He felt her fingers at his fly, working the buttons loose. He closed his eyes, hands fisted against the wall as she got his jeans open. Then her hand was there, fumbling against him, and then, sweet holy fuck, her skin on his throbbing heat as she found her way inside his boxers and he finally sprang free.
She trailed her fingers along his length cautiously and he grunted with need. “The skin is so soft,” she said wonderingly. “And you’re sobig.”
“Fuck, Clements. You’re killing me. Wrap your hand around my dick, hard.”
Her fingers closed around him, and he groaned. “Harder,” he said. “Don’t be gentle.”
She squeezed, the pressure making his toes curl. He made a low animal noise and managed to say, “Now keep that pressure as you move your hand up and down.”
She did. Oh fuck. Sophia was fisting his dick, and it was too fucking good.
He thrust his hips, pumping himself into her hand, meeting her strokes. “That’s it. Fuck me with your hand, really fucking hard.”
He braced himself against the wall, the delicious pressure tightening at the base of his spine. He was so fucking hard, swollen so tight, he was going to burst all over her.
“I’m going to come,” he panted. “Do you have some tissue or…?”
“Do it, Jay. Come. I want to see you come.”
He groaned and thrust himself harder into her hand, seeing her pussy, imagining her under him as he fucked her, finally fucked her—
“Soph,” he gasped, and then he was pulsing, squeezing all that pressure out as he came hard, all over her hand, her pretty little pyjamas.
“Shit,” he gasped, forehead dropping as he held himself up against the wall, knees shaking. “I’m sorry, Soph…”
“Why?”
“Look at you…”
“I don’t mind.” She looked down at the cum streaking her fingers…and then she brought it to her mouth andlickedit. “I’ve always wondered what it tasted like.”
He breathed out a laugh.
Sophia Clements. Full of surprises.
Chapter thirteen
Sophia
Thenextweek,Sophiawas kept busy with all the sorts of random tasks her mother thought were essential to the success of her birthday party, but which Sophia couldn’t care less about.
Or rather—she did care. She cared in a way that made her feel sick whenever she thought about the reality of being at the party. All the people. All the smiling. All the talking and noise and heat and light and people looking at her.
She hadn’t wanted a party at all. But it was her first birthday since moving back from America, and her mother, spurred on by her friend Rose—who had some guilt to absolve regarding her decision to move away—had decided to make an event of it. As Sophia’s godmother, Rose had decided to contribute more than her enthusiasm and was paying for the lavish hotel room. And for Sophia’s dress.
Today, the Wednesday before the party on Saturday—the Wednesday before the Final Lesson—was the last dress fitting. Sophia stood in a boutique store in Harrogate, surrounded by too many mirrors and too much attention. Her mother was looking at her. Rose was looking at her. The seamstress was not just looking at her but poking and prodding her too.
It was all too much. Too hot. Just too much. She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and found herself saying:
“I want to invite Jay to the party. Jay Orton.”
She kept her eyes closed, but she felt the glance her mother and Rose exchanged. Let them think what they wanted. But every time the thought of the party got too much for her, she thought of holding Jay’s hand and him being there and calling her Clements, or sometimes Soph, and telling her she was perfect the way she was, and the choking tension in her chest eased. Sometimes, it even became a smile.
“It’s a bit late to send out invitations,” said her mother.
“If we invited the son, it would be only correct to invite the parents, given my connection to the event,” said Rose. The implication being:We really do not want to invite The Viscount and Viscountess Orton.
“I’m going to invite him,” said Sophia. “He’s my friend.”
