by Anna Bloom
What am I doing? No, seriously. What am I doing? I shouldn’t even have let him in the car, let alone driven him the whole way to Brighton, and then got out of the car with him. The flaw in the plan was me getting out of the car.
Walking behind him, I try hard not to look at the wide set of his shoulders under his jacket that narrow into a trim waist. I glance at my watch. Bloody hell, it’s gone six. I won’t be making it for dinner with my father. I cringe a little, knowing all too well I’ll hear all about it, and not necessarily in ways I’d like. But I’ve driven all this way…
He opens the door, and I can sense the hesitation rolling off him. I KNEW he was all talk. I snigger a little under my breath but then lose all ability to breathe as he spins around into my space and catches me close. He smells, well… he smells all man. Not a hint of aftershave, or the cloud of the stuff I’ve got used to inhaling. There’s just the warmth of skin, combined with washing powder and soap. I push my hands against his chest finding only solid pecs beneath his jacket.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” My heart hammers against my ribcage like it’s a bloody xylophone.
“Distracting you from the mess.” His lips skim my neck, his nose pressing along the edge of my cheekbone. God, he smells heavenly. Clean clothes, soap, and smoke.
I push him away, my fingers almost massaging his pecs, and turn to peek into the house. It’s a small hallway that opens into a wide living room full of large, pale leather furniture. “Looks tidy to me.”
He turns in what seems like genuine surprise. “How the hell did she get in?”
“Who?”
“Abi.” He scrubs a hand along his face looking bewildered.
“The last of the Musketeers, right?” I’ve heard enough from Elijah’s fiancée Faith to put all the characters into their place.
“Musketeers?” He’s distracted as he walks into the lounge, but then turns to face me again. For the briefest flash the veil of bravado drops, and his eyes are open and honest: amber and chestnut, frank and exposed. “Yeah. Abi’s Goofy.”
I follow him into the house, not waiting for an invitation. I snort, clutching my hand to my mouth. “I said Musketeers, not Mousketeers.”
He chuckles, that cloak of indifference he seems to wear pulling back around his shoulders. “Mousketeers are far better; at least they weren’t depressed and suicidal like Athos.”
There’s an undertone there, something as bitter as dark chocolate.
I squint at him. “And you’ve read Dumas?” I’m being judgemental, but hell, he was judging me in the car on the way down here. I could sense his pessimism rolling off him.
“Nope, but Faith liked to read boring books and then tell us about them in great detail.” He flinches at the mention of Faith’s name and I pretend I didn‘t notice. It’s the quintessential British thing to do. His breath exhales in a huff and he lifts his shoulders and then allows them to slump. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“I guess.” There isn’t much else for me to say on the matter. Apparently, he’s in love with his best friend—and I’d put that down to a rookie error. “So, where’s this coffee then?”
“You really want a coffee?” His stare is direct and bold. Flickers of light surrounded in dark. Just the way he says it and the look on his face makes my stomach warm, heat flooding down between my legs.
I can’t remember the last time I got laid. My schedule doesn’t exactly leave time for hook ups. “I need to make a call.” A tremor of expectation builds in my gut, pulling and squeezing.
“Go ahead.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off me. His front is impenetrable.
“Fine.” I pull my phone out of the pocket of my leather jacket. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to be the first to break the heavy stare between us, but I need to dial, and I don’t want him to watch.
I turn and press the screen, lifting the phone to my ear. “Cynthia.” I don’t introduce myself. “Can you tell him I can’t make seven?”
I wait for a response.
“No, not late. I wouldn’t dream of that.” I hold in a bitter chuckle. “Just not at all.”
Oh God. Warmth seeps up the back of my neck. Dan. The man with the tattoos. Heat rushes through me as his body shifts along mine. His lips dance up my neck and I hold in a groan. Holy fuck. It’s been a fair while since I had sexual intimacy of any kind, but hell, it’s like sitting naked next to a warm fire and allowing the flames to lick against my skin.
