Bad Reputation

by JC Harroway

  I cradle his face, my fingers tangling in his messy hair, my stare locked with his, and whisper his name.

  Wordlessly, and despite my cry of protest, he takes his mouth from me and crawls up the bed, settling his hips in the cradle of mine and pushing into me in one smooth glide. My sensitive peaked nipples chafe on his chest hair, his piercing adding an extra layer of friction. I tug his mouth down to mine, our tongues connecting, surging, duelling as sure as the deep and sublime ecstasy of his penetration.

  We don’t speak, but we don’t need to. His fingers tangle in my hair, cradle my face in his hands, his arm gripping my shoulders as over and over again he thrusts into me in watchful silence. But there’s nothing to say that we didn’t cover last night. We both want this. We’re both willing to endanger our friendship, both confident we can manage the fall out of this risky indulgence.

  Oliver scoops one of my thighs over his arm and then the other, his hips sinking lower, closer, so that every thrust batters my clit until it’s all I can do to hold on to him and trust that he won’t leave me behind.

  His mouth finds my nipple, licking, flicking, nibbling, and the flames start in the pit of my pelvis.

  ‘Oliver!’ I cry out with a desperate voice. That of a woman I no longer recognise, changed perhaps forever by allowing him this close.

  Then he speaks at last, his voice gruff, perhaps with the first words of the day or just with the emotion I see in his eyes. ‘Say you’re mine right now.’ He clenches his jaw on the order, thrusting harder, deeper.

  His eyes are almost turquoise with desire, more intense and serious than I’ve ever seen him, his ownership euphoric.

  ‘Tell me,’ he barks, his angular face taut with his own mounting desire. ‘Before I give you your next orgasm.’

  He’s controlling this, us, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard him say. Because I am his. He’s taking me on a journey of discovery and I can’t deny him, or my own needs, even as I try to hold something back for self-preservation.

  My breath catches. I want to give him what he needs more than I want the pleasure he’s holding to ransom. But I know it’s a reaction to what he confided about Slay. I know it’s not a lasting promise he wants from me.

  ‘I’m yours!’ I yell as he delivers thrust after thrust. Each blow devastates as I’m tossed over the edge into a rapturous climax, where my only awareness is how loud I scream his name and how tight I clutch him inside my body. He groans out his own release, collapsing his weight on top of me and burying his face against my neck.

  I want to laugh or cry, but I do neither, because love, this fear of his power to hurt me, is no laughing matter, and I’m sliding, falling, being dragged under with every kiss, every touch, every orgasm.

  No, that could all be lust, right? The inevitable side-effect of such amazing sex. Because I can’t love Oliver more than I already do. I’ll be torn apart.

  My body grows restless under his crushing weight, fear snaking along my nerve endings, but I don’t want to move. I want to lie here and pretend everything is as it was a few days ago.

  He stirs, kissing my neck and then rising to take care of the condom in the bathroom. When he returns, he’s donned his tight black boxers and hands me one of his white T-shirts. And everything seems normal. The new normal, anyway. No need to panic.

  ‘It’s a stunning day for a wedding,’ he says. ‘Come and have breakfast. I arranged it out on the balcony while you were asleep.’ His face is relaxed, open, but goose bumps rise on my arms. I’m reading way too much into that possessive demand spoken in the heat of the moment.

  I shrug into his over-sized shirt, take his hand and follow him out to his bungalow’s private deck. We’re faced with endless ocean views hazy with the fierce morning sun. I take a seat, my stomach flipping at the fact that he’s been up early organising the delicious spread I see laid out.

  ‘I asked the staff to prepare a coconut-free breakfast, so you can eat anything you like,’ he says, removing covers from the food. My aversion to the tropical staple is well-known, but I’m still humbled that he went to such trouble. I tuck into some fruit and yoghurt while Oliver helps himself to toast.

  ‘So what will you wear today?’ he asks, scooting his chair a few inches closer to mine so that when we eat our arms graze. I force the mouthful past my tight throat, trying to pretend I haven’t noticed.

