Anything For Him Read online

  He was mine and finally it was time.

  With well-practised skill, I gave my clit several fast rotations, to make sure I was as turned on as Liuz. He didn’t stand a chance of lasting long and I wanted us to come together. We were in perfect sync anyway, but it didn’t hurt to nudge things in the right direction.

  ‘Put your legs together,’ I instructed, travelling up the bed in the same slinky, confident way a predator does when prey is cornered.

  Groaning, as if moving was painful, he drew his legs together and opened his eyes. Watched me as I hovered over him, my knees bent on either side of his hips.

  ‘You like fucking my pussy, don’t you, Liuz?’ I asked, spreading apart my labia with my fingertips.

  ‘Yes, yes, oh, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, God, really?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ My voice was sterner and I held myself just out of reach of his thrashing hips, but kept my pelvis tilted so he could see what he was missing out on. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Because, because you’re tight, and hot, and you come so wildly, squeezing my dick until it feels like I am in Heaven.’

  ‘Good answer,’ I said, sinking a little and taking the first inch of his cock inside me.

  ‘Ah, yes, that is it, more.’

  He’d balled his fists so tight his fingers and knuckles turned white. I feared for the survival of his teeth, his jaw was tensed so hard.

  I gave another inch, adoring the stretching sensations splintering through my pussy. ‘Oh, Liuz, I love your dick, it’s so fucking hard,’ I gasped. ‘So fucking hard and thick and long. Oh, it’s so long.’

  ‘Yes, baby, I am so long, and I am so fucking hard for you, take me, take all of me, fuck me, Aniolku, fuck me so hard, like never before, it is just us, only us.’

  His words were enough to tip me over the edge. I was no longer in control of my body. I released it, gave it permission to gorge on Liuz, and snarling through the discomfort, I took him all in, as deep as he could ever go. It was as though he had become part of me, part of my core, part of my soul.

  I wailed in delight; he swore loudly. A thick bulging vein on his shaft pounded against the ridge that held my G-spot.

  ‘Yes, oh, yes, say that again, Liuz,’ I cried.

  ‘Only us, only us,’ he shouted, his voice crazed, manic.

  I was wild. My hips had taken on a life of their own, their main aim to satisfy my greedy clit, pumping, grinding, building up the pressure to dizzying heights.

  But I wanted more, on my G-spot. I leaned back, rammed my hands on the tops of his thighs and used his legs as a brace to thrust against.

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, fuck like that, oh, shit, I am coming,’ he cried.

  For a moment I thought the headboard was going to rip off the bed – it shook and rattled and creaked ominously. Liuz was heaving and bouncing beneath me, his cock barging into me, over and over as I gyrated above him, on him.

  ‘Oh, yes, me too,’ I shouted, tipping my head to the ceiling and staring at my rose-patterned lampshade. ‘Yes, yes.’

  Pleasure ripped through me. There was nothing gentle about this orgasm. It was frantic, hungry, uncaring of the fact it snatched my breath and made my heart skip and skip and skip.

  I pulsed through the crashing waves, revelling in the feeling of Liuz pulsing through his climax. Dropped my head and watched his face contort, his lips stretching back and his eyes squeezing shut until they became horizontal black lines. Every muscle in his arms was taut, taut and straining, fighting his bonds.

  I carried on riding, seeking a new, fresh climax.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Hannah.’

  Sweat beaded in his stubble. His chest was rising and falling. But I was not ready to stop – another delicious orgasm beckoned, just seconds away.

  ‘I cannot,’ he gasped, thrashing his head on the pillow. ‘Oh fuck.’

  He was spent, exhausted, but his cock was still hard enough for me to bounce on and my clit was getting ready to fly again.

  I dropped forward and mashed my breasts against his chest. ‘Liuz, oh, fuck, yes, again, I’m coming again.’

  He grunted and his breaths were noisy, storm-like, against my cheek.

  My second orgasm ravaged me. I stared down into his eyes, letting him see me. The real me. Hannah. The woman who loved him.

  Gradually the spasms died down in my pussy, my breathing came under control, if not back to normal, and my heart stopped throwing out odd, extra beats that thumped my ribcage.

