Bad Reputation

by JC Harroway

  I press my lips to hers once more. ‘You’re beautiful and smart and funny and you fill my life with fucking sunshine.’ I stare hard so she sees that I’m serious. ‘You always have, Neve.’

  ‘Not just regular sunshine...?’ She smiles. I haul her up to my kiss as if she’s my source of oxygen, breathing her in.

  ‘I’m not insecure about it any more,’ she says, dropping her face to my chest so I can no longer see her expression. ‘And I love Amber, but sometimes it was hard feeling second best. First boy I ever fancied turned me down—not so unusual, I know—but then he asked me if my sister was single. That set the tone for my late teens and early twenties when we went out together—she’d attract all the attention, get the hottest guy, and I’d be left with the friend.’

  I hold her tighter, my gut twisted with longing, wishing I could erase her past doubts. Because isn’t what she just confided exactly what I did to her the night we met? ‘You never told me that.’

  Tension infects her body. ‘Well, it seems silly now. Besides, history repeated itself with you—I thought we were flirting that first night we met and before I know it you went home with my flatmate.’

  I stiffen. ‘Well, it was my loss. My immaturity and stupidity.’ I hear her intake of breath, regret for the wasted time crushing me. I hold her and allow myself to admit I want to wake up with her every morning, not just the mornings we have left in the Maldives. My love for her is way beyond platonic. Perhaps it always has been. Perhaps that’s why I freaked out when I met her so soon after having my heart broken, with my father’s cynical advice ringing in my ears and the demons of that one terrible night haunting me...

  ‘I fancied you back then, that first night. You knew that, right?’ I should have told her this long ago. I had no idea I’d made her feel second best.

  She freezes, almost as if she’s stopped breathing. I’ve shoved us into uncharted territory. Discussing the night we met in any way beyond the sanitised version that spawned our friendship was previously taboo.

  Then her chest slowly deflates, as if in a controlled exhale. ‘You fancied anything with boobs back then,’ she says, trying to downplay the seriousness of my confession. But it is fucking serious, the momentousness not lost on me if the band tightening across my chest is any indication.

  ‘Not true. That university maths lecturer had a very nice pair but I didn’t fancy him.’ I turn serious, grip her face and maintain eye contact, because I ache for her past disappointments. Knowing I might inadvertently have added to them by overlooking her that night through some sense of twisted, selfish self-preservation slices me open.

  ‘I fancied you the minute I saw you,’ I admit, recalling that night like it was yesterday. ‘You were the prettiest girl in the place—why else would I make a beeline for you?’

  I hear the breath catch in her throat, as if this is genuinely shocking news. As if she never, for one second, suspected I found her attractive before our fateful conversation about orgasms.

  ‘But you didn’t choose me.’ Her voice is a whisper.

  Shame streaks through my veins like lightning. ‘That was because of my issues, nothing to do with you.’ I lower my voice and force out the words I’ve bottled inside all these years. ‘You were perfect that night. So perfect I’d never known anyone like you. But what I did know was that I wasn’t in your league—that if I played my usual stunts, laid a single finger on you, I’d fuck it up. Ruin it for ever. Be just like my father. And I didn’t want that with you. I wanted to keep you.’ I brush my lips across her shoulder, feather-light.

  She gapes, her eyes desperately flicking over my face, as if seeking the truth of my words.

  ‘I was an arsehole,’ I say. ‘You knew it and, fortunately, so did I. I’m not proud of this, but I can’t even remember your flatmate’s name. And yet here you are, still the most important person in my life. I did choose you, Neve. It’s just taken me this long to grow deserving enough to say that aloud.’

  Wordlessly she wraps her arms around my neck and tugs me into her kiss. When we break apart for air, our foreheads resting together, weighty silence follows. I’m trapped, immobile, by my longing, and fear I’ll ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But I know one thing for certain. I want more than this week. I want more than friends, even with the awesome benefits. I want Neve to truly be mine.

  ‘I booked us a private island stay for tonight,’ I tell her, my heart climbing into my throat. ‘Will you stay there with me? Just the two of us?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, with zero hesitation.