  ‘Um... I thought I’d wear a sundress.’ This new attentive side of him, one I’ve never experienced on such an intimate level, blurs the boundaries I’m trying to reconstruct around our new but temporary relationship.

  ‘Is it red?’ he asks, his stare full of renewed heat. ‘You looked beautiful last night in red. You should wear it more often.’

  I almost choke on a piece of melon. It’s hard enough to resist flirty, playful friend Oliver, but charming, sexy lover Oliver is almost too much for my frazzled ovaries. My mouth opens, no answer emerging, because this Oliver—sex-rumpled, attentive and romantic—may as well be a virtual stranger. If I’d known this side of him, would I have acted on my attraction sooner, confessing that my feelings for him had transcended platonic from day one? Would I have demanded the number one spot in his life and not settled for what at times over the years felt like second place?

  Precarious breath shudders out of me as I shrug.

  History’s proved this privileged position of lover in his life is short-lived. As he admitted last night, he considers himself incapable of commitment because he’s Slay’s son, so there’s no future for us.

  I cannot get carried away by his romantic gestures. We said we wouldn’t allow this to damage us. I have to have faith in my own abilities to stay grounded, and Oliver’s word that he won’t allow anything to break us. His over-protectiveness around his father is his way of doing just that.

  ‘There’s a swimming with dolphins experience tomorrow, if you’d like to go?’ he says, pushing a lock of my hair back behind my ear. Then he slides the plate bearing his last half-slice of toast in my direction.

  I nod, close to inexplicable tears. ‘That sounds perfect. I’d love to.’ Perhaps it’s the emotion of the wedding brewing—I always cry at weddings. Or his gesture—saving me some of his food reminds me that my Oliver, the one I know beyond these wonderful new revelations, is still here.

  I take the toast with a small smile. ‘Thanks.’

  His easy grin is infectious, settling some of my doubts. If I’m not careful, I run the risk of spoiling the best week of my life by over-thinking. I should just enjoy as much time as we have and deal with the fallout back home in London, where I’ll be able to escape the daily addiction of him while we both live our separate lives.

  ‘So tell me about the Kimoto deal,’ I say, pouring some tea and taking a bite of his toast. ‘Any news?’ He’s worked long and hard on the artificial intelligence software this past year.

  He runs his fingers through his hair and puts down his mug. ‘It’s with the lawyers, so I’m hoping for good news today. I should really be back in the office, but I couldn’t let Shelley down after promising to fly the wedding guests here. My team have everything under control. I just...’

  I reach for his hand and he grips my fingers. ‘This deal is important to me. I take my work very seriously and I want Kimoto to see that. The last thing I need is Slay causing a scene. It almost feels like he’d deliberately sabotage this for me.’ His leg jiggles under the table.

  ‘Why would he do that?’ I ask, horrified that any parent could act vengefully.

  He shrugs. ‘There’s no love lost between us. And if he can tag some mention of himself onto my company news...’ He smiles a humourless smile. ‘Part of me was naive enough to think I could have this one success all to myself.’

  ‘It’s a big deal for you outside of the financial gain, isn’t it?’

  He nods, tension radiating from his body. ‘My team have been wor
king on this software for years—they deserve to have their work valued. This will make international headlines for all the right reasons. And I hate the fact that my past... Slay’s reputation...might ruin that for everyone involved.’

  ‘You deserve the recognition, too.’ My heart clenches. ‘I don’t think I realised how much you’ve struggled with the two sides of your life.’ The self-made professional businessman and the privileged celebrity son growing up in the shadow of his father’s fame. After what he confessed last night, it’s no wonder the Oliver I first met was a little wild.

  ‘Perhaps this deal will put an end to those comparison stories,’ I say. ‘It’s not like you ever trade on Slay’s fame.’

  His grin is wry. ‘I might have used that once or twice to impress women or get laid before I met you. And I fully admit I’ve done my fair share of acting out in the past, earned my own reputation...’

