My Book

by Alam, Donna

  The things we did but didn’t say.

  The opportunity to talk that turned into sex.

  I’d blame avoidance, say that avoiding “the talk” with him last night was because I’m a chicken, but that’s not really the case. Yes, I craved the human contact, and the feel of his arms around me and his chest beneath my cheek was the reassurance I needed, but beyond that, last night was about attraction. About us, not about our situation. I knew before I stepped in through his front door—knew before he delivered one of his kryptonite neck kisses—that we’d be having sex that evening.

  I just didn’t know what form it would take, or how he’d look at me. How he’d touch me, or how I’d weep with a final kind of relief.

  ‘Oopsies.’ Delights discovered in the darkness aren’t always easy to drag out into the light, I decide as I pull at the sheet, recovering my modesty. James smiles sort of silkily at me from his position perched on the edge of his wonderful, cloud-like bed. I don’t think I’ve ever slept as comfortably as I have in his bed. In this bed, I mean. I’m pretty sure it’s the physical comfort of his bed, and not his presence, that makes me sleep like the dead.

  Pretty sure.

  Or I might have passed out from exhaustion. Or lack of oxygen. How can it be that sex with him makes me forget to breathe?

  I glance over to where original-looking shutters cover the row of tall windows on the far wall. The farthest is open a little, the warm morning sunlight dipping into the room like a thief. The room is large and airy, its colour palette a study in whites and greys is quite calming rather than stark. An ornate original fireplace dominates the wall to my left, the wall to my right filled with white framed charcoal sketches that, on closer inspection, appear to be of an erotic nature. Women, or maybe a woman, in various poses, figurative rather than literal, faces indistinct. There’s nothing base about the images. In fact, they’re quite beautiful.

  Whitewashed floorboards, tactile fabrics, and a silver velvety rug bring the room together as a pale sectional sofa and large TV complete a more masculine looking media nook and a sumptuous dressing room beyond.

  ‘No need to cover yourself on my account.’ His expression calms the sudden jangle of my nerves at his words. Warm looks don’t speak of judgement. Of the talk we avoided or of the night of sex we had instead.

  Just be yourself, Mir. There’s no use pretending to be someone else or even a better version of yourself. God knows you won’t be able to keep that up for eighteen years.

  ‘What time is it?’ I find myself smacking my lips together like a nana who hasn’t yet put her teeth in as I then wonder if I can be a little less Miranda for a while.

  ‘It’s a little after half past five.’

  ‘Urgh, only God and the sparrows are awake at this time.’ I rub a finger under my eyes, contemplating how much slutty panda I look this morning again. ‘What are you doing up so early?’

  ‘I’m a perennial early riser. And I’ve got a flight to Berlin this morning.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ My stomach sinks like a heavy stone, yesterday’s worries creeping back in. ‘Will you be away long?’ Calm down, needy Nora. If he’s taking a flight to avoid this, to avoid me, he’s more likely to head to Buenos Aires than Berlin.

  Maybe my thoughts are written in my expression because he adds, ‘I’ve rearranged a few things, and I’m coming back this afternoon. And I was wondering about the doctor.’

  ‘The doctor,’ I repeat a touch more heavily. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I meant for you. Are you always a little slow on the uptake in the morning?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t get enough sleep.’

  ‘Should I apologise?’ he almost purrs. I purse my lips to control a ridiculous and burgeoning smile as I shake my head. ‘Good, because I’m not at all sorry. What’s more, I don’t think I can help myself where you’re concerned.’ He begins to pull at the Brinkhaus bed linens, his fingers tugging the cotton down my body in the tiniest of increments. And I surprise myself by letting him, my nipples hard and aching as the soft fabric whispers across my skin, the muscles in my stomach tensing as it travels down over my hips.

  ‘You look like a Frieseke.’

  ‘Frisky?’ I can’t help but press my thighs together as his gaze wanders down my body, its touch like a physical thing.

  ‘Frieseke,’ he corrects, his tone an octave lower now. ‘He was an artist. An American who painted in France. You look like one of his summer nudes, dappled with sunlight.’

