2

Bastard, stop doing this to me. And don't make your - your calls like I'm not bloody here! Daniella felt exhausted, wrung out by the successive, huge waves of sensation Eric had caused to build then ebb within her. None allowed to break, as though he were a King Canute, more worthy of the flattery. She heard his casual tread on the carpet approaching her, then her head swam with his male aroma - perspiration and aftershave together with the wine on his breath. 'Patience, sweetheart,' he said in a near-whisper. 'Think how much sweeter it'll be when it actually happens.' She felt his perfectly manicured nails drawn backwards across her cheek, before he cupped his palm and cradled her jaw.

Daniella bridled under his touch. The whole hyper-sensitive landscape of her body goose-bumped and tremored. She leant her face into his hand, rubbed against him like an attention-craving cat, her nipples hardening just that little bit more. He was acting like he owned her and she could not help but respond, now, as though it were true. Such a far cry from the man she had met two years prior in the family home that day, respectful, polite, gently humorous - inquiring about her imminent departure for university. The same man she had bumped into on the high street on her summer recess some two weeks before, who had so casually suggested they go for coffee, then drawn her out over the lattes on her chosen field of study.

Now he was up close, stroking her hair, gently but with a disconcertingly propriatorial air. He moved his finger to her lips, strummed them tenderly apart and inserted not one or two but three fingers into her mouth. She sucked on the tips, eager to please him, hoping he would reciprocate by somehow getting her off. Fingers withdrew and she heard it, the slow, deliberate rasp of a descending zipper in front of her face, followed by the rustle of linen, and then it was not his fingertips at her lips.

'Go on, open up.' One strong hand rested on the back of her head, drawing her forward. Her lips parted once more and she took the bulged, velvet cock-head into her mouth. He kept pressing, guiding, compelling her down on to its thick stalk, sliding their two forms together, filling her startled throat till she was orally impaled on him, face nestling into the rich, Italian fabric of his clothes. She choked on his thickness as he held her there, the immaculately clipped nails of his other hand delicately tracing her cheekbone. 'Good girl, good girl, that's it,' he breathed, 'stay there, just a little more...' Then he drew her smoothly all the way off him, exiting her mouth with a small, succulent pop, allowing her to gulp in air. 'Very good, baby,' he commended softly. 'Take a moment, then we'll try again.'

As she sat panting, she marvelled in some part of her confused mind at the contrast between those recent dates and - this. How he had taken her out for drinks, then dinner and theatre, allowed her to collude in her own seduction, plied her with his physical attentions gradually and respectfully. She had revelled in the sly sexual interplay, the way he drew out her confidence, opened her up to him physically and psychologically. So that on the evening of their third official date, back here in his apartment, her clothes had seemed to drop from her at his touch.

He had cupped and caressed her, lavished his tongue and his lips and his sensual fingers on her body, bringing her to climax three times before he even introduced his cock into the scenario. Then he had gathered her to him and entered her, riding the ecstatic movement of her body strongly and slowly, building to a hard, urgent but still strangely tender crescendo, where they both exploded together. They had lain together spent and entwined in the sweet aftermath. Over two more dates he had taken gentle charge of her body - undressed, guided and positioned her, gripped her with iron-clad restraint and made strong, intense, slow-fucking love to her - drawing out her hot, fresh juice and her trust.

So now to this afternoon's developments - just where the fuck had they come from? Although maybe - maybe - yes, hadn't she just occasionally sensed something else lurking there in their earlier encounters? Something indefinably dark lying beneath his restraint, when his grip tightened just a little, when his glittering eyes seemed to betray more than arousal and affection. And hadn't her stomach buzzed at the thought of discovering what that something was?

He drew himself close now and fitted her fully down on to him once more, pulling her tight, his thick engorgement squelching into the recesses of her throat. 'Ye-s-s-s, that's it, that's what we want, good girl.' When he dragged her spluttering and gulping off him this time, he flipped the sleep-mask deftly from her eyes, providing an accompanying visual. From the civilised trappings of his Borrelli garments sprouted that great, thick trunk, essential and primeval and still glistening with her relish. 'See what that talented little throat just swallowed?' he said approvingly. 'Now let's do it again.' And while some feisty part of her wanted to apply her teeth just enough to make him wary, she submitted and let him slot her all the way back down on to him.

Eric tilted Daniella's head slightly, so he had a good view of his shaft, as it probed past her lips all the way to the back of her throat. She was tight around him, her convulsing vocal tract squeezing his bulging head, firing chemical messages of sheer fucking joy all round his body. 'Look at me,' he told her. 'Look at me, baby.' She turned her dark-hazel eyes on him, her stuffed face full of panic, rage and excitement. He brushed fronds of hair back behind her ear and gazed on her in a type of wonder. 'Keep it there, darling, keep it there, that's my good girl...'

It was that serendipitous meeting three weeks back, which had led to the current agreeable positioning of his cock. There she'd been, window shopping on the high street in a pale-blue halter top and tomato-red shorter-than-shorts, the latter of which looked meticulously tailored to showcase her exquisite bubble-ass. She'd clutched an ostentatious Sara Berman bag and had been almost unrecognisable under massive, insect-eye sunglasses. But he'd been sufficiently smitten by this sexy little vision to keep looking and make the connection with two summers ago. Disappointment had still burned within him, the fatal email having arrived only the previous day, and on spotting her, his decision had been instantaneous.