  Hope soars in my chest. Maybe this time I’ve got this.

  Maybe it’s taken a trip to the world’s most isolated group of islands to see what I’ve had in front of me all this time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Neve

  OUR LAVISH BUNGALOW on the private atoll is paradise. I emerge from the master suite, freshly showered and wearing the red dress Oliver liked from two nights ago. The silk glides over my tingling skin, which is sensitive from the sun and sea and the knowledge that I’m dressing sexily for a man with whom I’m falling desperately in love.

  No. Love is too tame a word for the feelings crushing me. I loved my friend Olly. What I feel now is searing, out-of-control rapture. Bliss and dread rolled into one confusing tangle. Because I want Oliver, the Oliver I’ve come to know deeper than ever before, beyond this week. I want him for ever. And I want him to feel the same way about me. His confession about fancying me when we first met was achingly bittersweet and scary. Because it’s given me hope. Hope to dream that maybe, this time, I could get the guy.

  I step into the living room, catching sight of him staring out at the exquisite, uninterrupted ocean views. The setting sun halos him, pink and orange light streaming around his tall frame. My heart lurches against my ribs, pining for him.

  I can’t breathe.

  I could go to him now. Tell him how I feel, how I’ve always felt about him. But to what end? I know my Oliver, and the odds are stacked against us. Yes, he had a crappy, erratic role model growing up, and had his teenage heart broken and trampled on by Slay’s callousness. Only now do I fully understand the impact of that on his younger self-esteem, but there’s no escaping the fact he’s never once had a serious girlfriend since Jane. And, as much as I can’t stop seeing a future for us romantically, I also don’t want to be the guinea pig, the test case, even if he wanted more than our in-between relationship.

  I’ve been there before with my exes, been the more committed person in the couple. I know where that leads—resentment, insecurity, heartache. And that’s what I’d be with Oliver. While he bumbles along in his first relationship in nearly a decade, deciding if it’s working for him.

  What then? What if he decided it wasn’t for him after all? How would I survive that?

  If I can just get through the rest of the holiday unscathed... But it’s growing harder to ignore how perfect he is for me, if only he believed himself capable of a committed relationship. If only he stopped comparing himself to a man he’s nothing like.

  If only he saw what I see.

  My sigh expels a tiny part of my soul.

  He turns, catching sight of me, and my heart stutters out of rhythm. He whistles, his eyes alight, as if with everything I wish to be true. Wish he’d say aloud. But I’m fooling myself. I feel as if I’m hurtling towards a brick wall with every hour that passes. The deadline to this fantasy looms.

  ‘I love that dress.’ He strides my way and my lungs try to escape my chest with every soft step of his bare feet in my direction. He presses his mouth to mine in a soft whisper of a kiss and takes both my hands. His eyes bore into mine, and I almost glimpse a flash of longing there, but then it’s gone, replaced by his familiar grin. ‘I’ve planned something special for tonight now I have you all to myself.’

  My entire body shivers. Can’t he tell I’d do anything f
or him? I’ve given myself over to him since we started this crazy sex-periment, and I have no regrets. Although I should have taken more care to armour my heart.

  Nervous laughter bubbles from me. ‘I’m not going naked scuba-diving, if that’s what you have in mind.’

  He shakes his head, a hint of mischief twitching his mouth. ‘It’s a little more personal than that—will you dance with me before dinner?’

  ‘Of course.’ Anticipation slithers down my spine. Why do I feel seduced, cherished? And ready to fling myself into the unknown, the way I dived from the back of the boat earlier?

  He’s arranged food, and the table on the veranda is beautifully set for a romantic dinner for two, but my throat is so tight with desire and love there’s no way I could eat. Or even speak.

  Soft music fills our bungalow, spilling out onto the beach from concealed outdoor speakers. He leads me onto the sand and then turns me into his arms. I settle against his chest with a soft sigh as he sways to the music. I breathe in the familiar scent of him, my face pressed to his shirt and the strip of his chest exposed at the open neck. I tell myself I don’t need words or assurances, or for ever because this moment, this day, where we’ve laughed, shared and learned new things about each other, is perfect. He made each moment perfect, and that’s enough for now.

