Forbidden to Want

by JC Harroway

  ‘Are you serious?’ My scalp writhes—it’s a fucking uncomfortable feeling.

  She smiles, fiddling with her hair, which she’s pulled into some sort of messy ponytail. ‘Have you done it before?’

  I nod, my hand gripping the back of my neck while I seek divine patience. I grit my teeth, choosing my words carefully so I don’t come across as a total nutjob. ‘I don’t like surprises.’ It was bad enough yesterday when I spied her leaning on the rail of the bridge, just for a fucking photo.

  Once upon a time I’d have shared Mia’s enthusiasm for adventure. But I’ve been there, done that...watched my wife slip into unconsciousness on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere... I clench my fists, helplessness gnawing at my insides.

  Mia misinterprets my hesitancy, not that I care about bullshit emasculation. ‘Come on. It’ll be fun. It’s perfectly safe.’

  I glance over at the brick tower that the signs tell me was once part of an old Victorian water-pumping station, while I rationalise the chances of anything bad happening. I need this like I need a root canal. But I heard from Reid this morning, informing me he’s signed off on all of Mia’s ideas and he and Drake are excited about the angle she’s taking and the end product.

  Instead of surrendering to the stomach-churning impotence, I level my attention on Mia. I can’t stop her or forbid her. It is perfectly safe. Damn, I’ll probably even enjoy it. And from the look on her face, trying to talk her out of it is pretty pointless. Exactly the kind of futility that makes my skin crawl. I release my hair from my fist, my scalp tingling.

  ‘I just...would have liked some warning, that’s all. I’m usually in charge. I’m not used to having things sprung on me.’

  ‘Okay, boss. No more surprises. Come on.’ She tugs my arm and I follow her inside, struggling to put my finger on what’s really bothering me.

  On the one hand, I’m in a dream situation—having fantastic sex with a beautiful woman who doesn’t seem to want anything from me other than a couple of orgasms, which I’m more than happy to deliver, and freedom to do her job. But on the other hand, not a view I usually linger over, once the sex is over she’s out of the door with the speed of an Olympic sprinter and it’s pissing me off. I gnaw at my lip to prevent me asking why, like some needy jerk.

  Because why doesn’t matter. This is temporary. Temporary great sex. And nothing more, as evidenced by the way she flew out of the door last night.

  And I’m here, holding up my side of the bargain, despite the surprise she’s sprung on me. But she’s holding back, and for some unfathomable reason this has me itching to crawl out of my skin—a feeling absent from my orderly life for three lonely but predictable years.

  As we listen to the safety briefing I swallow my disgruntlement and lean close to whisper in her ear, just to enjoy the way her neck muscles judder under my breath, ‘You sure you want to do this? I can think of ten other ways to give you the same high. Private, naked ways.’

  She nods, her fingers stroking away the goosebumps left by my breath as she shushes me. ‘Stop. I might use the footage for the promo if it’s up to scratch.’

  She puts her index finger on her mouth and turns back to listen.

  It’s not until we’re all trussed up and standing on a platform at the top of the tower that my unease solidifies into a ticking bomb in my chest. It’s irrational. The staff are well-trained. Mia tells me she’s done this a hundred times. I’ve even done it myself, back in the day, but the mass compressing my lungs persists.

  It’s not even fear. It’s anger—a great concrete slab of pure rage. But the last thing I need is to come across like some unhinged crazy man to this woman I can’t figure out. A woman I’m just fucking, because I can’t even say we’re sleeping together. Mia doesn’t do sleepovers.

  I rub my sternum, willing the burn away while Mia listens to last-minute instructions. She turns and grins at me, shooting me a thumbs-up. She has a camera strapped to her chest and one on the top of her safety helmet, which has tamed the usual cloud of hair, but given her an adorable case of hamster cheeks. Not that she’d give a shit.

  Before the instructor has even finished speaking she gives him a nod, shoots me a wide beam of a smile that dissolves the last of the mass in my chest, and before I have chance to suck in a steadying breath she’s gone. The whine of the ropes and Mia’s victory cry echo around the tower as she speeds to the ground in a single, free-fall rappel.

