The Pleasure Principle: A steamy standalone romance. Jane O'Reilly

is what I want, what I need. Quick, meaningless sex with Cal Bailey. Something to ease the ache between my thighs, to show me that I’m not a two, I’m much better than that, and I’m just as uninhibited as the girls I saw back at his house.

      The hand under my thigh lifts me higher, and he moves his other hand between my legs, his fingers finding the soft, slippery folds of my pussy. I grip his shoulders tighter. He starts to caress me, to stroke me, and for a second I lose my breath. It scares the crap out of me. I can’t go down that road. I won’t. I let go of his shoulder and grab his wrist. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, not that. I don’t want that.’

      ‘You don’t want me to touch you?’

      ‘I just want to fuck,’ I tell him. I just want to fuck Cal Bailey and make him come, and then I’ll know I’m not a two. I’m not interested in chasing my own orgasm, there’s no point. I reach between us, get hold of his cock, hold it firmly as I move myself onto it. The thick, hard head pushes against me, and for a moment I’m not sure I can do it. God, he’s big.

      It’s like ripping off a plaster, I tell myself. You’ve just got to get a grip and do it. So I take a deep breath, and I force myself to stop thinking, and I sit on his cock. My fingers dig into his shoulder in shock as I realise quite how big he is. Oh, god. I can feel him right inside me. I can’t move. I can’t even decide if I like it.

      But I don’t have time to waste thinking about it. I get hold of those shoulders again, hold tight, and then I rock forwards, lower myself back onto his erection, trying to find a rhythm without putting too much of my weight on him. I’m skinny at the moment, but I’m still six feet tall. I’m hardly small and dainty. It mattered to Will. I don’t want to know if it matters to Cal.

      ‘Easy,’ he says. His hands are still under my thighs, and he feels so strong, so steady. He’s like a rock sat there in my soft leather armchair, and for a moment I almost convince myself that it doesn’t matter to him. Then he moves his hands up to my waist, my skirts gathering around his wrists. ‘Don’t do that,’ he says, when I try to tug it down. ‘I want to look at your pussy.’

      My pulse kicks up a beat. ‘Why?

      ‘I like looking at pussy,’ he says. ‘I like looking at pussy that’s got cock in it, especially if it’s mine. And I’d particularly like to see my cock in your pussy.’

      ‘Oh,’ I manage, as those words, and the way he says them, so easily, so casually, sends a lightning bolt of arousal shooting straight to my clit. I squirm against it, trying to calm it down. ‘Are you sure about that?’ I keep tugging at my skirt, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let me have my way.

      ‘Verity,’ he says, looking at me. ‘You either want to fuck, or you don’t. Which is it?’

      ‘I want to fuck,’ I blurt out. ‘I want to.’

      ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Then let’s fuck, shall we?’ And with that, he lifts me off his knee. His cock slides out of me, all the way out. I can feel my pussy clinging onto it, the sensation entirely unexpected, as he moves me away.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Fucking you,’ he says, as if it’s obvious. He reverses our positions, plonks me down on the chair, pushing my dress up and pulling me forwards until I’m slumped in a completely undignified position. ‘Open your legs.’

      My body obeys him, it does, even as my brain screams out no, not like this, and I think about all the ways in which this could go wrong. It’s so much harder to fake it in this position.

      ‘Wider,’ he says, as he puts himself between my thighs. His erection is right there, sticking up, and it looks so bloody rude. ‘Come on.’

      I can’t seem to speak. There are plenty of words inside my head, but I can’t get any of them out of my mouth. I simply stare at him, mute, as he wraps a hand around the base of his big cock, puts the other one on my right knee, and finds the entrance to my vagina with far too much ease.

      He slides in enough to make me squeak. ‘There’s that noise again,’ he says. ‘Are you loud when you come, Verity? I bet you are. I bet you’re a screamer.’

      Before I can respond with acute denial, he pushes my knees back and, well, fucks me. It’s not gentle or dignified or even vaguely polite, the way he grabs my thighs and holds my legs back, the way he thrusts so deep into me that our bodies slap together, the way it makes me so wet that I’m sure I’m going to leave a puddle on the floor.

      ‘Scream for me,’ he says. ‘I know you want to. You’re tight as fuck. Come on Verity, get loud.’

      Not a two, I tell myself fiercely. Not a two. I turn my head to the side, close my eyes, and moan. Not too much. I don’t want it to sound fake.

      ‘Tell me you like it,’ he says. The armchair is creaking with the weight of his thrusts and the weight of me, and with each one, he pushes me further back into it, until I’m as far back as I can go.

      ‘I like it,’ I say. I try to get purchase on the leather, but it is too soft and my hands are too hot. I have to hold on to something, though, so I grab at Cal Bailey. His jumper isn’t enough, so I wrap my hands around his neck. That’s better. His skin is warm, smooth, strong. Still not enough. I shove my fingers up into his hair.

      He groans, plants his hands on the arms of the chair, his weight keeping my knees back, and suddenly we’ve gone way past enough. I can feel the rub of his cock inside me, the friction, and the pleasure pain ache in my clit. I’m so frustrated I could scream, and when he fucks into me again, I do. Not with pleasure, but with irritation, with resentment for this body that is too big, too unwieldy, and won’t work as it should.