  I watch his fingers trail the pattern across my thigh created by the fall of the sun through the shutters. In a fit of daring, a moment that is wholly not my own, I let my knee fall open, opening myself to him.

  ‘You’re going to make me late.’ His gaze turns almost predatory, but I don’t answer. Unless you count my sigh as such when his thumb slips between my legs. I’m almost wanton in my acceptance, my body rising to meet him as he swipes it against my clit.

  Swipes. Pets.

  I turn my cheek to the pillow, every one of my muscles tense and shivery as his fingers begin to work lightly between my legs. But it’s not enough, not like this. Not after last night when this morning’s potential for climax seems somehow tied to last night. I need pressure. Fast swipes and thrusting fingertips. The weight of his body over mine, not just the weight of his dark gaze. Watching me. Measuring me.

  ‘Look at me.’ His voice is almost a purr. I turn back, blinking up at him. ‘I’m going to take care of you, Miranda. And you’re going to let me.’

  I nod my assent, widening my legs as I push up into his hand, as turned on by the litany of his filthy whispers as I am his deft finger work as he whispers the best kind of encouragements and the filthiest of things.

  How beautiful I am.

  How gorgeous I look riding his hand.

  How slick I feel.

  How he’ll lick his fingers clean.

  And once I’m done—once my molten hot orgasm bursts through me—he does.

  ‘The doctor.’ It might be moments or hours later when his enquiry pierces my consciousness. I blink heavily wondering why it’s not dark again. ‘I’ll take you.’

  I’ll take you.

  I’ll take care of you.

  But in what context?

  ‘I have to make an appointment first.’ I stretch out across the bed, my limbs as controllable and useful as socks full of jelly. ‘I’ll call today, but they probably won’t fit me in until next week.’

  My doctor’s office doesn’t have a receptionist. It has a dragon in a twin set and gold-rimmed spectacles who breathes fire down the phone. A Smaug-type keeper of the gate, but with a much snootier attitude. I’m pretty sure she issues appointments on the basis of her how much you grovel down the line because sounding ill, sniffily, or croaky elicits no sympathy. God help me if I ever get really sick.

  But I don’t say any of this because that would require brainpower. And my brain is currently rolling around inside my skull like marbles.

  ‘I have a contact that I thought might be able to see us sometime this week for confirmation.’

  That all sounds really . . . suspect. A contact. Confirmation. Is this where I find myself shoved in a shipping container bound for God knows where? I’m suddenly more alert as I push a knot of hair from forehead with the back of my hand. I inhale and try to keep my voice even.

  ‘What kind of contact?’

  ‘The doctor kind of contact.’ He frowns down at me as he adds, ‘An obstetrician. Someone I happen to know personally.’ That information doesn’t soothe me. Not at all. Why would he need an obstetrician?

  ‘I think I’ll stick to my own doctor, thanks.’ I might not have to see him. Maybe the nurse might do?

  ‘Miranda, you have to let me in. I want to take care of you.’ This echo of his earlier words pulls at my consciousness when the words were delivered with a different intent. ‘In every way that you’ll let me.’ His voice seems to be at its most sultry setting, something I choose to ignore. ‘I want to b
e part of this with you, but I don’t have the best of schedules to attend appointments and the like.’ Weariness shadows his face, lifting in a blink. ‘But what I do have is the personal number of the man who delivers the royal babies. Will Travers. Lord Travers,’ he adds with a heavy emphasis. ‘I never thought I’d ever have use for his services, but there you go. I’ll give you his details, and if you’re still unsure, you can Google him until your heart is content. And if he meets your expectations, he’ll see us at six one evening this week.’

  See us at six? He’s coming with? Be still my greedy little heart.

  ‘You’ve already contacted him?’

  ‘I sent him a text very late last night. I can only imagine he was working because he answered.’

  ‘I’ve heard babies work on their own schedules,’ I reply deadpan.

  ‘I guess we have lots of time to find out. But what do you think? About seeing him, I mean?’

