down over her breasts so he could fumble and squeeze to his heart’s content.

  He tasted clean and fleshy and he smelled of the expensive suit he had been wearing. Mimi breathed him in, wanting every sense to be consumed with Liam, to the extent that nothing else existed. She enjoyed his big, groping hands under her dress, letting them spur her on to deeper efforts with her mouth. When he came, he twisted underneath her, almost throwing her to the side before she had had a chance to swallow every drop. She kept her eyes on his face, on the rolled-back eyeballs and the puffing cheeks, the open mouth and the mussed hair. For that moment, he was hers entirely. She had possessed him for that fraction of a minute with a completeness that was rarely achieved. Satisfied, she lay down next to him, stroking his brow.

  “That was incredible,” he panted. “I want to make you come now. Your turn.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to. Just wanted you, in a bad way.”

  “I wouldn’t call it bad.” Liam’s face was puzzled. Mimi supposed he had never had his cock sucked without some kind of reciprocal arrangement in place before. Perhaps he thought she was one of those girls who simply loved cock—the kind only spotted in urban legends and the pages of Zoo magazine?

  “Maybe later, stud.” She patted his cheek and, standing up, pulled down her shift before returning to her post at the window. The net curtains of the bridal suite were blowing out of a half-open sash, gauzy and bright in the dying sunlight. Mimi thought she caught a distant keening, a sound that could be pain or the crisis of pleasure. She swallowed down an impulse to vomit and turned back to Liam, her face a mask of enthusiasm. “I could murder another of those beers, actually. You?”

  “Give me a second,” he said into a pillow. He was half-asleep already, Mimi realised. He was just a man, like any other. Unlike Mr. Stone across the way.

  Chapter Seven

  John kept late hours and Anna had never been a night owl, so they fell swiftly into a routine after they returned from their Parisian honeymoon.

  Anna, having given up her job at the Recorder, would wave John off to the City every morning, and then more often than not spend the day mooching around the fashionable shops and coffee bars of North London in an effort to get away from Luana, John’s slightly sinister housekeeper, who appeared to speak no word of English. Anna had initially presumed that she would be in charge of running the household—a quaint, old-fashioned term that gave her vague notions of lying on a chaise longue in a wrap dispensing languid words of command about the groceries and the cleaning. But it was clear after her first day of domestic married life that Luana held the household reins and she was only going to relinquish them over her dead body. She tore through the cavernous house like an efficient, bleach-scented whirlwind, pausing only to stare with haughty incomprehension whenever Anna attempted to offer a friendly word.

  So Anna, with unlimited means at her disposal, would shop, then lunch, then perhaps take in a movie or an afternoon walk on the Heath, arriving home ten minutes after Luana disappeared from view at four.

  She insisted on preparing the evening meal. It was the one function that she clung to as proof that she was making a contribution to the home, and her grip on this duty was forlornly tenuous, especially given that she was an inexperienced cook. She pored over Nigella or Jamie or Gordon’s latest recipes, following them to the letter, picking up burns and cuts aplenty in the process.

  John usually arrived home to find her elbow-deep in potato peelings or wrestling with the skin of a red pepper. No matter how charred they were, the skin just wouldn’t seem to peel off the way the cookbooks said it would. The same went for blanched tomatoes. Anna would wear an expression of tortured betrayal, one hand gripping her hair. John would take her wrist, pull her into his ar
ms and suggest booking a table somewhere in Hampstead or Highgate. And then she would cry and tell him he’d made a mistake marrying her, and she was sorry she was so useless and she wished she could be better at things, and he would hush her with kisses and take her to bed.

  They would stay there for an hour or so, then see if the meal was salvageable and, if not, go out or order takeaway. Then they would go straight back to bed until Anna was exhausted, at which point she would sleep and John would get back up and go downstairs to his basement.

  Anna sometimes woke at two, three, four in the morning to find herself marooned and alone in the vast four-post bed. Even with the windows open against the humid summer nights, this was a strangely insulated part of London, into which the endlessly revving engine of the sleepless City never intruded. Anna would feel an immediate constriction of fear at the silence every time, before persuading herself that everything was fine and John was working downstairs again, and it was just as well he seemed able to function on four hours sleep a night.

  But how does he do it? It would kill me, she would think, yawning and snuggling back down, feeling the ever-present dull throb in her sex from his constant attentions, finding it comforting, letting it reassure her back to sleep.

  “John,” she said, staring with dismay at her breakfast fried eggs, one blazing morning three weeks after the honeymoon, “I’m a little bit concerned.”

  “Sweetheart.” John pulled his chair closer, took her chin with a finger, looked deeply and sadly into her eyes. “What could you have to be concerned about? You’re happy, aren’t you?”