Page 30 of Sherwood
“I like the sound of more,” a woman said, and several others agreed.
I liked the sound of more too, but before I could say something to this effect, there was a small cheer and what sounded like another pair of men’s dress shoes tapping across the stage to me. Rafe’s hand tightened briefly on my thigh—out of reassurance or reluctance to surrender me to another person’s touch, I wasn’t sure—and then he let go. My thigh burned where his touch had been, and I found myself straining for the sound of his footsteps, for the cool murmur of his voice.
I could tell right away that hand that was now stroking up my arm wasn’t Rafe’s. It wasn’t warm enough, not nearly rough enough. And the careful way it traveled to my shoulder and then back down to my wrist—that wouldn’t be Rafe’s style at all.
But it still left goosebumps in its wake, it still made me suck in deeper and deeper breaths, because it was astranger, because I wasblindfolded. Cuffed and spread, the slit of my dress wide open, open enough that I knew my bare cunt would be visible at the right angle.
I could feel the cool air of the room on my sex, and it drove me wild.
The stranger made an approving noise as he sanded his palms over my breasts and my already aching nipples stiffened even more; he wasted no time in weighing them with his hands and thumbing the tips before moving down to my hips and then my thighs.
He paused before pushing his hands under my skirt. “May I?” he asked Rafe, as if I were irrelevant, as if my permission didn’t matter. And it didn’t. Right now, I was Rafe’s—Rafe’s to play with, Rafe’s to share. Rafe’s to hoard if he so chose.
“By all means,” Rafe replied, sounding as indifferent as a host being asked if it would be okay to hang a coat from a hook.
The stranger took his time, his touch trembling the slightest bit as he caressed his way up my inner thighs to my cunt. But we both trembled when he found the swollen bud of my clit, which felt as ripe and ready for plucking as a summer berry.
I heard movement from the crowd as Rafe’s hands found the silk of my skirt and shoved it up to my waist, impatiently, again like a host having his hospitality ignored. The stranger murmured something to Rafe that I couldn’t hear, and then gently rubbed my clit again, sliding his fingers inside of me at the same time. I was so wet that I could hear him do it, I could hear his slow strokes in and out of my vagina, and I knew that people would see it too. See the glisten of how much I liked this.
I could hear the whispers and shifts and sighs, like people were touching themselves to the sight of me being touched, and knowing that, knowing that my eager acquiescence to being handled like a whore was driving people to touch and rub and squeeze, was almost unbearable. Even though the stranger’s hands on me were only slightly better than competent, even though so much of me still keened for more, a swift orgasm overtook me, quick and easy. I cried out, softly: Rafe’s name.
His now-familiar hand settled once, briefly, over my throat, where a collar would be if I had one, and then disappeared.
There was clapping, Rafe congratulating the stranger. And then the click of high heels, the feel of narrow, long-nailed hands, and it began all over again.
This contestant used a vibrator, which brought me off quickly and efficiently. Another person used a thumb on my clit and a hot mouth on my breasts. Another went down on me from the start, eating me as fastidiously as a cat licking cream, but it still got the job done. I came with Rafe’s name on my lips for a fourth time, and then slumped back onto the platform.
“I like that you keep saying my name, darling,” Rafe said. I didn’t think I was imagining the cool pleasure in his voice, since his hands had been on me more and more as the night went on, as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching me. From sticking his fingers in my mouth or tracing the arch of my throat or pressing his hand against my heart to feel it beat against my ribs. “It makes me think you know all your orgasms belong to me right now.”
“They do, sir,” I mumbled. I felt wild, dazed, wrung out. Turned out that there could be too much of a good thing: four orgasms wasplentyfor this CEO. “I don’t think I can take any more.”
“Hmm,” said Rafe. That didn’t sound like it boded well for me.
“Please,” I whimpered, too tired to properly beg. “I don’t think I can do any more.”
“Is this a red? Or a yellow?”
I stopped. Swallowed. Tried to think. It wasn’t ared, I knew that for sure, but ayellow…? My pussy felt swollen and hot, and my nipples and clit ached from being sucked on so much. I knew I’d be sore tomorrow as it was, and anything more than this would turn that soreness intoouch.
But then Rafe’s hand found my throat again, stroking and tracing, and I forgot exactly what it was I was asking for. I forgot everything that wasn’t him, that wasn’t what he wanted, and I slowly shook my head.
“Still green, sir.”
A quick squeeze around my throat and then I felt his hands on either side of my head as he bent down to whisper in my ear. “One more, sweet one. Give me one more.” His words were warm, growled gently in that faint British accent, and I couldn’t deny them even if I’d wanted to. And who would want to?
“Yes, sir,” I said, and he nipped at my jaw in response, like a wolf pleased with its mate.
And then I heard the first gasp.
It was almost comically loud, that noise, loud enough to carry over the heavy music and the blood still rushing through my ears from the last orgasm. But then I heard the second gasp and an ensuing wave of murmurs, which crested like a wave as I felt Rafe pull away from me.
Boots thudded across the stage, measured and heavy, and then they stopped.
There were no words between this new stranger and Rafe, but I sensed that there was still some kind of exchange. Of looks or gestures, I didn’t know, but the tension between them was an electric thing, a current of humming, buzzing hostility.
Fingertips, cool and dry, ran from my chin to the flat expanse of my sternum. The other contestants had gone carefully, almost hesitatingly, but not this one. After splaying a hand over my chest, as if to make a lid over my heart, the stranger pushed their other hand up my skirt and curled their hand over my pussy, sending renewed fire curling and flickering everywhere.
And then: the scent of cedar and loam, sweet and rich.
