by Alam, Donna
‘And it’s not something that concerns me.’
‘Then why ask?’
‘Truthfully, I’m not sure. Maybe I just like to know where I stand. Maybe I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Probably not.’ His hand glides from my elbow, past my wrist, until it’s resting against my own in my lap. My eyes track the motion, my insides doing an unnecessary victory roll. I feel suddenly wired. His hand is so close to, well, there. I’m still staring when he speaks again.
‘Or maybe it’s just that divorced chicks are fun to bang.’
I laugh, unexpectedly, and probably against any kind of female code. If it’s true, it definitely makes him an ass, but then, didn’t I already know that? If I’m doing this, then all the more reason for it to be him. I know what I’m getting and that’s a one night fling.
‘Truthfully . . . I’m just starting to let my marriage go. So yeah,’ I add, tipping my chin. ‘Recently. Go ahead and dislike me for it if you want.’ Despite the undercurrent of hurt, the end of my little speech comes off as ballsy and hard.
When he laughs, large and warm, his appreciation feels like a sudden burst of warmth from the sun.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, bolstered, though trying to curtail my own smile. ‘I won’t cry, you know, afterwards or ask you to hold me.’
‘Shame. I’m kind of a snuggler myself.’ Despite the cutesy sentiment, his smile sort of hovers, like he’s daring me into more reckless words.
‘Because spooning leads to forking?’ I ask, faux sweet.
‘Spooning has a habit of leading to all sorts of things.’
His delivery is anything but flippant and I can feel the promise in those words. Feel it enough to make my panties damp. He doesn’t say anything else and I assume his inaction or pause is like he’s giving me a get-out. When I don’t make any overtures of that sort, his fingers curl under my palm.
‘Shall we?’
He tugs gently and I begin my slide from the chair definitively this time, but halt at a sudden risen thought.
‘Wait.’ I place my hand on his chest, half up and half down. ‘Do you have money?’ By his appearance, it’s hard to tell. He looks like he could spend a lot of cash on his clothes and hair, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. By the look on his face, I need to quantify that statement. ‘I’m not soliciting for gods’ sake. I just need to know if you’re wealthy. You know, rich?’
Cue a second weird expression before he answers with a taut-jawed, ‘Not particularly.’
‘Great,’ I say with a deep exhale and an even wider smile. ‘I have a rule.’ It’s a new one. I should write it down. Put it on a plaque above my bed. ‘I don’t sleep with rich men.’ They aren’t worth the heartache.
‘Wouldn’t make any difference if I was.’ His accent is a touch heavier, almost as though it’s laid on for effect. ‘You won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’
Twelve
Rory
If I said I went into the bar for only a couple drinks, I’d be lying, and that’s not really my style. Bloody Kit. I can’t believe he’d gone all big brother on me. The bastard banished me to the wilds of Scotland until he can sort my shit tip out. His words, not mine. Apparently, if I come within fifty miles of Beth, she’s going to file a sexual harassment suit. Surely she’s got that arseways—I’m the wronged party! So there I was, sitting in a bar by myself on a Saturday night, looking for a distraction, when a distraction came looking for me.
Slim, blonde, cute, and from what I can see, totally fuckable. I didn’t immediately turn, taking a mouthful of drink instead. Even with limited vision, I could see there was something familiar about her, and for a split second, I wondered if she was maybe the more do-able sister of some girl I’ve already done. But as I’d given her my full attention, I saw I was wrong.
The hair salon.
Appearances can be deceptive. Who knew beneath those long locks and staid clothes there was a woman who looked like this? From daytime sophisticate to an outfit that looks sexy and sort of French. Heels. Red painted blow-job lips. Short, dark blonde hair. Truth is, I’m usually a fan of girls with long hair. I like to wrap my hands in it as I drag her mouth to mine. Love the brush of it against the skin of my thighs during head. But it would be a crime to have any sort of distraction from a mouth like hers. And those freckles. The only thing missing from tonight’s outfit is the diamond band she wore across her left hand. Maybe I should’ve felt shame hitting on a married woman. The truth is, the situation sort of created itself. And while I doubt she’s gotten a divorce between now and last Tuesday, there’s also her sudden hair change. Isn’t there supposed to be some correlation between break-ups and drastic haircuts?