  ‘Well, yeah. That sounds good.’ I can do a bit of digging later, but if he sees to the royals, I’m sure he’s amazing. ‘I’m sure a royal hoo-haw is no different from a common one.’

  ‘A royal what?’

  ‘Do you know you give that word an extra syllable. W-hot.’ I try to replicate his diction and fail while still hoping this bit of ridiculousness will distract him from the other bit. Hoo-haw? Really?

  ‘I’m certain your pussy is anything but common.’

  My expression twists as I scrunch up my nose. ‘I think I prefer hoo-ha’

  ‘I think I prefer cunt. Actually, I prefer your cunt.’

  Something hot and swift blooms inside as an immediate response. How he enunciates this so precisely somehow heightens the effect. Such a bad, dirty word in such a haughty tone. If I had knickers on, I’m sure they’d have fallen off themselves.

  ‘Bad man.’ It sounds more like encouragement than an admonishment.

  ‘I like it for the shock value. Though your rose by any other name would taste as sweet.’

  I’m pretty sure right now it would taste anything but sweet, but I resist saying so. Wisely, I feel.

  ‘Sweet and slick.’ He leans forward, quite suddenly pressing his mouth to mine as I roll my lips inwards again, just as fast.

  ‘Mormim bref,’ I say without fully opening my mouth.

  His smooth cheek sliding against mine makes my thighs clench almost involuntarily, at the contrast of sensations between this and last night a little overwhelming.

  The scruff of his bristles against my breast and how my clit had turned electric at the brush of his chin.

  The sight of him this morning, his obscene tongue flicking out to taste me from his fingertips.

  As he stands, I realise he’s already showered and appears clean and rather pristine looking even though he’s only half dressed. Is half dressed the same as half undressed? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so at home in his own skin. He turns, pulling a shirt from a hanger hooked around the door handle to his dressing room as I take a moment to appreciate the sight of him. It’s unfair that anyone should look so good this early in the morning. His darker hair is still a little damp from the shower, his back broad and tanned, and his navy-blue pants hug the taut muscles of his delicious rear end.

  My skin suddenly feels pricked by a million pins, my nipples drawing tight under the sheet. Is it too early to blame hormones? Why else would I turn to liquid at his touch?

  ‘Should I collect you up from work?’ His head lifts from fastening the tiny row of hinderances between my gaze and his skin. He shoots me a sly smirk. ‘Perhaps I should’ve woken you earlier.’

  ‘What?’ I shake my head for two reasons. One, waking me earlier than five thirty is practically waking me last night. And two, I also shake my head to rid myself of the idea of pulling him back to bed. ‘I’ve got my car, remember?’ Remember wrist flicking and other bad behaviour? ‘And I’ve got a dog sitting gig tonight.’

  ‘You’re still planning on doing that?’ His tone is a little unsettling, which might account for my response.

  ‘Well, yeah. Unless that email I got yesterday is legitimate, and that I am in fact related to a Congolese prince who just kicked the bucket and left me ten million. Failing that, I’ll still be pet-sitting for the foreseeable.’

  James mutters something under his breath that sounds a little like unbelievable.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about money now.’

  ‘I knew we should’ve had that talk last night,’ I mutter, pulling the bed linen higher until it’s under my chin. ‘Dirty talk isn’t really talking, is it?’ I ask evenly. Okay, taunt.

  ‘Don’t be flippant,’ he answers, though he’s smiling. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. I want to take care of you and our—’

  I hold up a finger between us. ‘Can we see the doctor first before we have this conversation?’

  ‘Of course, but I thought you were sure you’re pregnant?’

  Ninety-nine percent effective, I almost answer. But then remember those are the same odds as we had with condoms.

  ‘There’s nothing certain in this world but—’

  ‘Death and taxes,’ he finishes for me, but I’m already pushing back the bedclothes and clawing my way out of bed, almost as though Mother Nature seeks to contradict both my words and thoughts.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Was I really that polite, or did I yell move, bitch, in the kind of voice that would make Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson sound like a schoolgirl? It’s hard to tell what came out of my mouth as something revolts, quite literally, insisting my insides need to become my outsides as I press my hand across my mouth.

