Sunday, 17 July 2016

Sunday Snog

Welcome to Sunday Snog, this week a snippet from THAT FILTHY BOOK which is now available across the UK in WHSmith stores.

Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I thought, but it turns out an old, dog-eared book with contents so filthy and so depraved that I’d been forced to hide it after reading, has sank deeper into my erotic subconscious than I’d ever imagined. Luckily though, Jacob is up for exploring the new side of me that has risen to the surface after all these years. In a whirlwind of wanton adventures that push us to the limits of our sexuality, we begin to re-discover what it once was that had us screaming with pleasure and how to accept that nothing will ever be the same again between us.

“Do you think we ought to do some sightseeing or something?” I asked, wondering, if he’d answer in the affirmative, whether I could muster the energy to get dressed let alone waltz through the nearby park or visit the art museum. We’d promised ourselves an afternoon of appreciating art, gazing at the beauty created by others and discussing how each piece made us feel inside.
“We could do,” he said. “After.”
“After what?” I smiled, my bunching cheek squashed against his shoulder blade, my breasts heated from his skin. The rest of me felt chilled, as though I needed the whole of him wrapped around me, arms and legs a warm embrace.
“After I fuck you against this window.”
I gasped, widening my eyes at what he’d said. It seemed he’d returned to his old self more easily than I had. I wanted to answer that he could fuck me against anything he liked, anytime he wanted—he didn’t have to ask. He could just grab me, pin me down and forge into me. I wanted it hard and fast, hot and panting, my body at his mercy. Whatever he wanted to do to me, he could.
There it was again, that urge to give up control to him completely. A fuck where I had no say in it. His rules, his pleasure. It flooded my mind like a cloud of dangerous desire.
But again I didn’t say anything about handing over control. The words wouldn’t come, stuck in my throat as they were, a big ball of unspoken needs that swelled to be released. Pushing, expanding.
“Talk to me,” he said. “Like you used to. Dirty and rough. While there’s no one but me to hear you.”
A sudden bout of insecurity gripped me, a closing fist around my heart, creating a flutter of panic and the inability to breathe properly. I’d been so free and easy before we’d had the girls, so ready to try anything, do anything; caught up in the first flush of love. And now...
“I can’t.” I squeezed my eyes closed and waited for the feeling to pass.
He covered my hands with his, the warmth of his touch giving me a jolt of longing. I imagined those hands roving my skin, seeking out my special places, erogenous zones that he knew by heart. My pulse thrummed, loud in my ears, the throb of my heartbeat an almost violent smack against my ribs. I cracked open my eyes, peeked around him to see his fingertips pressed down on my hand, the ends white where he held me so tightly. Did he hold me like that because he’d anticipated a negative answer? A rush of guilt took over me, heating my cheeks and bringing on the need to cry. I was spoiling this, wasn’t I—by not keeping to my promise to play the game as though we were free spirits who could do anything we wanted?
“I feel stupid,” I said quietly, wanting him to take over, to talk to me dirty and remind me how it was done.
Because I had forgotten.
“Stupid? Why?”
His chest inflated, his back rising beneath my face, and he held his breath.
“Because...because I’ve forgotten how to do it. And if I say what I want, it might not come out right and I’ll feel silly.”
He turned, just that movement alone soaking my cunt, and cradled me against him.
Hands on my back, he rubbed them up and down, the motion soothing, chasing away the goosebumps, giving me the sense that everything would always be all right when he held me like this. He was magic, my husband, this man who had promised to take care of me until the day he died, ensuring I was never sad, never had reason to cry. I was the kind of woman who floundered without him near, who, when panicked or insecure, only needed him to walk in the room and everything bad would melt away.
“You never have to feel silly with me,” he said, the words low and reassuring. “Never. I’ve told you that before. Did you forget that too?”
