Free Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1) by Miranda Mailer Page A

thump thump.

Chapter 9: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May
    I feel cornered, my back to the cool concrete wall of the mezzanine gallery of the Saul Hankow. There’s no one around up here. I shouldn’t be doing this, but he makes me feel oddly warm and cared for. I feel safe, in fact, as well as incredibly turned on. I can get up and go whenever I want; I ought to go, but of course I don’t want to go. I want to see what he’s going to do.
    Johnthen sits down on the bench dangerously close to me, but I scoot back out of the way once more, keeping my knees demurely together. Without saying anything, he takes the champagne from me and places the glass on the floor. Then takes the calf of my left leg firmly in his hands. I try to pull it back, but he won’t let me. His hands feel cool on my legs through sheer fabric of my stay-ups. His fingers are long and masculine. Long, strong, very male – but somehow artistic. Which just about sums the guy up.
    Those fingers calmly slip off my killer heels, left foot and then right foot. His hands are so cooling on my burning feet, and his fingers feel wonderful straightaway. I make a small gasp.
    ‘Good?’ he asks, arching an eyebrow over his deep golden gaze. He knows the answer.
    ‘Yes, good. Ooh… So this is what you think I need?’ I breathe.
    ‘No. I said it’s what you want,’ he says, beginning a firm massage of my feet that has me open-mouthed with bliss. ‘What you need is for me to put you over my knee right here and now, for the way you behaved. But I’m too much of a gentleman for that.’
    My mouth gapes – is it in shock at what this rude, arrogant SOB has just said? Or am I gasping at the orgasmic pleasure on my feet? And why the hell does the idea of being spanked by him over this leather bench make my heart go thum-patta-thump like this?
    ‘The way I behaved? You arrogant son of a bitch! Who are you to…’
    ‘You flagrantly pinched my ass in front of all those people,’ he says. ‘Then you had the nerve to blame me for embarrassing Andrea.’ He states it simply, and there is no answer. Which wouldn’t stop me coming back at him, but what his hands are doing to my feet is just taking over my senses here, robbing me of speech.
    I can’t even be angry. It’s erased my mind and I find my whole attention is on my feet, and I realize I’ve put both my hands above my head, in an unconscious “take-me” pose. Absolutely brazen body language. I shift my arms and pull down the hem of my skirt toward my knees in a pathetic effort at modesty. I am sure he can still see the stocking tops.
    I really ought to stop him, right now.
    What the hell? What is he doing to my feet? I try to pull them away but he holds them firmly, one in each hand, doing the same massage on each foot with his thumbs. Ahh, feels, so, gooood. What is he, a masseur? I’ve heard reflexology can stimulate other parts of the body from the feet. Is that what this is? The point he’s firmly kneading is going straight to the bottom of my spine. And also… honestly, my pussy . He has got me wet in my panties: those thin, sheer, silky things I put on. And he’s stroking, fondling and firmly pressing, getting a new reaction each time, but using less pressure each time. I feel my sex softening and opening.
    ‘No, don’t,’ I say, hopefully. ‘You mustn’t.’
    ‘Yes,’ he replies assertively, ‘Oh, yes.’ He’s circling his thumbs on the double G spots of my feet. I feel my panties drenched in the gusset, and I try to stop my thighs from parting. I’m going to have a whole body orgasm if I don’t stop him.
    I look down. He’s intent, those dark gold eyes studying the soles of my feet, circling, pressing and caressing. God, does he ever know what he’s doing! It’s like he’s drugged me, mesmerized me through my feet. His face is serious, almost severe, but he’s fascinated by the effect he is having on my feet. He must be some lover, a real devoted artist in the sack.