Agent Provocateur: Secrets: A Collection of Erotic Fiction

by Agent Provocateur

It’s a localised, burning sensation.

I felt sated. Better. I had exhausted my story. I didn’t need to hear it again. It was done. That was enough for me. That he’d helped me do that.

‘Come on,’ he said, and I felt my insides smile and the tension

build.

I found myself running my right hand through my hair while the man next to me ran his fingers up and down my leg like a jazz pianist, tickling all the right notes that were making me shiver. I flicked my eyes to the rear view mirror. What was the driver thinking?

surreptitiously

But there was something about the skill with which he handled my flesh. The way it sang underneath him.

How could this be so . . . dramatically, so wonderfully . . . removed? And could it ever last beyond this moment?

He fitted his arm snugly across my midriff, his face in my hair, breathing in my smell.

Against her conscious wishes she noticed the stirrings of desire

replete

I blame the champagne. I blame myself. I blame my obsessive crush on that tall, impassive, hypocritical, hypnotising, two-timing, completely captivating and plainly beautiful man.

We sat in easy silence. We breathed the same rhythm. I drank it all in. The crimson corner. The pillow of his lip. As he talked I watched his mouth, thinking ‘let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth’. Would he kiss me? My god I hoped so. What is it in the Song of Solomon? ‘Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet’? His are like a bed of scarlet — I want to lie next to him with my lips just brushing his. And breathe cedar.

It feels now as if he was planting himself under my skin.

I was, I am, hooked: my flesh sewn into his at each and every point of coincidence.

P.S. Lily of the Valley symbolise the return of happiness — I know you love your hidden meanings. G x

hyacinths? They symbolise a game — I looked it up. What was he playing at?

Who

can read Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb: honey and milk are under thy tongue . . . and remain sane?

prandial

But you deserve better.

Note in bunch of tuberoses delivered to Emma, July 14th Sorry not to have been in touch — I will be in London from 15th (your birthday?) at the Mantle Hotel in Marylebone.

I have been walking around in a daze. Everything I touch reminds me of Gabriel.

undressed him in my mind. And he knew it.

British denial: ‘What, these? Oh, I simply had nothing else to wear!’

satori

The office heating system made metallic noises around us as we faced each other in silent, prickly anticipation, like two scorpions in a pit.

cognoscenti

soon-to-be lovers

You did your best to shock me, but I showed no alarm.

When I gave broad brushstrokes to my fantasies your eyes shone at the prospect of making them real. You told me the sight of a pair of inflamed buttocks at the rear end of a well-educated professional woman was the red rag to your bull of lust – the spur to action you couldn’t resist. My head was soon dizzy with stars.

Maida Vale.

‘Yes.’ I couldn’t stand much more of his measured voice, saying the things I’d longed to hear for years.

And what you said sent me into paroxysms of delight.