  ‘Aniolku,’ he whispered. His pupils were wide and black. ‘I do believe you are as bad as me.’

  I giggled breathlessly, cupped his cheeks and kissed him. ‘Yes, we are the same, Liuz,’ I said into his mouth. ‘A perfect match.’

  He swept his tongue over his bottom lip, as though stealing every trace of me. ‘Well, I am afraid one half of this perfect match has things to see to.’ He shifted beneath me. ‘So you had best untie me, so I can get some coffee and then sort out this fucked-up situation.’

  Placing my hands on his chest, I straightened. His cock was soft inside me now; I could only just feel it. ‘But, Liuz, I thought you would stay here today, in my flat, with me.’

  ‘I wish I could, but there are people I need to see. This situation affects more than just us, Hannah.’

  My mind fudged. More than just us. Who else was there? There was only us. He had just said that.

  Reluctantly I let my pussy release him, and I shifted sideways then stood. Stared down at a replete, sated Liuz, who was now frowning at the knots holding his arms tight.

  ‘Hannah,’ he said. ‘Come on. Undo this shit.’

  I had to be cruel to be kind.

  I rubbed my hands together, knotting my fingers and then sliding my palms against one another. A dribble of fluid trickled down to my thigh, warm and slimy.

  ‘Hannah!’

  I swallowed tightly, let the words hover on my tongue for a moment, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Liuz, but no. I am not going to untie you.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I left the room and walked down the hallway, Liuz’s shouts of protest muffled behind the closed door. My heart beat triple time, and I wondered what on earth had possessed me. I’d teetered on the verge of letting him go, really I had, but the thought of him walking out of my flat and not returning – even though he’d said he had nowhere else to stay – wasn’t something I could handle right now. Not when I’d had a taste of what things could be like if he was here as a permanent fixture.

  So I pretended he wasn’t calling me, wasn’t getting angrier by the second, and went to gaze at the paintings on the wall in my office-cum-studio. The scarves would hold him in place until I returned, I was sure, and, confident I could work in peace once he stopped shouting, I squirted paint onto my palette and selected a brush.

  It wasn’t difficult to get into that dream state I entered when doing my art. The imaginative side of me took over, sending me into a time warp where nothing existed except what I was creating – dips and swirls, hard or fuzzy lines over impressive swoops. I imagined Liuz tied up on the bed, his face contorted in the agony of pleasure, not the irritation and possible anger he was feeling now, and transferred what was in my head onto the wall.

  It came out exactly as I’d seen it in my mind’s eye, exactly as he’d appeared on the bed. The image made a fitting companion for the other art beside it, and I’d left enough room for another picture or two to join the mural of my time spent with him. I loved that it told a story, one only I or Liuz would understand. If anyone else were to see the painting, the series of images would come across as strange, what with the murder scene dominating the area and grabbing the attention first. Still, it was my finest art yet, more so because of the emotional attachment, and it was a shame I hadn’t applied it to canvas instead. This kind of art could have sold for quite a price if displayed in the right gallery.

  Would I want what equated to my private time for sale, though? Could I bear to part with it knowing other
female eyes stared at Liuz in ways I wouldn’t want him stared at? There was no doubt about it; he could make a woman aroused just by looking at him. Could I stand them lusting after him with the same intensity as me?

  I stepped back and regarded the finished picture, took in the deep threads beside his closed eyes – eyes bunched shut in ecstasy – the contortion of his mouth, a skewed line twisted up at one corner, his hard cock jutting out, a pearl of pre-cum sitting in his slit. Yes, I think I could handle women lusting after him because, hey, he was all mine. They’d never get the chance to touch him, to make his mouth open and beg them to suck that pre-cum off his cock, to have his hands all over them, seeking out the special places that made their bodies sing.

  No. He was mine.

  Feeling hot and sticky, I placed my palette down and popped the brush in a glass of cleaning solution. I needed another shower – painting was such hard work – and after that I’d check on Liuz, explain why I’d left him there like that.