  ‘What is it? Miranda?’

  I drag the sheet with me as I begin my race across the expanse of floor to the bathroom, a race I’m running against the contents of my stomach, I think. I don’t have time to shut the door or wrap the sheet around me fully before my knees land on the hard tiles, and I give into nature’s curse.

  ‘Oh, Gog . . . bleurgh. Mother of Christ! Fucking, bleurgh, fuck!’

  Bloody Eve. An apple isn’t even that exciting. If it had been a donut or a piece of—

  ‘Nooooo!’

  I retch and wail, and I retch a bit more until I don’t think I can take it anymore. The noises I make are violent and my sobs beseeching and pathetic. And I’ve always been a little bit of a clean freak. I was the child at school who, without fail, would pull a mini bottle of hand sanitiser out of her lunch box before her sandwiches. Yet here I kneel, basically cuddling the toilet bowl.

  At least he has a housekeeper.

  As my sobs reduce to hiccups, I become aware of the man holding my hair. Yes, holding it in one hand as he rubs such tender, soothing circles against my back.

  ‘I’m not sure we need a doctor, sweetheart. For confirmation, at least.’ A wet washcloth is pressed to my sticky forehead. ‘Do you think you can stand?’ I nod and begin to clamber up, reaching to flush the yellow goo when his hand hooks under my arm. ‘Let me help you.’

  I catch a glimpse of my reflection as he bends to pick up the sheet that’s pooled around my toes. I look like something out of a horror movie; wild hair, red eyes, and my skin is the colour of putty. In fact, dye my hair black, and I might give that chick from the movie The Ring a run for her money.

  I shuffle dumbly in the direction I’m bid, which happens to be the shower, but before I step in, James leans in, switching on the hot water. The cuff of his shirt is immediately wet as he tests the water. As he pulls back, he shakes his hand, tiny droplets cascade from his fingertips. The motion is as mesmerising as watching a magician perform a trick.

  ‘The water should be okay now.’ He begins to unbutton his shirt; three buttons loose, then he pulls it over his head. He reaches then for his belt when he seems to realise I haven’t moved, that I’m standing on the wrong side of the glass. ‘Hop in,’ he instructs as he unbuckles his belt next.

  I want to tell him I can shower myself. That I’ll be fine. That I don’t need his help, but in actual fact, I feel
as weak as a newborn foal. A newborn foal who whimpers a little as a strong pair of arms wraps me in their protection, tightening a touch as though he has no intention of ever letting go.

  ‘I thought you had a flight to make.’ My words are soft, and I’m not one hundred percent sure I can be heard over the flow of the water as I press my back to his chest.

  ‘There’ll be another flight later,’ he replies as gently as his hands soap my body. He rubs the tension from my shoulders, making long strokes down my arms. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this about work and making money, but some things are just more important.’ His words are spoken so quietly, I’m not sure they were meant for my ears, but as his hand splays across my stomach, a warm glow spreads through me anyway.

  23

  James

  ‘Will, how are you?’

  ‘Harry, good to see you. And congratulations.’

  Will’s grip is just as punishing as it was on my shoulder during a ruck on the rugby pitch a couple of years ago. He and I have known each other for some years, long before his father died and he became the next Lord Travers of his line. I suppose he’d refer to that period as his whoring years. Not that he was a whore, of course, though I’m sure there were plenty of women who would’ve been willing to pay. I imagine there are still.

  As he turns his attention to Miranda, who stands suddenly mute at my side, I recall a tale someone once told me about how he met his wife. Something about a miscommunication and Will pretending to be a male escort? After meeting Sadie myself, I can’t see her as the type who’d want or need to pay a stranger for a date. Or more.

  And speaking of paying someone to spend time with you, I’m considering getting a dog. If that’s what it takes to pin Miranda down for a conversation, I would. I didn’t make it to Berlin on Tuesday, no surprises there. I couldn’t leave her without making sure she was okay. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, but she tells me she’s still standing, with the exception of twenty minutes each morning when she prays, as she put it, to the porcelain gods.