Sweet Disorder: Deleted Scene #2

The missing sex scene in Phoebe’s apartment.

***

He kissed her neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head.

“Then we won’t.” He guided her back onto the bed. Phoebe scrambled into the center of the mattress, and he went to pull his boots off. Then he followed her, pushing her skirts up, his hands gentle on the backs of her legs.

Her chest still heaved with the ghosts of sobs, but God, that almost made this better, all that emotion right at the surface. She was already wet, and when he slipped a finger inside her, she felt it with an intensity she couldn’t believe.

“You’re ready for me,” he said with a kind of awed tenderness, rubbing his thumb over her clitoris like a friendly greeting. She was going to cry again. She buried her face in his shoulder as he climbed between her legs, spreading her legs wider and tilting her hips up as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. His cock pressed against her opening. She held her breath. “Beg me for it,” he whispered in her ear.

She froze, utterly shocked. “What?”

“Come on,” he coaxed. She could hear the smile and the dare in his voice. “Beg me for it.”

“P-please,” she said.

He dragged the head of his cock up her slit and over her most sensitive spot, rubbing gently.

Please.” Her desire was building now, desperately, driving every other thought from her head.

“You can do better than that.” He let the head of his cock slip into her an inch or two, and then slip out.

She couldn’t even remember what she’d been crying about. “Please! For the love of God—”

“Say, ‘Fuck me, Nick.'”

She gulped. She’d never, ever said that word aloud. She’d never called him by his Christian name, either. But after everything he’d seen, a few words shouldn’t matter much one way or the other. She took a deep breath. “F—f—”

He started to pull away.

She shut her eyes, fire blooming across her face and neck. “Fuck me, Nick.”

He entered her in one great thrust. “Say it again.”

“Fuck me.”

He thrust again.

“Fuck me.” He pounded into her then. He was large, and she was out of practice. She stretched uncomfortably tight around him, gripping his shoulders until her knuckles turned white. “Harder. Nick, please—”

He took her so fiercely she couldn’t even move along with him, only lie there and take it and beg for more. And then she couldn’t even beg, only gasp for air as she felt her release building. She strained towards it, but it came at his pace and no faster, each thrust taking her almost there—almost—

She convulsed around him, shaking and turning her face away. Each time she thought it was over his pelvis would smash against hers and one last tremor would rock through her.

She lay there, sated and content and hollowed out, while he kept going. Intellectually, she knew if this went on forever she’d get bored of it, but at the moment she never wanted to do anything else, feel anything else. “Fuck me,” she said again, curious how it would sound now that she could think again. A little silly, she decided. She shifted lazily, drawing her knees up a little. “Mmm, yes, Nick.” He trembled, his honey-colored hair tickling her ear. She turned her head so her mouth brushed his ear. “Call me Phoebe,” she murmured, and lightly bit his earlobe.

“Phoebe,” he said in that aristocratic drawl. “Ohhh. You’re a goddess—”

Oh. It was too much sweetness; it stung and burned going down. Helen was right, drat her. She did want more than an affair. She tried to focus on how beautiful he was, what a splendid lover—and not how close he was or how dear, or how right he felt in her arms. “I don’t know what I’m going to do all day in the press room, knowing we did this this morning,” she said. “I won’t be able to think about anything else.”

He slowed just a little, listening. He liked it when she talked, then. Will had used to put a hand over her mouth, early on, until she’d got the message and stopped trying. She hadn’t minded, exactly, and he’d done it teasingly, but—don’t think about how much you like him.

“I might have to slip away on some very important newspaper business,” she said. “Owen won’t suspect a thing, but you’ll know I’m upstairs touching myself and imagining it’s you.”

He groaned, his hips jerking a little. It was terribly intimate, talking to him while he was still inside her. When her mind wasn’t clouded with the need to spend, she could appreciate it properly. Tenderness expanded inside her like a balloon at the weight of him, the soft rustle of his coat against her gown. When she turned her head, the gold button on his sleeve was only a few inches from her eyes.

“Where will you touch yourself?” His perfect voice was hoarse.

“I’ll start with my breasts.” He groaned again. “And then when I can’t take it anymore, I’ll run my hands up my legs, slowly. I’ll think about you downstairs, knowing what I’m doing, and it’ll be as if you can see me, as if you’re there with me—”

He growled against her neck, pumping jerkily into her. “Christ,” he said unevenly. “Oh, Christ.” He collapsed against her. “You won’t really, will you?”

She smiled, feeling much, much better. “That depends on how attractive you manage to be today.”

***

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