  In the bathroom, I luxuriated beneath the warm spray, enjoying the peace and quiet. Liuz had gone silent – perhaps he’d fallen back to sleep – or maybe he lay there brooding. The image of that bloomed in my mind, and I drowned in the murky depths of those dark eyes encased in narrowed lids, anger emanating from them, a danger signal that if anyone got too close he’d bite. I was confident I had the ability to soothe his ruffled feathers. After all, he’d said he trusted me, and you couldn’t get a better admission from a man than that. It made me feel safe, as though I’d surpassed that level in a relationship where uncertainty ruled and security took its place.

  I stepped out of the shower and dried off, leaving the bathroom to enter the bedroom and apply cocoa butter cream again. At the bedroom door, though, I paused, suddenly unsure of the reaction awaiting me behind it. I took a deep breath and went inside, relief bleeding into me that Liuz greeted me with a broad smile.

  ‘Very funny, Aniolku,’ he said, finishing off with a chuckle. ‘I get what you were doing. Exerting some control of your own. I understand that.’

  He smiled again, wider this time, and I smiled back.

  ‘Although I love your dominant side,’ I said, stepping over to the bed, ‘I wanted you to see I like being dominant myself, show you how much I have to offer, how sex can be when we’re both crazy with control.’ I untied one pair of scarves with a bit of difficulty – him wrenching them had tightened the knots – and hoped he’d got the message that I wasn’t ready for him to leave just yet. ‘Can you imagine that? How great it’ll be?’

  ‘Fuck, yeah. I can imagine it.’ He circled his freed hand, wrist an angry shade of red, much like the colour I’d used when painting the blood for the murder scene.

  I leaned over to untie the second scarf but the position pulled on the muscles at my waist. Climbing onto him, seating my slit directly onto his cock – God, I could just ride him again now – I reached out and dug my thumbnail between two stubborn, tight arcs of fabric. They wouldn’t give, so I undid the knot with my teeth, conscious of my breast brushing his shoulder. I tossed the scarf on the bed and sat back, looking down at him, waiting for a signal as to what would happen next. Would he fuck me again or get up with the intention of going out and seeing to things?

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We need to eat. I need coffee.’

  He patted my thigh, and I shifted over, sitting cross-legged on the bed while he got up. I loved watching him dress and marvelled at the fact this was the first morning of many to come where I could indulge in seeing how he zipped up his jeans, the waistband fitting snuggly about his hips. How he tugged a T-shirt over his head and settled the hem about his waist. How those gorgeous muscles of his screamed out how toned they were even from beneath fabric.

  He sat on the bed to put on his shoes and socks, glancing around once to throw a wink over his shoulder. We were OK, everything was going to be all right. I knew it would be.

  ‘So,’ he said, walking to the door. ‘What do you have in to eat? Bacon? Eggs?’

  I thought about what was in the fridge. ‘Neither. Cereal or milk is about the limit for breakfast today.’

  ‘Ah, and I wanted our first breakfast together to be the full English. I noticed a little shop down the road when I came here last night. Do you want me to go out and buy what we need?’

  ‘No,’ I said, a little too quickly. ‘I’ll go. You get that coffee you need.’

  Before he could protest, I leaped off the bed and yanked my clothes on, my jeans tight and constricting from their recent wash. Liuz left the room, and I heard the kitchen tap gush water. With a T-shirt and sweater on, I slid my feet into a pair of training shoes and whipped a brush through my hair, excitement at doing my first ‘shop’ for our first meal together sending me giddy. I dashed down the hallway, making another mental note to get a lock for my office door, and poked my head into the kitchen.

  Liuz had put the kettle on, the rumble of it starting to boil a pleasant sound, and leaned with his ass against the sink unit, arms folded across his chest. I looked at him to judge whether he was relaxed or just pretending, but he glanced over at me with that broad smile again and I knew he was going to stay.

  ‘I’ll just be off then. Won’t be a minute,’ I said. ‘Do you want the full works? Fried bread and everything?’

  ‘Please,’ he said, taking two cups off the mug tree and scraping the coffee canister across the worktop towards him.

  He opened drawers in search of a spoon, I guessed, and a swell of happiness surged inside me. Liuz appeared so at home in my little kitchen. So right.