  And then she’s two hundred feet below me, on solid ground, her fists pumping the air and her euphoric grin splitting her face.

  My face is frozen, my pulse thunders and a white-hot burn coats my throat. Did she even listen to all the instructions? Has she no reservations whatsoever?

  I can’t begin to analyse the last few minutes of turmoil my body’s been through and I don’t care to. I step onto the platform, keen to get my turn over with so we can head back into London...perhaps stop somewhere nice for lunch when I’ve calmed down.

  I’m numb, acting on auto as I sit on the edge of the platform and hurl myself forward. It’s a passable high, made more so by Mia’s welcoming smile when I touch down. She flies towards me, her hand raised for a high five as I unhook my harness from the ropes.

  Some out-of-body possession grips me and I ignore the high five, snake my arm around her waist, haul her up close and kiss her. Firm, taking what I want. No preamble. It eases some of the thunder roaring in my head, but it’s not enough. I scan the nearby buildings, scoping out a place to take her and fuck her until we’ve both had enough adrenaline for one day.

  With a sigh I pull my mouth away from her return kiss, venting some of the emotion before the top of my head explodes. ‘You were a bit bloody reckless.’

  She freezes in my arms for a split second, and then she pushes me away.

  ‘What do you mean? That was fantastic.’ Her freckles are out in full force today. If I weren’t wound so tightly I’d indulge my eyes, picking one of the fascinating myriad, which seems to change every time I look at her, to study.

  But all I can see is red. I suck in air. I have no right to berate or even question her. I got myself in this stupid situation by agreeing to give her control of this project, despite my better judgement. My dick was clearly in charge that day.

  ‘You just threw yourself off. Had you even finished listening to the instructor?’

  She laughs, clearly still high. ‘That was the best. I’m doing it again.’ She’s breathless, her face flushed, wisps of hair escaping her helmet. Oblivious to my inner meltdown, she loops her arm through mine and tugs me back towards the entrance to the base of the tower.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ My heels dig into the grass. Fuck. What can I possibly say to make this better? I’m screwed, bent over a barrel, a victim to indulging both myself and Mia.

  She turns, her smile slipping and her eyes narrowing. ‘What? Are you telling me what to do?’

  I scrub my face. I can’t forbid her to do this. But I can’t not watch, either. I swallow down the acid in my throat and smooth out my expression. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Avoiding her question, I say, ‘Give me this.’ I point to the chest camera. ‘I’ll film you from the ground this time.’ If I can’t put an end to this, I’ll watch it unfold. Be there, on the ground, just in case. And some weird, twisted part of me wants to see the reaction on her face, the joy I heard the first time. The real, unguarded Mia, not the version who more often than not presents me with her back as she flees from my bed.

  For a second she hesitates. ‘But the footage is for the Faulkner promo.’

  Perhaps she’s still smarting from my proprietary outburst. Perhaps she thinks I’m too chicken to have another go. Perhaps she just prefers to be behind the lens rather than in front. ‘And I’m a Faulkner. I want to film you for a change.’

  I scoop my hand around her waist and kiss her forehead, indulg
ing in the scent of her hair for a second, which calms me a fraction. I pull back and kiss her, pressing her up against the wall as she returns my kiss with her usual enthusiasm.

  When we break apart she’s staring at me, eyes searching. My scalp prickles and I’m grateful for the jumpsuit and crash helmet and the protection they grant. ‘Go on.’ I reach for the chest-mounted camera and jerk my head skywards. ‘It’s not like I’m asking you to make a sex tape.’

  Yeah, joke your way out of it...

  She grins but hesitates.

  Then she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me. ‘I totally would—I considered it the first day I met you.’ She hands over the small, hand-held camera and walks backwards towards the doorway, excitement in her eyes, and then, at the last minute before she disappears into the stairwell, winks at me.