Fuck, I sound like an article in Cosmo. I’m not gonna complain that she’s here.
And it’s not like I was stalking her, but earlier I’d spotted her when I came into the bar sitting with her friends. Then later, when I’d sought her out, she and her pals were surrounded by blokes—a table full of nerds—so I’d just moved back to the bar again.
But then she came to me. Which totally made her fair game. So, along with the generic greeting, I’d laid on just a hint of what Kit calls the KDS. The knicker dropping smirk. I’m not new to this play, but was on the back foot immediately, our interaction unlike anything I’d expect. She wasn’t after a few moments of mild flirtation before heading back to her friends. Most likely she was a fish out of water and daring herself. Kit would have a shit fit, tell me that I have some kind of compulsion for trouble, that I actively attract it, but I like to think of myself as more of a community service. For the pretty and troubled ones, at least.
Maybe I am just a glutton for punishment, because sure, I’d driven past her place of work once or twice this week. Despite resembling a drowned rat that day, the spark between us was obvious. Something else that’s obvious? She doesn’t want to admit we’ve already met, and I’m happy enough to play along.
This is definitely on. It’s not like I’ve never been propositioned in a bar before, though there was something cute about the way she’d hit on me. It’s not a massive large leap of faith to believe this is a one off. And we’re back to the ring situation again.
Not gonna think about it.
Not my responsibility.
Helping her down from the chair—she’s only a wee totey thing—I slip on my jacket and guide her through the throng. As I hold the door open for her, she looks a little flustered. My first instinct is that she’s having second thoughts. I could—should—offer to take her home, thinking fleetingly back to her ambiguous marital status. Maybe they’ve just had a fight and I’m making this worse.
I suppose it’s a shame I’m not really a gentleman. It’s not as though I can’t be gentle, because I can. I just happen to prefer a little rough.
‘My jacket,’ she mumbles, pulling her phone from one of those flat purses that surely can’t hold more than a lip gloss and a few quid. ‘False alarm,’ she says, staring down at the screen. ‘Natasha has taken it home.’ Then she mumbles something about cutting a bitch if she finds a mark on the suede.
We step outside.
It’s baltic this evening and, as we walk, I grab her hand. It’s an innocent gesture that contradicts the images flooding my brain. I find myself smiling, thinking back to what her mouthy friend said about snow and inches. I’m not biggin’ myself up by saying I’m the higher end of her scale.
Wonder if I’ll get to snow in her mouth?
‘What’s so funny?’
Her hand slides out of mine, and as I look down, I notice she’s folded her arms across her chest and her teeth are chattering. She’s also tottering alongside me, two tiny steps to each of my strides, so I slow down. I feel a bit of a shit for not noticing earlier, not that it matters. We’re almost there.
‘Nothing,’ I answer, sliding my jacket from my shoulders. Before she can say anything, I’ve stopped and slid it over hers. S
he protests, like a girl, even as her arms unclench, uncovering nipples as noticeable as door knobs beneath the flimsy material of her shirt. If I wasn’t hard before, you can bet I am now. ‘We can’t have you dying of hypothermia.’ At least, not before I’ve screwed your brains out.
‘Chivalrous,’ she says, smiling up at me. ‘I like it.’
It’s a smile that falters as I grasp her shoulders, turning and pushing her up against the cold brick wall. I don’t give either of us time to register anything else as I glue my mouth over hers. She tastes of fruit and lip gloss and a kind of sweet desperation as her shocked squeak becomes a mewl in my mouth. She’s pliant for a moment before rousing herself, her hands feeding around my neck and pulling me closer. I kiss her harder then, gliding the tip of my tongue against hers once or twice.
I’d meant it as a way of ridding her of the notion of any kind of chivalry, but I hadn’t expected her response. For her to fully open to me out in the dark; wriggling her little body against me as I pushed her against cold brick.
