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DISCLAIMER: I own nothing
Rollercoaster
by The Dark Basement (aka Joodiff)
Very solid, very warm. Very naked, too. Most of the bare front of her seems to be plastered against most of the bare back of him, Grace realises as the grey fog of sleep gradually changes into a fuzzy, soft-blinking awareness. Decadent, and yet not, she thinks. Familiar and unfamiliar. It’s been years since she woke in such a way, and never before with this man, yet it feels… She’s not entirely sure how it feels. Novel and strange, comfortable and bewildering. Overall... good. Not intimidating or embarrassing, at least.
There was a lot of wine involved in how they got here, together in the same bed, under the same duvet, she remembers. A lot of wine, and quite a lot of it had been of the rough cheap-Christmas-office-party-stuff vintage. There was a taxi involved, too, and some uncharacteristic, inebriated merriment riding on a wave of drunken lust as they stumbled towards her front door together.
It was always going to happen. One day. She’d been quite sure of that for a long time. A woman of her age and experience doesn’t snap and snarl and bicker and flirt with a handsome, charismatic younger man that she covertly desires to an unfortunate degree without it all ending up somewhere. Somewhere like here, in fact. Not when said man is Peter Boyd. Charming, capricious, and cussed in equal measure.
He really is very warm. Not unwelcome on a chilly December morning with the bedroom fanlight open, and the house’s ancient heating system only just wheezing into life. Soft, regular snores reassure her that he is still asleep, and thus not yet in a position to face up to what they did last night. Twice. Which, admittedly, was a pleasant surprise. She might have been tempted to try for a third round had he not informed her in typical laconic, blunt fashion that it categorically wasn’t going to happen. Didn’t – doesn’t – matter. Twice was considerably more fun than Grace had expected earlier in the evening when he’d been bellowing irritably at Mel and Frankie regarding the liberal amount of gaudy red and green tinsel that had suddenly and mysteriously appeared in the CCU’s normally bleak squad room.
With thoughtful deliberation, she moves a hand under the duvet to his bare hip and rests it there. Smooth skin over rigid contours of bone. Boyd mumbles something indecipherable and settles back into low, rhythmic snoring. Far too asleep to register the generous fullness of her breasts pressed against his back. Shame. He’d most definitely enjoy the sensation, she’s certain. Given his earlier enthusiasm.
There’d been an important moment or two of almost-sobriety. Not extended enough for any meaningful discussion, but just enough for the should-we-be-doing-this-oh-fuck-it-let’s-just-do-it conversation that had probably been necessary if today wasn’t to dawn with chills of horror and regret on both sides.
She arches slightly against him, succeeding in extending her possible reach. Absolutely intentional. Moves her hand over his hip and down the other side. Short, wiry hairs, and then oh, hello, there. Only half-mast, but keen to get involved. Ever so.
Grace smirks to herself against his shoulder blade, begins a gentle, artful stroking that achieves exactly what she intends. A full standing salute, an abrupt cessation of the snoring, and an audible change in the rate of his breathing. All of him duly awake and attentive, not just his pleasingly well-proportioned cock. Again, absolutely as planned.
“Good morning,” she says against his back. It sounds rather less impish than she was trying for, but that’s okay.
“Fuck,” Boyd mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“Yes,” she agrees placidly. “That’s the general idea. Unless you want to run screaming from the house instead, of course.”
He moves, rearranging long limbs as he rolls onto his back. Grace doesn’t release her hold at any point during the manoeuvre. Sleepy dark eyes regard her with quizzical bemusement. “Not the first thing that generally crosses my mind when a woman has such a firm hold of my dick.”
A tiny hidden part of her that was tensed for his reply relaxes. She nods. “Good. Just thought I’d check.”
He reaches out, cups her left breast, his thumb moving idly over the nipple. It causes a tiny shockwave that she feels in a quick, sharp throb of desire. “You have great tits, you know. I’ve always thought so.”
He’s not the first man to have said as much in her adult life. She decides not to share that fact with him. “Thank you. Though I’m not entirely sure you should have been looking.”
“Before last night?” he asks.
“Exactly.”
He withdraws his hand and stretches indolently. Puts both his hands behind his head. “Looking’s not a crime.”
“Tell that to HR.”
He snorts. “Report me, then. Of course, if you do, I’ll have to lodge a formal complaint against you regarding sexual harassment.”
Deliberately overlooking the fact that she still has hold of a very intimate part of him indeed, Grace purses her lips as if in thought, then says, “As far as I’m aware, Boyd, the only person in the Met who’s ever tried to sexually harass you is Maureen Smith.”
He makes a great show of wincing. “Don’t mention that woman while you’re doing that to me. It causes all sorts of cognitive dissonance.”
“Bravo,” she says, stroking his cock in a languid fashion. “So, he does listen.”