  I capture every moment of her second jump, the twisted knot in my gut at her ginormous smile as big as the concrete block of earlier. Carefree, fun-loving Mia steals my breath more than any adrenaline thrill. More even than the idea of making a sex tape featuring her as the star.

  Fuck. That’s not a good thing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mia

  THE LUNCH KIT insisted on was delicious, but not that informative for my raging curiosity. We mainly talked about other venues I have planned for the film and travel, Kit confessing New Zealand is one of only a handful of countries he’d yet to visit. But at least food seems to have cured him of whatever snit the rap jumping brought about.

  I glance across at him bent double in the passenger seat of Will’s car. Still ridiculously hot. ‘Am I dropping you home?’ My belly clenches at the idea—today has been fun, despite the hangover from my freak-out last night and Kit’s initial reluctance. I can interpret the latter many ways, but I’m left with more questions than answers.

  He glances across at me and I duck my head back to the view of London traffic through the windscreen so I don’t have to register the flicker of what looks like disappointment in his eyes.

  ‘You can. Or...’ He pauses, as if wrestling with an internal decision. ‘I have an engagement this afternoon—you could come with me.’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak with anything other than extreme confidence. The first time he’s asked for my company. The tension seeps from my fingers on the wheel and I smile.

  ‘Sure.’ I tell myself the relief is for the lure of more work—I like to keep busy. And whatever he’s doing might be perfect for the promo video. ‘What’s on the agenda? All of my equipment is in the boot, so we’re good to go.’ Talking about work seems to be our safe place—and hopefully stops him from mentioning my weird behaviour last night. But then, perhaps he didn’t notice. Perhaps he was thinking about Laura...

  I swallow.

  Last night’s wake-up call hit me hard, requiring a good twenty-minute self-lecture in the shower when I returned to Will’s. There’s no reason I can’t enjoy Kit’s astounding bedroom skills, as long as my euphoria-addicted brain understands the high is simply physical.

  And the urge to hold him, to comfort him, to give him more than control of the sex...? I’m simply confusing empathy and compassion with other feelings. Ones that have no place in our casual arrangement.

  ‘It’s not related to the Faulkner.’ Kit snaps me back to the conversation. ‘It’s... I teach a class. You might find it useful to sit in. You might even enjoy it.’ His mouth curls, dimple flashing, and my pulse skyrockets. I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve done with Kit so far, some things too much.

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m up for anything.’ When I’m active, when I’m pushing myself, challenging myself, I feel like me. No time to wonder who that is and no time for errant feelings.

  Kit snorts as he types the change of address into the GPS. ‘Yes, I know. The way you hurled yourself off that tower...’

  I’m about to laugh when I catch his expression. He’s made light of it, but there’s tension around his eyes. I nudge him with my elbow. ‘It was fun—the bigger the risk, the bigger the rush. And that was nothing—the first time I tried bungee jumping was on a bridge over a gorge...’ My voice trails off as I catch his expression. ‘Did I freak you out?’

  That would explain his reticence. He covered it up, but his bossy streak broke through. For a moment back there, I sensed an argument brewing. But not even Kit would issue commands beyond work and outside of the bedroom...right? I hold my breath, unease sliding over my skin.

  He shrugs, but he looks sideways at the traffic. ‘A bit... I saw lawsuits, damages payouts, bad publicity headed our way.’

  Is that all he’s worried about? ‘Nah, I’m fully covered—insurance, indemnity, you name it.’ The look he shoots me, hard and searching, throws up a dead end to that line of conversation.

  I don’t have to explain my choices to him. To anyone. I’m a free agent. End of story. ‘So tell me, what’s the class?’

  ‘It’s just for an hour; you don’t have to stay for the whole session. I teach basic first aid and CPR.’

  Shit. He’s serious.

  I forget how to breathe, how to speak, any comeback dying on my tongue. Urbane, sophisticated, professional Kit Faulkner teaching...? And CPR? I’m stunned into silence for so long, I’ve passed the point of polite surprise, so I go with honesty, giving free rein to the curiosity that’s been an itch beneath my skin since I first met him.