“I can rearrange.” My voice wobbles as I answer Cynthia’s clucking from the other end of the line. “Uh, I don’t know.” Shit! A molten river of heat spreads through my stomach. My knees bang together, two, three times. “Friday. Friday is free.”
Friday is not free. Friday is my evening. But it’s worth it, so worth it, just to have those lips sliding along my skin.
I hang up, my fingers slipping against my phone as they clam with anticipation. Turning, I swallow, pushing down any second thoughts.
It’s just sex.
I’m allowed that.
I’m a grown woman who can decide what hook-ups she wants.
It’s just sex.
“Show me a tattoo.” My words are breathy even to my own ears; fluttering on their way out like butterflies straight from their cocoons. His gaze is burning, heated and heavy.
Slowly, his eyes still on my face, he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Strong fingers gripping the edge of his t-shirt, he pulls it up and my gaze falls to his stomach.
Oh God. I’m going to burn. Light me up, now, it would be easier. His stomach is the sea, rolling waves expertly crafted around the curves of his muscles, crests rising and falling. Above the horizon, in the space of his ribs, birds circle in the air, banking on the wind. I can almost hear their cry in my ears. It’s beautiful and delicate, and not what I was expecting. I shift closer; my fingers grazing the ink. Under the swell of the waves, dark bruises are fading to yellow on his skin. Along with the bruises are cuts and scabs that haven’t healed enough for the surrounding skin to have returned to normal. “Shit, these wounds. How did you get the bruises?” I repeat my question from the car, unable to meet his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“To you, or to anyone?”
He shrugs, his fingers curling into tight fists. There is something utterly desperate and broken about him and it calls to a deep place within me. Locked memories and an aching loneliness grow, while a wild trembling builds up my legs, along my body, down my arms.
“Another tattoo,” I request, my tongue dry and tingling.
His hand reaches out, sliding around my waist, pulling me into his bare skin. The heat and the scent emanating from him might blow my mind. He’s barely touched me yet and I’m ready. I want him. I don’t know him, but I want him all the same.
“Just one time,” I mumble as his lips lower to mine. My heart is thudding so hard I can’t contain the pressure it’s creating. Anticipation and long dormant desires ripple their way to the surface.
“Just. One. Time,” he confirms.
His hands are on me and pull me closer, running along my collarbone, dancing with light touches. I want to tell him I’m not in the habit of sleeping with strangers—or anyone—but I don’t. I throw my head back and give in to his lips scorching up my skin; gasping as he nibbles my earlobe and it sends a dart of painful pleasure between my legs.
He’s using me. I don’t care. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I don’t care. Whatever.
I’m using him.
All’s fair.
Releasing me from his hold, he grasps my fingers and leads me behind him up the stairs, pushing at a door and pulling me through after him. Silence echoes between us, but I don‘t pay it any heed. What do I want? Small talk? No. What I want is for him to take me and fuck me senseless. I’ll never tell him that, never whisper my deep and dark desires, but they build within me regardless.
The room is neat: blue linen a
nd dark walls; the curtains drawn. A boy's room that now holds a man.
I gasp as he kisses my neck, his fingers undoing the buttons on my shirt and pushing both the shirt and my jacket to the floor. As he drops his head, he brushes his lips over the black lace of my bra and I arch my back. His fingers work on my jeans and I step out of my pumps, kicking them out of the way. When I’m only in my black lace, he leans back, his dark gaze sweeping across what he sees. A smile lifts his mouth.
“What?” I gasp as one of his fingers runs down my belly to the elastic of my knickers.
“No ink.” It’s almost a growl.
“No. No ink.”
In firm arms, he sweeps me up as he stalks us for the bed, almost throwing me on the mattress. My alarm bells go off in my head. I should stop this. This isn’t me; isn’t right. But I can’t. He’s talking to my secret desires and whispered fantasies. I spread my legs as an invitation and wait for him to dive in. He lowers down, the buckle of his belt pressing into my skin. Fuck, I might come before he’s even touched me. His eyes on mine, he lowers a hand and shifts it between us, edging the elastic of my knickers out of the way as he slides his middle finger under the sheer material. With a steady pressure, he runs it back and forth, playing with my clit, and I arch under his weight. I want him to just be in me. To steal the time, carve this moment. This tormented stranger can own me; take me.