“Occasionally.” Boyd moves his hips slightly, blatantly pushing into her hand. “And what would you call aggressively waving a bit of cheap plastic mistletoe at me and then pinning me up against the wall of my own damn office, Grace, if not sexual harassment?”
“Making the most of an unforeseen opportunity,” she tells him, straight-faced. “And I don’t remember any complaints at the time.”
“Would have been difficult. You had your tongue halfway down my throat.”
She rolls her eyes. “Boyd, you’re a foot taller than me. No court in the land will uphold that claim.”
“Eight inches.”
Grace smirks. “That’s rather optimistic of you.”
“No, I meant…” Boyd scowls. “Oh, you’re hilarious. My point is, Grace, you jumped on me.”
Guilty as charged. With everyone else gone and the copious amount of alcohol singing in her blood not so much lowering her inhibitions as removing them completely, it had seemed like a rather good idea. At the time. Unrepentant, she inquires, “And…?”
He grins, sudden and fierce. “Naughty girl.”
“And you love it.” It’s a guess, but an educated one, born from experience.
“Oh, I do.” He regards her steadily for a moment, then says, “So… we’re okay?”
She understands. Things could still go very wrong if there’s any hint of misunderstanding on either side. Catastrophically wrong, given how closely they work together and for how many long hours. “Well, I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” Endearingly solemn.
“Then we’re okay,” she confirms. She shakes her head. “You’re overthinking things.”
Another snort. “Pot, kettle, black.”
“Fair. But not in this case.” She lets go of him, sits up. Wonders why she isn’t more bothered by her nakedness. Why she isn’t suffering from huge pangs of insecurity as his eyes unashamedly roam over her body. Of course, the curtains are closed, taking the hardest edges off the cold morning light, but the room is nowhere near gloomy enough to hide anything from him. Maybe there is complete freedom in exposing every single flaw without fear. It’s an interesting concept.
“God, Grace,” he says, sounding a little mournful, “I’m so fucking hard.”
Another little erotic shockwave, another flash of intense, hungry need. A strangely contrary but exciting idea strikes from nowhere. “Well, no-one’s stopping you from taking care of the problem.”
Both eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stares at her for a long, calculating moment. Then one hand moves from behind his head, and she feels the speed of her breathing increase a fraction as he grasps himself, casually skilful. There’s something in the depths of his eyes she can’t quite read, more hungry greed than simple devilment. He strokes himself, slow and sure, and when he speaks there is a rough edge to his voice. “And you.”
Somewhere between a request and a demand. A delicate, delicious shiver runs down the length of Grace’s spine. The other hand has moved, too, and a deliberate thumb is moving against her nipple again, creating a tiny stream of exciting little shocks that go right through her. She moves slightly, lets her right hand move to her stomach. Bare skin, just as smooth and warm as his. She holds his gaze, not afraid to meet the challenge. Watches how his eyes track the movement of her hand as she lets it slide lower. Down and down, finally reaching that sensitive place that aches and wants and needs.
“Sometimes I think of you,” she says, bold and clear and unafraid, “when I touch myself. I think of you and what I’d like you to do to me. What I’d like to do to you.”
Boyd swallows heavily, his Adam’s apple jumping. “Jesus.”
The stark profanity does nothing to decrease the intense eroticism of the moment. She’s briefly taken aback, though, when his hand leaves her breast and joins hers, pushing impatiently between her thighs. His eyes widen for a second as he discovers just how wet she is, and she can’t help chuckling. “Surprised?”
“Fuck.”
“Yes,” she says again. “Inevitably. But not yet.”
Give the man credit, she thinks, withdrawing her own hand and letting him take over, he seems to be momentarily ambidextrous, and surprisingly coordinated, working them both in a complementary rhythm that is lazy but very, very deliberate. She squeaks though, when he twists suddenly, bringing his strength to bear as pulls her over and across him and loops his arm through her legs as he demands, “Suck it.”
It’s not the time to rebel, she decides. Not out of a desire to placate him, but to enable her. Not the time to complain about being given autocratic orders. No. There will be a better moment for that. She does as she’s told, but entirely for her own benefit. Because she wants to. He tastes of salt and sex, and it’s heady and addictive. A sure, skilful finger works its way into her, making her press back at him as she takes him deeper into her mouth.
“Good girl,” Boyd says, his voice thick and rough with lust. “Yes, just like that…”
She’s good at it. Knows damn well she is. Plenty of practice. She won’t tell him that, either. Though he surely can’t help but realise it. She cradles his heavy balls, rolls them gently in their soft pouch, and as they tighten his cock twitches violently in her mouth. A second finger pushes into her, and Grace briefly sees stars as he makes that wonderfully wicked beckoning motion that finds exactly the right spot.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he promises in that same deep, needy growl.