  ‘Is it something to do with Laura?’ Was he alone with her? Did he try to revive her? That would explain his reluctance for rap jumping, his lecture about safety at the river yesterday.

  He manages to keep his face neutral, his eyes seemingly focussed on the car in front, but his throat bobs as he swallows and one of his hands forms a loose fist.

  ‘Yes. I had a vague inkling of what to do before. But after... I decided to learn properly. We should all know the basics—you never know when you might need to help someone.’

  I nod, my head heavy, clunky, and my face hot. It’s not something I’ve given much thought. But he’s right. Just like the basic lifesaving skills we’re taught alongside learning to swim, an understanding of how to perform CPR is extremely valuable.

  No wonder he’s out-of-sorts. Not that I’d have done anything differently today—we were both perfectly safe—but if I’d known I might have been a little more sensitive, a little more reassuring.

  My throat is tight but I clear it and say, ‘I’d love to come to your class.’ My mind whirrs, questions about Laura’s death trapped in my chest. ‘I’ll admit I’ve never had formal training.’

  He keeps his eyes forwards as he nods, acknowledging my statement, a small frown squeezing his brows together. He’s quiet, pensive. It’s unnerving. I want bossy control-freak Kit back—at least I could butt horns with that guy with impunity.

  He’s lost one of the most significant people in his life. Suddenly, he said. I’d assumed Laura died in a hospital surrounded by professionals and in a safe and sanitised environment. I’m desperate for the details to fill in Kit’s missing pieces, but too scared to ask. Because it blurs the lines, lines that are already as shaky as a seismograph trace, as my reaction to him last night proved.

  On the back foot, my stomach in knots, I change the subject in a way that explains, without explaining. ‘Do you remember the first time someone, a kid, dared you to do something?’

  He nods, his stare sliding sideways to pin me, as usual.

  I keep the conversation flowing in case I’ve inadvertently offended him or the memory of Laura. ‘Me too. Most people wouldn’t do the dare. But I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  My hands tighten on the wheel. ‘Because I’d grown up knowing I was adopted. My parents are wonderful, but a part of me couldn’t help feeling like I had to be constantly better to compensate. To prove myself.’ Tension builds at my temples. I hadn’t meant to confide quite so much and now the silence in the car push
es in on me from all sides.

  ‘Anyway,’ I brighten my tone, aiming for carefree, ‘that was the first time I did something terrifying and came through the other side, triumphant. I’ve kind of been addicted to the rush ever since.’

  The GPS tells me we’ve arrived and I pull off the road into the car park of a community centre. I busy myself with parking and turning off the engine to avoid looking at Kit.

  As we make our way to the front entrance I only become aware of my left hand fidgeting when Kit wraps his long, warm fingers around mine without comment.

  ‘You’re perfect as you are, you know? You have nothing to prove.’

  My breath freezes and I force my fingers to relax in his strong, sure grip as we both stare down at our connected hands. The contact, the intimacy feels as foreign as the first time he briefly held my hand, but my blood thrums through my veins, delivering adrenaline to every cell and lighting me up from the inside. This time he doesn’t let go, nor does he expect any comment from me, simply tugging me by the hand through the door.

  My reaction speaks volumes to my growing suspicions. The physical connection is a manifestation of the emotional connection. To stop the return of last night’s panic, I tell myself it’s the sex. In theory, when the sex ends, the foreign feeling should end. Perhaps we’ll even stay friends.

  So we actually talked about something real, so we actually confided in each other. No need to make a big deal out of. And my fidgeting habit must be irritating to someone so controlled.

  That’s why he’s holding my hand.

  Whatever the reason, I use the excuse of helping myself to a drink of frigid water from the water fountain to free my hand, only marginally appeased, because the contrast in temperature between the cold cup and my palm, still warm from Kit’s body temperature, amplifies the loss of his touch.

  At the desk the receptionist’s face lights up. ‘Kit, how are you? It’s a full class today,’ She’s in her fifties and she smiles at Kit like he’s the prime minister.