Damaged goods - Sex Stories

Damaged goods

... her cheeks. "God no. A random bloke turning up at our door will push him over the edge. He'll assume the worst." "He has such a low opinion of you?" She was quiet a beat. "Recently I haven't exactly given him reason not to." Ryan sensed that wasn't all. Knew she was fragile, balancing on a knife-edge. It could go either way. Home with just his right hand for company, or here buried inside her tight snatch as she absolved her sins by encasing them with fresh ones. He waited. Watched her reach for the handle and hesitate. Could have climbed out of his life right then. Probably should have. "Can I pay you for the fuel?" "No, you're fine. But thanks for the offer." "How about a drink then? Have to show my appreciation somehow." Touchdown! "It's not necessary, seriously. Not if I'm driving. I'm glad to have been able to help." "So you're going to let me sit in a pub on my own in this country too are you?" He weighed it up. "I thought we established you don't drink alone." "Touché. Come on, one drink. I don't bite." "I doubt that." He looked her over, batting her lashes at him, eyes alive. "OK. I'll have to park up for a while, though. Alcohol on an empty stomach is never a great combination." "Then how about some food? Nothing fancy. Pub grub." So predictable. "I shouldn’t." "If it makes you feel any better, I'll split the bill." "Is that a concedable part of this negotiation?" She looked away, went quiet. Ryan looked out the other window at some kids chucking stones at a glass ...

... bottle they'd propped up. "Sorry." "No need. Maybe he's right. Maybe I let my work spill into my home life too much." "Don’t beat yourself up. Everyone does it; you wouldn't be human if you didn't. It shows you care, and anyone who doesn't appreciate that or isn't willing to meet you halfway doesn't deserve you." She narrowed her eyes. "Part-time psychologist?" "And part-time philanthropist, part-time musician and part-time pub inspector. I feel the need to file a report. Name the place." She pointed and he peeled away from the kerb, pulled off the road, and nosed the car into a space between two painted lines. Not that it mattered; he could have parked the QE2 diagonally in the car park and not hit anything. It was a typical chain pub with no identity, almost scared to be different. Inoffensive chart music played at a low volume to a handful of people dotted about the place nursing unfinished drinks. All of them looked thoroughly miserable, as if they were waiting for the end of the world to return from the toilets and engulf them. The scuffed tables had engraved number discs set in the corners, and the bar staff would struggle passing through airport metal detectors first time. Ryan presumed the food mirrored the quality of the establishment; microwave on high, three minutes, ding. Melody selected a booth and slid in. They perused the menu. Even the available options were predictable and samey, but they chose quickly and Ryan ordered, bringing back the drinks and settling ...