Grace believes him. She absolutely believes him. Stray muscles still ache a little from the night before. Bullish strength and unfettered enthusiasm. The flex of tempered muscle, and the exquisite feeling of having that solid, blunt-headed cock deep inside her, stretching her out far more than his clever, questing fingers ever could. The thought is slipping away just as he adds a third finger, making her grunt around the hot, rigid flesh in her mouth. His thumb is expertly teasing her clit, too, and Christ, it all feels so fucking good.
A slick, salty release of pre-cum mixes suddenly with her own saliva, shocking in its piquancy, but oh so thrilling. Proof beyond proof of exactly what she’s doing to him. The power she has over him. That thought excites her even more and she renews her fervent assault, sucking and licking and stroking while he continues to fuck her with his strong, thick fingers. It’s not elegant, any of it, but that doesn’t matter one tiny bit. It’s raw and carnal, and so intense that she can’t think beyond the confines of the room, the bed. Beyond the confines of his body and hers.
“Stop,” Boyd tells her, his free hand falling heavily on her shoulder. “Stop.”
She’s tempted to ignore him, to push him over the edge into that wonderful, fleeting nowhere place of raw ecstasy, but he’s insistent, forces a mutual separation that leaves her edgy and impatient as she turns to glare at him. His expression is feral, his eyes ablaze. I did this to him, Grace thinks, full of wild satisfaction. Me!
She squirms round, ends up straddling his thighs, looking down at him. A brief moment of strange silence stretches between them. The eye of the storm. It doesn’t last. Instinct makes her lean down and forwards to kiss him, wondering if he will recoil at the taste of himself. He doesn’t. The kiss deepens, becomes a new method of communication that they both explore eagerly. He’s still kissing her as one of his hands finds her hip and the other reaches for his cock. Breaking away from the kiss, Grace shifts her weight, closes her eyes briefly as she feels him guide himself and press up against her, letting her feel him before he prepares to enter. She wants him inside her, needs him inside her, but she forces herself to relish the first exhilarating moments of initial contact instead. His solid shaft glides where his fingers played, sliding easily and deliciously in a promise of what’s to come.
Despite herself, Grace licks her lips. It’s artless, not a deliberate ploy of seduction, but it seems to have a powerful effect on Boyd who immediately thrusts his hips up at her, abruptly seeking to drive himself home. She has the advantage of position, though, and doesn’t allow it. Not yet. The devil in her is awake and hungry, and desperate to tease despite her own ferocious need. Instead of bearing down fulling, she moves only a tiny fraction. “Just the tip.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” is the immediate, impatient response, but there’s nothing he can do to thwart her without really bringing his superior strength to bear.
“You heard me,” she says, captivated by the barely-contained wildness she can see and feel in him. This is who he really is, after all. Behind the expensive suits and the tough, stoic facade. A brave, fierce, impulsive creature of extremes, one that gives no quarter and expects none in turn. She’s testing him, Grace realises. Testing him to see if he will play the erotic power games she’s always enjoyed so much, or whether he will simply take what he wants, what he needs. “Savour it.”
Then he’s just barely inside her. A delicious torment. For both of them. She rocks her hips, drawing him in a fraction then pulling away a fraction, never letting him push his way fully inside her, keeping up the mutual torment despite his increasingly desperate growls and curses.
Something in Boyd snaps. It’s a shock and it’s not. All his strength, all his weight, and suddenly their positions are reversed and she’s pinned helplessly beneath him. He’s blazing down at her in the way she somehow always knew he would. “Do you know what happens to prick-teases, Grace?”
It’s a game, just as she wanted. Thank God, it’s just a game – if a risky one – and they both know it. She lifts her chin a defiant fraction. “Show me.”
“Oh, I’m going to.”
There’s no finesse in the way he slams himself into her. She’s too aroused for it to hurt, but she feels it. Oh, how she feels it. He doesn’t give her a single moment of respite, either. Starts to pound her with deep, hard thrusts that Grace suspects come from some deep inner core of rage and frustration that he’s barely aware of on any conscious level. It’s every bit as good as it is punishing. She grips his shoulders; doesn’t bother to mind what she does with her nails. If she rips him bloody, well, it will be his own damn fault.
“Prick-teases get fucked,” Boyd grinds out at her, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “You hear me, Grace? Prick-teases get fucked.”
If he’s trying to shock her, it’s not working. Just turns her on even more. Makes her swear at him and turn her head to bite his forearm. Not gently.
Wet and aroused and needy as she is, the brutal rhythm has a strong effect. That familiar, wonderful pressure is beginning to build, sending spiralling tension through her belly and her thighs. The weight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. All of it combining into an erotic rollercoaster that’s on the upward haul, building and building towards the high adrenaline moment that’s becoming more and more inevitable.
