Southern Spirits by Edie Bingham Page B

suddenly slapped her left buttock, more teasing than rough, sending a pulse straight to her pussy.
    His hand remained there, stroking her through her dress. ‘Well?’
    Val swallowed, her head spinning. ‘N– No. I’m not.’ She didn’t want to go into detail, didn’t want to think about Enrique, away in Europe, and open up the floodgates of guilt. He knew nothing about what this mob had done, and certainly didn’t know about her intentions now. He definitely wouldn’t understand, but she promised herself she’d make it up to him when his tour of duty was over and he returned home.
    â€˜Not that I mind,’ Mickey was saying, still stroking her.
    She squeezed her thighs together. There was something undeniably dynamic and exciting about the man behind her: that air of authority, that voice, that gaze – and that touch, oh God . . .
    Another slap recaptured her awareness, as did the question, ‘Why did you come here?’
    Val’s mouth had dried, even as other parts of her grew wet, and sweat beaded down the curves of her suspended breasts in her dress. ‘I . . . You asked me.’
    â€˜Yes. But you had your own agenda, too.’ Now Mickey pressed his groin up against Val’s proffered backside, his erection obvious, his hands moving up and down the her hips and thighs. ‘You came to have me do this?’
    Val felt her nostrils flare with her quickening breath as she eased her upper half further down onto the table, until her aching breasts rested fully on the surface, threatening to spill out, and her fingertips pressed hard onto the polished wood. ‘Y– Yes.’
    Mickey’s crotch ground against Val’s ass, and his voice retained that air of composure, of command, laced with a wantonness that fed Val’s own hungers. ‘And this?’ He pulled back enough to let one hand move down over her other cheek, then gave her another slap. ‘Open.’
    Val obeyed, lowering her head onto her crossed arms on the table, experiencing both sheer arousal and embarrassment at how quickly, easily she responded to this man’s voice, touch, very presence, forgetting her reasons for being here, feeling utterly and shamelessly selfish and self-indulgent.
    Mickey moved against her again, this time his hands snaking down and lifting up the hem of her dress, raising it past the tops of her stockings, her garters, revealing her dark-red satin panties. Val wanted to protest, but that part of her had scurried into a far corner to wait, swathed and silenced by an ever-dominating lust. She bit her lip as she felt Mickey pull down her panties, down over her rear to the tops of her stockings.
    The cool air failed to overcome the overpowering heat Val felt emanating from her naked, trembling flesh. Mickey’s feather-light touch returned, trailing fingertips up over the contours of her ass, along the undercurves and up towards the dimples steepling her cheeks, as his other hand pressed down against her lower back, keeping her dress raised and out of the way.
    Val trembled at his touch, his alternating waves of rough and gentle behaviour keeping her dizzy and wanting, made a sound like a whimper as she heard him undoing his trousers. Oh God, he was going to take her here and now, with his crew only a short distance away . . .
    Then Val heard his trousers drop, felt him, his shaft, the velvety hot tip of it, touch the apex of the sweet valley between her buttocks, sliding down. And it descended, pausing to tease at the tightened opening to her rear. As it continued further, Mickey leant in closely as if to whisper in Val’s ear: ‘And what about . . . this ?’
    Mickey’s cock reached the puffed, wet, waiting entrance to Val’s pussy.
    And entered.
    Val moaned sharply, shamelessly, twisting like a worm on a hook as Mickey slowly filled her up, his hands gripping her hips. He kept still as she squirmed, and then flexed it inside