  ‘Or perhaps you were simply out-running Slay’s. From what you’ve told me, it’s doesn’t sound like he made any attempt to protect you from his fame or the excesses of his world, as some celebrity parents do.’

  He stares, his eyes burning into mine, as if it’s never occurred to him to show himself compassion for being young and rudderless and making a bad choice.

  ‘We all make mistakes, experiment with who we want to be,’ I go on. ‘You’ve built a successful, innovative company from nothing. You look after your staff, attracting and retaining the best brains in the industry.’ I offer him the last bite of toast, even though there’s more on the table. Shared food somehow tastes better.

  He eats it from my fingers, setting off delicious tingles of pleasure in my pelvis. ‘Yeah, well, the tech world evolves so rapidly, experience only counts for so much.’ He runs a hand over his face and I notice new creases at the corners of his eyes. ‘It’s a young person’s field—even I’m getting a little long in the tooth to keep up.’

  I can’t resist a confirmatory ogle of his ripped torso, decorated with tattoos. ‘Oh, yes, ancient. You’re only thirty. And it may be a young person’s game, but you’re the one with the leadership skills and the vision to recruit those young geniuses. You’re the one who built on the success of Never Scan.’ I mention the software he developed at uni that launched him onto the path to his first million.

  ‘Well, that was down to you,’ he says, growing serious, his stare intent.

  I laugh. ‘Just because I did your company accounts for a few years doesn’t mean I’m in any way responsible for the things you’ve achieved.’

  His hand shifts to my arm, the slow swipe of his thumb back and forth sensual and distracting. ‘You’re totally responsible,’ he disagrees. ‘That’s why I named the software after you.’

  This revelation is news to me. ‘But...’ I gape in shock. ‘I thought...’ I had no idea the name of the first software he developed had been named after his nickname for me. I’d assumed it was the other, more common, usage of the word because, aside from the accounting software he designed especially for my business, I have no understanding of what he does. Teasing me for my technophobia is one of his favourite pastimes.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ he asks, his eyes alight with mischief as he relaxes back in his chair, still gripping my fingers.

  I shake my head, dumbfounded.

  ‘It’s true. You believed in me at a time when I needed someone. You listened when I spent hours talking about stuff I knew you didn’t understand, and you convinced me I was onto something worth developing. Encouraged me to not give up. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be making billion-pound deals, without you.’ He leans close, lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my knuckles one by one, his eyes on mine. ‘That’s why I gave you shares.’

  Pressure builds in my chest, and the hot aching in my throat and the sting in my eyes returns. ‘I thought the shares were a really nerdy birthday present.’

  He laughs, tugging me into his kiss. ‘Well, they were that too. But you see how I know this, us, is going to work out? Because you know me. You see me, when most other people see my reputation and family notoriety, the fickle bits of celebrity that have rubbed off on me over the years from living in Slay’s world. But you understand that’s not who I am, and you still like me.’

  ‘I do like you,’ I say, my breath trapped in my chest, because the other ‘L’ word wants to break free.

  ‘The feeling is entirely mutual.’ He kisses me again, long and lingering and ending on a sigh. ‘We should get ready.’ He looks at his watch. ‘The bride will kill me if I keep her waiting because I’m buried inside you.’

  The heat in his stare tells me he’s serious.

  I rouse myself, needing a few minutes away from his all-consuming presence to gather my wits. Oliver in flat-out charming mode is dangerous for my judgement, because I’m becoming more and more ensnared in him and the way he makes me feel...special.

  Oh, how bright and brilliant it is here in the beam of Oliver’s focus.

  But special isn’t enough. I want to be everything to him, and he’s shy of commitment, something he’s never wanted or even considered, thanks to Slay. While I will always support him, can I invest time and energy into guiding him through his relationship phobia when I’m already so emotionally attached? That seems like the road to certain heartbreak. And given the depth of his commitment issues, maybe he’ll simply be content to slip back into his casual routine once we’re back in London and he’s surrounded by willing women.