How could I? He’d said it often enough, and I wondered then whether he got tired of his constant encouragement, of always having to work to make me believe him. He was devoted, I knew that. Knew it deep inside me, where I kept the special memories, the nuggets of love he’d shown me, those private moments between us that no one else knew about. Small touches, glances in a crowded room, even in the supermarket, where the gap between us was too wide and I wanted nothing more than to rush to him, to have his arms about me.
To have the cushioned feeling of being adored.
I embraced him, splaying my palms on his back and resting my cheek on his chest. His heart beat wildly, a manic rhythm that matched mine, as though we both anticipated what was to come. We knew I would give it a try, that I’d utter words I hadn’t spoken in years, in a voice that was husky and all kinds of sexy.
We just had to wait for me to fully come back. She was there, simmering below the surface, filling my mind with all manner of filthy things—she just needed that extra push to come out, that was all.
“Tell me. Remind me what I used to say,” I whispered. I held my breath, knowing I would blush when he recited words from the past. How had I become so...boring? So shy?
“Ah, that’s easy. I’ll never forget.” He held me tighter, his warmth oozing into my skin like the heat of bath water. “Some days I sit and remember, think about the old days and wish—”
“That I was like that again?” Oh, God. I’ve made him as boring as me, having to turn to daydreams in order to get his jollies. How long has he been thinking of the past?
He took a moment before he answered. Weighing up how to phrase it, I’d bet. “Not necessarily that, no. Just wishing that you’d let yourself go every so often. Not be so good all the time.”
“Good?” I lifted my head and stared up at him, into dark brown eyes that melted my knees with their long, thick black lashes. “Is that what I am now? Good?”
God, I was boring. I’d slipped into that rut people talked about. The one where the wife became staid and unyielding in the bedroom. Where a bed was just for sleeping, maybe a quick fuck once a month. The rut I’d always vowed never to get into. But that rut was deep; it went so far down that I couldn’t see over the damn top when it came to talking dirty. I bristled, knowing exactly what he meant, knowing I ought to keep my mouth shut because I’d let things spill out that weren’t intended for him. No, what I wanted to say was a torrent of sentences berating myself, and I couldn’t do that, not in front of Jacob. He said it hurt him when I put myself down. Like a physical pain deep inside. If I ranted now, I’d do so knowing I’d upset him.
He stroked my face with both hands, staring down at me as though I was the most precious thing to walk the planet, and I felt wretched. For letting him down. Becoming ‘one of those women’. For allowing us to change.
“Tell me,” I said, disliking the begging tone that rimmed the words. “Come on. Tell me what I used to say. Help me say it again.”
I was desperate now, truly desperate to recapture what we’d once had. The thought of how we’d been lately... God, it was shameful. I wanted to say the words so badly, but something blocked their exit. They were all there in my head; delicious, filthy sentences that would make any grandmother’s toes curl; ones I’d read in a book many years ago, yet when I opened my mouth to force them out, they lodged in my throat. Frustration added to desperation made me whimper. I felt so helpless, useless, a stupid, insecure bundle of nerves.
He smiled, a stretch of those beautiful lips that showed his straight teeth, all except the one canine that stuck out a little. “Let me see. What did you used to say...?”
My heart contracted with love for him. He was doing what he always did—making everything okay again. Taking the pressure off me and having the burden on his shoulders. How the hell had I been so lucky to find him, to keep him? My eyes stung, and I blinked, swallowed hard and prayed the tears wouldn’t fall.
He glanced up at the ceiling, a teasing gesture that had me wanting to grasp him around the neck and force his gaze back to me. I wanted to reach up and touch the knobbly scar beside his eye, to brush my thumb down his cheek. His pretence of being deep in thought drove a spike of new frustration into my gut, yet I smiled, because as well as doing this for me, he was playing with me. Enjoying it, too.
“Fuck my cunt,” he said, lowering his head so his gaze met mine again. “Fuck my cunt, that’s what you used to say. Jacob, come over here and lick my wet pussy.” He brushed his lips over mine. “Remember that?”

Grab your copy of THAT FILTHY BOOK, hailed by reviewers as a book 'every woman should read' from all good ebook retailers. Buy links here.


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