  ‘OK. I’ll, um, I’ll get going.’

  He raised one hand while rooting in the drawer with another, and I turned away, that image firmly imprinting itself in my mind. I grabbed my bag from the living room and left the flat, almost running down the street towards the shop. He was going to stay, I knew that, but still, rushing a little wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  In the shop, I grimaced at the amount of customers milling about. Since when had this place ever been so busy? A queue snaked down the centre aisle, people clutching pints of milk and folded-over newspapers to their chests, some with heavy baskets by their sides. I picked up a basket of my own and headed to the chiller, pleased to find plenty of bacon packets on the shelf. Did he prefer his smoked? I wasn’t sure so put one of each in my basket, feeling like a proper woman with a man at home waiting for me to return with the shopping. I selected a loaf of bread, some baked beans and a small bottle of cooking oil, a local newspaper – just in case there was something in it we needed to see – and another jar of coffee. If I remembered rightly, there wasn’t enough to last the day if both of us were drinking it. Come to think of it, I’d better get milk too.

  I tacked myself on to the end of the queue, which had grown longer as I’d shopped, and bit back a mutter of annoyance. I missed Liuz already, imagined he’d be on his second cup of coffee by now, perhaps wondering where I was, why it was taking me so long. I went through my return to the flat in my head, me waffling about the damn queue, and wouldn’t you just know someone had a trolley full of goods ahead of me? Why hadn’t they gone to the main supermarket? Why was there only one person manning the tills? A typical Post Office scenario, but I wouldn’t storm off in a huff, leaving my basket on the floor. No, we were going to have our full English breakfast this morning, sitting side-by-side on my sofa – our sofa – knees touching.

  There was a commotion up ahead. Something to do with an item not scanning and the shop assistant needing a co-worker to fetch him another of the same item. Why wasn’t the co-worker behind a till too? I tapped my foot, getting a little impatient now, and lowered the basket to the floor. To pass the time, I reached down for the newspaper, scouring the front page expecting to see a big splash about the murders. There wasn’t one. The main tale was about a resident irate about the state of the paving slabs outside her house. She’d fallen and broken her ankle, and wasn’t that what we paid taxes for, to have streets that weren’t potential death th
reats? In the top right-hand corner, two inches by three, was a snippet about two men being gunned down in a private residence. No names, no gory details, just that police were treating it as suspicious.

  I breathed out, tension leaking away. I hadn’t even been aware of my muscles being inhabited by the rigidity of stress until it was gone. The line shifted forward, the till scanner thankfully bleeping away again. I folded the newspaper and dropped it into the basket, knowing Liuz would be pleased the events in his flat didn’t warrant anything but a tiny mention.

  At last, my turn came, and I resisted making a caustic remark about the state of the service in here. Instead, I dumped my basket on the counter and watched the worker bag my things, then paid and left the shop as though the devil chased me. I didn’t like being apart from Liuz, clearly, and although I knew I’d become attached, I hadn’t realised just how attached until now. I needed to see him, to know he was there, to have his presence even if he didn’t feel like talking. And we didn’t need to talk, did we? No, we could say what we wanted just by looking at one another – or we would do once we’d been together for a while longer.

  I turned my key in the lock, pushing the door with my hip – it had taken to sticking lately – and blustered into my flat. The sound of the TV filtered from the living room, a news channel if the monotone of a bored male was anything to go by, and I smiled at the thought of Liuz sprawled on my sofa, waiting for news of what had happened to reach the London masses. Waiting for me to get back.

  I went into the kitchen, dumping the bags on the counter, and wandered into the living room with a casual air about me, as though I came home to having a man in my place all the time.

  He wasn’t there.

  I frowned and walked down the hall, checking my bedroom. Finding it empty, I stood outside the closed bathroom door and listened for sounds from within. There weren’t any, but instead of lurking about when he was having a moment to himself, I returned to the kitchen and unloaded the bags. Job done, I flicked the kettle on, noting the second cup he’d taken from the mug tree still stood on the counter with coffee and sugar in the bottom, a spoon leaning against the side. His cup was in the sink, so I grabbed another and made us both a hot drink.