Sally by Freya North Page A

lowered her heels back down. He could feel how moist she was under her panties and, with his thumb and third finger, tweaked and pressed superlatively.
    Spot on, Richard.
    Still they stared relentlessly into each other’s eyes while Richard’s skilful fingers set to work.
    Look at her face, glazed eyes as if she does not see me though she looks right at me. Let me rub you right there. Let me go a little further. Look at your eyelids flicker. Look at your head tilt slightly back exposing your neck which I must graze with my teeth. Let me undo your blouse.
    Deftly, Richard unbuttoned just enough of Sally’s blouse to expose an exquisite breast. He ceased movement with his other hand though Sally pushed herself against it eagerly.
    Look at me, Richard. Never have you desired a woman so much as you yearn for me this very moment. Feel me, move your hand from my arm but don’t leave my gaze. Feel the breast that you’ve released from its shield of olive silk. Feel it. Yes, just like that. Increase the pressure. Again. Oh.
    Richard introduced his finger tips and twisted Sally’s nipple gently. He felt her move against his other hand and he made his fingers there come suddenly alive. Probing, twisting, rubbing. He looked at Sally’s face. Her head was now involuntarily thrown backwards and to one side; it enticed him to suck at her neck, to fondle her breast firmly, to increase the speed of his fingers below. He felt her rocking her pelvis faster and faster. A surge of moistness. She let out a noise midway between a yelp and a gasp and brought her head back straight, once again meeting his eye directly. They stared into each other as they both felt the pulsations ebb away and stop. After a moment’s stillness, Richard probed again, stroking with dexterous mastery. The throbs returned, less defined but certainly there. Sally’s face had begun to soften. Her eyelids closed more frequently and for longer. Her head dropped slightly. To both of them, her body seemed to be melting.
    Richard drew Sally towards him and cradled her carefully, holding her still and steady and close for minutes. Her head was buried against his chest, her shoulders were slumped, her exposed breast was now blushed, the nipple soft and puffy. She stayed against him feeling safe with the smell of him; sweat and pheromones filling her nose, his taste still in her mouth. He kissed the top of her head. She looked up and kissed him on the lips while he kept them motionless. With a hand on her shoulder and another around her waist, he led her to his bedroom and, on the bed with the fresh, crisp linen, he made slow and languid love to her.

EIGHT
    W as it a chip in the paintwork or was it a spider?
    Sally had been staring at the small, dark mark on the ceiling, trying to make up her mind. In that state of reverie, when eyes are young and focusing is lazy, she had been sure, alternately, that it was the one and then the other. Now that her eyes were awake and functioning she decided that it must be a mark or a dent.
    And then it moved.
    It was a spider. The intimate peace of the situation had been disrupted. Sally was now aware of other movements and noises. The blind breezed forward every now and then. The duvet curved up and fell down peacefully with her breathing. She could hear the clock, digital but audible; phit, phit, phit. For every three phits came one long, hushed, oblivious breath from Richard. A distant thrush sang to the morning while an occasional car hummed by. Under it all she could decipher the fridge adjusting its thermostat.
    She lay on her back with Richard’s arm lolling on top of the quilt over her stomach. She checked for the spider and found him a little further along the ceiling, playing dents again.
    If I woke now, and saw him, I’d probably presume again that he was a dent. I wonder if he times his sorties according to phits?
Sally grinned at her early-morning dedication to pointless ponderings, her