‘What did you do that for?’ she murmurs, tugging on my neck as I pull away—I have to before this goes any further. I’m not against the great outdoors, per se, but I think my balls would end up looking like corduroy caps exposed to this kind of cold.
‘Do I need a reason to kiss a pretty girl?’ I take her hands in mine, unlinking them from my neck and holding them in my own.
‘No,’ she says, looking mussed up, sexy and a little confused. ‘I meant why did you stop?’
I can’t stop the chuckle that breaks from my chest. From I’m not sleeping with you to I think I can do this to don’t stop.
‘Let’s get you inside,’ I say, swinging open the wrought iron gate and pulling her inside. ‘I’ll show you how chivalrous I can be.’ I throw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to my side as we walk the garden path that I know will be overgrown with wild flowers in a couple months.
‘That sounds promising.’
‘Darlin’,’ I whisper against her ear, ‘I’ll even let you come first.’
Thirteen
Fin
His tongue isn’t pierced anymore.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. I liked it, sure, but maybe it was better served as a memory, because I can’t imagine his kiss being any hotter or more enjoyable. I’ve never been pushed up against a wall, or held hostage by hips and a pair of lips. He must have had a lot of practise in the intervening years, not that I’m going to ask. No need to encourage the epic loser vibe tonight.
The cottage is still chocolate box perfect, even on this cold winter’s night. Evergreen vines hang over the entrance and twist around large leaded windows, rising up as far as a chimney built to look more like a turret. I shiver under the cover of Rory’s jacket, though not only from the cold. I was shocked when he’d slipped it over my shoulders. I can’t remember the last time anyone but my friends showed me any concern. Warm from his body and smelling heavenly, I can’t help but pull the lapels under my nose for one more inhale.
Damn. He caught me checking out his ass.
‘Are you smelling my jacket?’ The porch light highlights the knife of his cheekbones, along with a tiny scar near his eyebrow as he turns, ignoring for a moment his quest to open the solid front door.
‘Actually, I was wiping my nose,’ I say snuggling back in to the fabric, because if I don’t, I think I might be at risk of reaching out to touch him. To make sure this is real and not some trick or dream; my mind bringing the past us to now.
He smiles, turning back to try another key, a moment later pushing the door open and pulling me into the warmth.
The hallway still smells of beeswax polish. It looks the same, sort of warm and shadowy, the only source of light coming from a room somewhere beyond. I don’t have time to register much more than these small facts before Rory’s hard body is pressed against the length of mine, contrasting with the actions of his soft mouth. His kisses are all tender lips and subtle strokes of tongue, and much less urgent than outside. When I made the split decision to more or less proposition him, I’d imagined it would be strange, kissing him after so many years of kissing someone else.
It’s slightly disconcerting to find the opposite.
It’s raw and heady and unravelling. I’m not missing his teenaged tongue piercing, absolutely melting under his touch. Actually melting—wobbling knees, heated insides and everything. Physically, this man is so very different to Marcus. No, I won’t let my mind go there. He’s so tall it’s almost as though he looms over me, and this in itself provides its own kind of thrill. But it’s not only that; the differences are also in the subtleties of his touch. The way his hands slide down my body. The way his tongue dances across my lips.
One moment we’re kissing and the next we’re hit by the lash of lust, almost devouring one another; our kisses turning desperate and frantic as we battle to be closer, to inhabit, to steal breath from the other’s lungs.
‘Nbedroom?’ I mumble against his mouth. I don’t want to stop, it’s more like I physically need to go on. It’s clear neither of us is interested in any kind of precursor; a drink or a chat. We’re both down for cutting to the chase and abandoning anything in the way of that.
‘No.’ His response is little more than a rasp as his kisses travel down my neck, his hands, one minute spanning my waist before travelling down to my ass.
My head falls back without cognisance, my groan vibrating under his lips, prompting him to bite. The moment is sheer sensation overload; the smell of his aftershave, the hardness pressing between my legs, the soft rasp of his stubble against my cheek.
My clit pounding between our bodies like a drum.