  I retire to my own room to shower and change for the wedding ceremony. I wish I could don a protective shell like the hermit crabs we see on the beach. Because my mind is foggy with Oliver’s shock revelations and the flares of hope they’ve sparked. Do I really know him at all? Yes, I know the playful, generous friend he’s been for nine years. But the man trying to outgrow his reputation and break away from any association with Slay—is this the part of him that’s always called to me on a deeper level? The part I’ve been waiting for?

  I’m putting the finishing touches to my make-up when there’s a knock at the door.

  My heart races with anticipation, because I’ve been away from him for thirty minutes and already I miss his company. Miss the way he takes my hand and does that swiping thing on my skin with his thumb. Miss his frequent passionate kisses, as if he can no more stop himself than I can. Miss those seriously hot looks that pass between us fifty times a day.

  How did we look at each other before we began this intimacy? Will I always crave him this way, now that I know exactly how much more there is to lose? And can I risk exposing my heart to pain on the off chance he’ll one day decide he’s ready for more?

  I yank open the door. Oliver stands on the other side, his hair still damp from the shower and his white linen shirt open at the neck to reveal a delicious triangle of tanned chest and a smattering of manly dark hair. In his outstretched hand is a single flower that matches the one he wears as a buttonhole.

  The world tilts a fraction at the gorgeous sight he makes. I’m playing with fire, the flames already licking along my fingers. ‘Have you lost your key?’

  He shakes his head, his stare raking mine in that way that reminds me of how he looks at me when he’s deep inside me, before swooping the length of my body to take in my outfit—a strappy, slinky sheath dress in teal, chosen for how sexy it makes me feel. For him.

  Appreciation and something darker, more seductive, shines in his eyes. ‘Can I accompany you to the wedding, Miss Grayson?’ He tucks the single bloom into my hair, behind one ear and my core clenches with longing. I want to launch myself back into his arms, drag him into my room and keep him prisoner until it’s time to go home and put an end to this dangerous fantasy.

  His fingertips graze my cheek before he drops his arm and he holds out his hand for mine.

  Oh, no, no, no...

  I’m in deep trouble. Every second I grow more invested is a threat to my very b
eing.

  But I take his hand without hesitation, trying to put all of these burgeoning feelings into perspective. We pad on bare feet down to the beach where his family is assembled on the sand at the rustic altar, casting each other wider and wider smiles, as if we have a secret. I’m caught up in the romance, only vaguely aware of Slay Coterill and his sixth wife near the front; it’s as if Oliver and I are sealed inside an invisible bubble, with eyes only for each other, the rest of the world shut out. I can’t stop looking at him—so handsome, every inch familiar but in sharper focus—and every time I do his eyes are on me, ablaze with hunger that helps to remind me why we started this physical exploration. There’s no place for my romantic imaginings.

  The ceremony is short and beautiful. My hand rests in Oliver’s throughout, exotic but so addictive, because it feels like it belongs. And of course he produces a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket when inevitable tears dampen my lashes. I stop fighting myself, uncaring who sees our togetherness. People can think what they like about me, his friend-lover.

  I dab my eyes, careful of my mascara, while Oliver tugs me under his arm and presses a kiss to my temple. ‘You are so adorable.’ His smile is indulgent but still laced with that fervent hunger I burn for. Because now he knows I’m no longer just his ‘sweet’ friend. I’m badly desperate for him.

  I laugh, drying the last of my tears and handing him back his handkerchief.

  ‘I’m bad, remember? I want things,’ I whisper. ‘You, every way possible,’ I go on, the scrape of my dress over my distended swollen nipples excruciating. ‘How soon before we can sneak away?’

  His stare darkens. ‘I want you too, but we have to make an appearance at the wedding lunch.’

  I sigh but smile. We have time. Days.

  ‘An appearance’ turns into hours—photographs, a delicious wedding feast, toasts and dancing. It’s after a turn on the dance floor—a patch of the white sand beach under a gazebo decorated with fairy lights—that our escape is interrupted by Slay. We’ve managed to dodge him all day by avoiding the bar, where he’s entertained his audience.