Without warning he pulls out of her completely, causing her to mewl her displeasure, and settles back on his haunches, fisting his cock fast and desperate until he grunts and strains his head back. He comes in a mindless series of jerks, ropes of semen – shockingly hot – spattering across her belly and breasts.
It’s one of the most erotic things Grace has ever experienced.
For about thirty seconds.
Then the urgent need hits her in a renewed wave of sheer, angry frustration and she rains curses down on him without any attempt at restraint.
Boyd ignores her. Completely. Pounces on her hard enough to momentarily knock the breath out of her lungs, and buries his head between her thighs. He’s not gentle, and she doesn’t want – or need – him to be. His probing tongue is fierce and demanding, and she’s instantly back on the rollercoaster and heading straight for the apex at truly astonishing speed.
Visceral pleasure erupts, burning her up. Legs going into spasm, mind letting go of everything as the primitive shudders go through every inch of her. Sweat and semen, him and her, pleasure so intense it’s almost pain. She shakes uncontrollably, hit by aftershock after aftershock as Boyd pushes her on and on like some terrifying demon lover who, once unleashed, can’t ever be stopped. One of them is making guttural noises that sound like smothered screams, and Grace has no idea whether it’s him or her.
Then it’s over, and he’s moving, pulling her into him in a clumsy embrace that’s strong and tight, and absolutely needed. Against his chest, she can hear the heavy thudding of his heart. Can feel her own beating far too fast.
The spiral down is slow, silent, and strangely wonderful.
When she can speak, Grace mumbles a spontaneous and heartfelt, “God, you’re good.”
She feels rather than hears his low answering chuckle. “So they tell me.”
“Not that good,” she corrects hastily. No point in pandering to his already extremely healthy ego. She’s finding herself again. “Maybe… a little above average.”
“Shut up, Grace.” It’s easy and good-natured. “Let me keep hold of my delusions.”
The bedroom reeks of sex, she realises as reality becomes more and more prominent. It’s nowhere near as exciting as it was. And there’s a sweaty stickiness between their bodies that she decides not to think too much about. Funny how the books and films never depict such things. To much reality, she supposes.
“It is Saturday, isn’t it?” she asks after a long while, lifting her head slightly. Boyd’s eyes are closed.
He grunts then mutters, “I bloody well hope so. If it’s not, we’re both very late for work.”
“Mm.” She grins to herself as a thought occurs. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ll probably get away with it.”
He opens his eyes. “Oh?”
“Mm-hm,” she says with a little nod. “Perks of sleeping with the boss.”
“Ah.” One large hand starts to roam idly along the length of her back. “I hate to break it to you, Grace, but there are no perks. Not to sleeping with this boss.”
“Quite sure about that, are you?” she asks, pointedly lifting one eyebrow.
He regards her with a mild sort of speculative curiosity. “Not entirely, it has to be said. Anyway, it’s definitely Saturday, so it’s a moot point.”
“It might not be so moot on Monday morning. If we’re running late.” She lets the implication hang in the air between them as an unspoken choice. End it now before it’s really started, and on good terms, or…
Boyd’s expression doesn’t change. She decides that’s encouraging. “I see.”
It’s not quite an answer, but Grace isn’t sure she really expected one. Not directly. He’s far too canny for that. Too canny, and too infuriating. But it’s something. An offer of an interlude, maybe. Well, there’s no point in pressing him, no point in trying to force the sort of conversation he’s clearly not willing to have. She’s every bit as wily as he is. Knows when choosing to retreat can be used to her best advantage. Extricating herself from his arms, she sits up. A muscle in her back twinges in complaint. She ignores it. Patting the nearest long male thigh, she says, “Shower. Then breakfast. Then perhaps a little stroll in the park.”
He doesn’t bridle, just continues to watch her that same placid, almost detached interest. “The lady knows her own mind.”
“She does,” Grace confirms. “Well?”
Rolling onto his back, Boyd scratches at his beard for a moment, mock-thoughtful. She guesses he is weighing up his options, stacking the pros against the cons. Finding his own way to the path she’s delicately offering. “Yeah, all right. Why not?”
So absolutely calm that she almost sounds indifferent herself, she says, “Good.”
“And tonight?” he asks. It’s a far bigger question than it appears.
“Tonight,” Grace replies, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, “you can take me to dinner somewhere ridiculously expensive and tell me exactly why we’ve wasted nearly five bloody years getting to where we are now.”
“I’ll take you to dinner,” he agrees, sitting up, “and I’ll even pay the bill. But the talking, Grace… that’s entirely your department.”
“Isn’t it just,” she says as she moves to the window and opens the curtains just a crack to peer out at the morning. He can’t see her satisfied smile, she knows, but he almost certainly knows it’s there.
- the end -