‘Oh, God.’ It’s a drawn out sound of appreciation, rather than a plea for divine intervention, as his teeth find my neck again, my body responding and writhing against his, greedy and desperate for relief. Rory’s curse is more base as he pushes me up against the wall, some kind of wainscoting or moulding hard at my back.
‘I need to be inside you.’ His voice is somewhere between a breath and a groan, his hands sliding to the high hem of my skirt.
‘Oh, yes please,’ I return breathlessly, grounding myself with my palms against the wall as my body begins to tremble. My whole body. Aching. Shivering. I want him so badly I can almost taste it. Neither his head nor his hands move from their task though his eyes track up from their focus on my thighs. His features are stronger in the shadows; his easy, confident smiles replaced by something that speaks of solid determination.
Is it wrong to think he looks a little dangerous and to be turned on by it?
‘You like to be bossed about.’ He doesn’t exactly ask, his smile a little feral now. ‘Dominated.’
My gaze flicks from his knowing one to his wet, warm mouth. ‘I—I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think I don’t.’ Did that even make sense? My heart trips and I know it’s not fear. And his smile right now? It looks like I’ve just handed him the keys to my chastity belt. I exhale a convulsing, quivering breath, confused by the caustic rebuke I can’t find
‘So, what are you?’ he asks, eyes back on his task of gliding my skirt slowly up my legs. I feel my brows furrow, my stomach knotted at where he could be going with this, because I desperately don’t want to bring up the w word. ‘Are you a good girl or a bad—’ His words halt as he skims his hands down the front of my black hose covered thighs. ‘Tights,’ he says, not bothering to hide his delight.
‘You didn’t strike me as the fetish kind.’ Dear God, please don’t let him have the hots for hose.
And then he smiles that dangerous smile as he begins to pull them down. ‘A useful item of clothing, these. Binding wrists and ankles. Tying pretty girls.’
‘Not this girl,’ I return, though I don’t think I’m the only one who hears the libidinous drop in my tone.
‘At least, not the first time,’ he purrs.
Before you can say hose whore, my tights are magically mid-thigh and his knuckle is bru
shing down the front of my satin panties. And I’m whimpering, widening my stance, opening for him.
‘First time?’ I reply through a sigh. His touch is electric, my body jolting against his hand.
‘The first time I fuck you tonight.’ I open my mouth to reply when his hot mouth melts my words. As it slides against mine, his knuckle begins to rub rhythmic circles over my panties, the pressure increasing until he’s worked the soft fabric to cling wetly to my clit.
‘Do I look like a one ride kind of man?’ My gaze follows his from the damp patch of my panties as he raises his head.
‘You look like you could go all night.’
‘Fuck, yeah,’ he growls, watching my face—watching his actions—slipping his hand into my panties’ lacy waistband.
I can’t hold back the sound of my pleasure as he slides his fingers backwards and forwards, gathering my wetness and rubbing it against the swollen nub. In fact, I think I might beg as a knuckle becomes two circling fingers, then two fingers that thrust.
‘Please, please, please.’ My breath is short and my voice is hoarse. Please let him still be hung like a horse. ‘Oh God, please, please, please.’ It’s been so long.
I so badly want to come—crave it as I crave him. My hands grasp his shoulders as much for balance as it is to hold him closer, as the heel of his palm cups and pressures, paced in time with his thrusts. Arching away from the wall, I pull his mouth to mine, sucking on his bottom lip. Arching. Sucking. Finger fucking. So sublime.
My hands slide from his shoulders and I grasp his forearm, using my body to ride his hand. I’ve never been so forward, so demanding. Felt so reckless and powerful. So full of need.
My veins feel powered by liquid fire; the knot between my legs building and building, before bursting at its peak. And I’m all out of breath, coming so hard and so silently I think this must be what it feels like to implode. I’m conscious of my chest heaving between us—and that’s never happened before—and think I might actually be dissolving from pure pleasure. But I can’t be, because I can feel my body weighted against his arm; the arm I’ve clutched so hard, I think it might have left nail marks.