“Eager?” He whispers in my ear. My fingers run up his back, imagining the patterns they are dancing over. He’s warm, his body heavy. Without warning, his fingers push deep within me and I let out a groan unlike any sound I’ve ever made before.
Holy hell.
Unrelenting, his fingers push in and out and his lips trail across my skin. With his free hand he edges my bra down and his head lowers so he can catch a pebbled nipple into his mouth, sucking and pulling it all in. I moan again, shutting my eyes as waves of pleasure build and wash all over me.
“You seem very uptight,” he murmurs. “Like you haven’t been touched in ages.”
He has no idea. I moan more while his fingers keep sliding in and out, my waves getting higher. My head thrashes from side to side. I’m going to come, and we haven’t even taken our clothes off. This isn’t right. I should stop it. Should get in my car and drive back up the motorway. Harder, deeper, his fingers coax me higher.
Oh God.
“When was the last time you let go?” he whispers into my ear and I writhe against his hand, desperately willing him to push deeper, while all the time fighting his touch. My hands fling above my head and I arch myself up. I know he’s watching. His lips catch my free nipple again, biting down as his fingers push and twist, pressing in so many places all at once.
Higher. Unrelenting.
Oh. Fuck.
I shudder, crunching my eyes up tight. His hand keeps working as my orgasm ebbs away and I open my eyes to find his amber and chestnut gaze settled on my face. “Better?” He smirks, but he doesn’t give me time to respond before he shifts and drops kisses along my stomach, his fingers pulling at the elastic of my knickers, shimmying them down my hips. Once they are off, he unbuckles his jeans, pushing them off. I stare in awe as his full body comes into view. He’s a masterpiece of ink and bruises.
“Now if you’ve got that out of your system, we can do this properly.” His lips curve into a smile and I know I should go. Apologise. Thank him for the orgasm and be on my way; but I don’t. I arch my back and wait to see what happens next.
It’s dark, and night has long settled. One time didn’t mean one time only. It meant one night. I’m aching, my muscles tired, yet I'm strangely comfortable in the bed with his arm thrown across my stomach as I stare at the ceiling.
It’s time to go.
I need to get back. I’ve got work tomorrow and well… I cast my gaze over the slumbering form of the angriest man I’ve ever met. Let’s be real. He might be mind-blowingly good in bed, but this would never have the prospects to be anything other than a onetime deal.
I’m summoning the energy to get my legs to work so I can leave, when he murmurs in his sleep. His arm thrashes to the side, narrowly missing thumping me. My pulse spikes. This is a nightmare; I remember them from my youth.
“Stay away from her.” He pushes again, fighting with someone I can’t see.
“Dan,” I press my hand against his shoulder trying to rouse him, but he doesn’t. Within the depths of his sleep, he groans, his hand raising to his head.
“Why do you keep doing this to yourself? How can I keep searching for you all over town?”
He’s dreaming of Faith. A tear prickles against my eyelid. Not because I’m jealous, but because I’m sad for the man with ink and bruises.
“Dan, you’re dreaming.” I say it louder this time and his eyes open, blinking at me in the dark.
He slides his hand around my waist and tucks me into his side, his breath falling into a deep pattern. I breathe out a shuddering breath. It would be so easy to stay here wrapped up tight and pretend until dawn that this was something real. But what would be the point? Nothing is real. Nothing.
With my heart thudding, I slide out from under his arm. As swift as I can, I pick up my clothes. I tiptoe out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me. He looks like he could do with some sleep. Damaged and angry; bitter and harsh; beautiful but scarred. I shake my head at my random thoughts. Time to go.
I slip into my clothes as I stand on the upstairs landing, then brush my hair out over my shoulders trying to untangle the knots.