  His hands roam my back, holding me close, possessive but also restless, the same turbulence rolling through me because close isn’t enough. It’s never enough when we’re together.

  I look up and my breath catches. Playful, self-satisfied Oliver is nowhere to be seen. His eyes blaze with heat and vulnerability I’ve only seen in him once before, long ago, when he’d broken down after a few too many drinks and confessed sordid details about growing up with his father—finding Slay passed out in the mornings after endless parties, driving him to rehab and standing by his side at the altar for his many marriages, confused by his own place in his father’s cluttered and chaotic life.

  But this has nothing to do with anyone else, only us. How we’ve managed to carve out a utopian corner of paradise for ourselves to play out roles for which neither of us has a script.

  ‘Neve, I didn’t know you could mean any more to me.’ He lowers his lips to mine, seemingly in no hurry as he kisses and kisses and kisses me while my toes sink deeper into the soft sand and I fall apart in his arms. Because I love him so much, I can’t bear to think about the past we’ve wasted or the uncertain future. Only this moment.

  ‘Let’s go to bed,’ I say.

  ‘If you insist,’ he agrees.

  Then I’m airborne, swung up into his arms, a squeal breaking free. He strides towards the bungalow, carrying me. I want to make a joke about my weight, or a quip about him working out, but the look on his face, as if he wants to devour me, stops such frivolity.

  ‘Want to sleep out under the stars? I want us to do more new things together. All of the things.’

  My stomach flitters, but I nod my assent, because I want the same. This unknown Oliver is as addictive as familiar Oliver.

  At the day bed, a romantic outdoor canopied affair surrounded by gauzy curtains, he lowers me to my feet. He stands before me and without a word unbuttons his shirt, revealing the toned, tanned and tattooed torso I’ve learned by heart. I slide the straps of my dress from my shoulders, allowing the fabric to pool at my feet before kicking it away. I slide my hands around Oliver’s waist, his warm skin over taut muscles the best aphrodisiac, if I needed one. But I don’t. That I’m allowed to touch him after years of enforced hands-off makes for a dizzying reality.

  He shoves down his shorts and boxers, adding them to the pile of discarded clothing. My strapless bra goes next—Oliver unhooks it with one hand. He drops to his knees, removes my thong and then he presses a kiss to my stomach, his hands on my hips, fingers gripping with passion that feels like ownership.

  I cradle his head, slide my fingers through his flop of hair, which is less tamed and more beach-tousled than he normally wears it back in London—another thing that makes him seem old and new all at once. He climbs to his feet, his mouth sliding up the centre of my body, between my breasts, until he reaches my mouth. He kisses me, cupping my breasts, his thumbs working my nipples into sensitive, aching peaks. My core clenches, empty of him.

  ‘Oliver,’ I plead, wrapping my hand around his thick, erect length.

  ‘Shh... Let me worship your body.’ His mouth closes around one nipple, stealing any argument I have with longing and sensation.

  All he’s done is worship me since that very first kiss. He’s shown me what my body is capable of when I trust the person I’m with, when I surrender to his touch, safe in the knowledge he cares and won’t let me down.

  Or perhaps all I needed was love. To admit the depth of my love for him, and everything else would slot perfectly into place.

  Somehow we make it to the bed, the cool slide of satin sheets a balm to my fevered skin. Oliver’s mouth is all over me, kissing, licking, nibbling every inch of my skin from my neck to my thighs until I want to scream with frustration and I’m pink from the scrape of his facial hair.

  ‘Please,’ I beg again, my hand slipping between my thighs to give my clit some relief.

  He pulls my fingers away and replaces them with his own, watching my reaction to his touch and his kisses.

  ‘I’ll never tire of making you come, of watching you come—it’s addictive. Mine. You’re mine, Neve.’ He swaps his fingers for his mouth, sucking and laving my clit until I’m a writhing, shaking mess of need and yearning.