I walk through the house like a ghost; someone who should never have been there. As I walk for the door, I notice a pad and pen on a small table by the side of the sofa. There are dates scrawled over it. I scan it quickly, used to absorbing details with little notice. The next date is this Friday. Oh well, it’s none of my business. I flip to a clean page and scrawl a quick note.
I leave the note in the kitchen next to the kettle. With a small smile, I double check my keys and step out into the depths of the night.
That was different.
Hot, definitely.
Now it’s time to get back to reality.
Three
Dan
She’s gone. I blink my eyelids, focusing on the space next to me in the bed. That’s a relief. I stretch, my morning glory standing to attention even though I unloaded the old storage tanks twice last night.
The light is too bright, and I lift an arm to shield my eyes. I haven’t felt right since I woke from the coma to find Faith and Abi sobbing like a couple of old washer women.
Faith.
It’s impossible not to groan when I think of yesterday and what I said in the heat of the moment. I never meant for it to come out the way it did. No one can blame me for being shocked. I mean, hello… one minute she’s sobbing into a vodka because the guy’s broken her heart and the next she’s sporting diamonds and telling me she’s having a baby.
My memory steals to that night long ago when I found her bleeding in a bath, her head lolling over the side of the tub as she sat in water of the brightest pink, while her skin faded to a grey of an unwashed dish cloth.
I thought I’d lost her. That was the night she’d told me about her not quite step-brother and the disgusting things he’d done to her since she was fourteen. That was the night I’d have happily had blood on my hands and taken any punishment for it.
My dreams last night were too real; my argument with Faith bringing them back to the present. All I can hope is that my little friend with the dark fringe and the tightly wound sexual tension had left before they started. With a deep groan, I roll from the bed and wander my way to my dad’s en suite. My eyes graze the pictures in frames that I haven‘t yet moved. Faith, Abi, and I grinning at a camera. By his bed is a silver frame with Faith and I at Prom. I can still hear his stupid words ringing in my head as clear as they sounded that night. You’d do right to marry her one day, Danny boy.
Yeah. Well, Dad, she’s marrying someone else.
And
I’m alone.
The echo of the still house almost teases me as I crack open the cabinet in Dad’s now vacant bathroom. The packets of pills are where I left them. That’s good. It means Abi didn’t clean that far. I almost breathe a sigh of relief as I pop three tablets out of the packet and knock 'em back with a handful of water from the tap. On second thoughts, I add a fourth and wash that back too.
I think I’ve seen enough of today.
With my feet scuffing the carpet I walk back to the bedroom and fall face first onto the bed, pulling the duvet back up over my head.
This is good. I can just be here. Not like at Faith's, where I had to pretend I wanted to heal. That housekeeper didn’t leave me alone for a minute, as though she was worried she would come to the kitchen and find me impaled on one of her kitchen knives.
Far too messy, love.
Forgetting about Faith, and arguments and bruises and babies, I let the painkillers do their thing and knock me the fuck out.
I wake thrashing the duvet, sweat dripping off my skin. Jesus. It takes a moment of me blinking at the ceiling to place myself back in my old childhood home.
Groaning I roll over to check the time on my phone. If I’m expecting a message from Faith, it’s not there. That’s a good thing though, right?
Yesterday, blissfully, didn’t exist.
But now I’ve woken early. What day is it anyway?
Some place in the back of my mind I remember the fact I have a tattoo parlour gathering dust, but I can’t quite bring myself to do anything about it. To do nothing apart from take more tablets and wait for the little niggling thought to just fade away.
When I can resist the urge to pee no longer, I roll off the bed. The smell of sex and perfume wafts with my movement and for more than a second, I try to recall how it got there. Her expensive perfume and shouts in the dark. When was that? Was it only the night before last?
Her skin; I’ve never seen anything so perfect. Untouched and as smooth as silk. A rich person’s skin. Okay, maybe it’s down to good genetics, but I bet her bank balance has something to do with it. She hadn’t a hint of ink. That was a pleasant change. Very pleasant.