  ‘I need you. Now. Oh, please, now!’ I cry out as his mouth leaves me.

  I grab his shoulders and tug, and he sits up between my spread thighs. His hand grips the base of his cock and he slides the tip over my engorged clit and through my moisture.

  ‘Yes. Forget the condom,’ I say, my voice breaking with urgency. ‘I’m good if you are. Do it.’ I’m aware I’ve reached the demanding stage of my arousal, but I’m helpless. He makes me helpless.

  He scrunches his eyes closed and drops his head back. ‘Neve, are you sure?’ I’ve never heard his voice so dark with desire, not even last night, when our frantic coupling in the bathroom seemed to be about anger, challenge and claim.

  ‘Yes.’ I push up onto my elbows and grasp his steely buttocks, shunting his hips forward until the bare tip of him pushes inside me.

  We both gasp. Oliver opens his eyes, takes my hands in his and slides the rest of the way into me until he’s buried to the hilt and his face is transformed by his own desperate need.

  ‘Fuck, you feel fantastic. I’ll never want to leave,’ he grits out, his eyes blazing into mine.

  I’m so high on him, on us, the first flutters of an orgasm start. His slow, thorough thrusts shove me over the edge so I cry out, my stare locked on his beautiful face. But I’m greedy. I want more. I want everything he has to give me. I let go of his hands to squeeze my sensitive nipples as I lift my pelvis, meeting him thrust for thrust. Sweat breaks out at his hairline.

  He’s holding back. But I want him wild, teetering on the edge, a place I’m clawing at with my fingernails. I shove at his hips and roll over onto to my stomach. Before I can press up onto all fours, his body covers mine and he re-enters me from behind.

  ‘Yes,’ I hiss, because this way, me flat on my stomach and him deep inside, it’s tighter, the friction almost unbearably good.

  His hand burrows under my hip to stroke my clit as he pumps into me. ‘Come again. Show me what I want to see,’ he orders, and like his puppet I nod, because I’m almost there, my walls clamping around his shaft as a second orgasm strikes.

  My cry is muffled into the pillow. And then I’m pressed into the mattress by Oliver’s weight, flat out, his front plastered to my back and his face buried on my shoulder and the side of my neck.

  ‘Neve!’ He bellows my name seconds before he goes rigid and comes.
And even then he won’t stop. He flips me over and collapses on top of me where his hips buck, wringing the last of the pleasure from his heavy, spent body as he laves kiss after kiss over my chest, my neck and my face.

  ‘I can’t get enough of you,’ he whispers, pressing his mouth to mine, and he’s right. We’re spent and sweaty, but already I want him back inside me. I feel his cock thicken and twitch against my stomach.

  My final thought as we lose ourselves in each other’s touch once more... How the hell will we ever stop this?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Oliver

  THE PICTURE’S BLURRY, obviously taken using a telephoto lens, but Neve and I are still recognisable, kissing on the deck of the boat after swimming with the wildlife. I make a fist and press it to the bridge of my nose, as if wishing it away will change the string of events. While Neve and I slept like two spoons in a drawer, blissfully unaware, the story of Slay Coterill’s split from wife number six created a path of cyclonic destruction.

  Bad rock and roll icon ditches wife number six...but will sometime on-again, off-again girlfriend of Coterill Junior ever make it across the finish line?

  My stomach roils with fury. I glance at the open windows. I left Neve in the shower five minutes ago while I ordered breakfast. I wanted everything about this day to be perfect. And now it’s ruined. Because of me.

  The story, which represents everything that’s wrong about my life, everything I’ve tried to distance myself from, pulls me apart. It paints her not as the amazing, strong, independent woman she is—the most important woman in my life—but as the pathetic sidepiece of a man who can’t commit. A man who doesn’t deserve her. A man who is just like his father.

  And perhaps the media is right. I’ve denied my feelings for Neve for nine years because of my issues. I’ve pretended and hidden away the vulnerable places in me that prevented me from considering a serious relationship. I’ve brought all of this down on her through my fears. It’s a mess, exactly the kind I’ve dreaded, and I’ve dragged Neve into the circus.