by Donna Alam
‘I’m not really. It’s you. You make me this sexual thing.’ I frown because that sounds . . . unhealthy. ‘What I mean is, you brought out that side of me. But what I’m trying to say is that heat and desire I saw in your eyes that night . . . your absolute need? I feel it, too. And when I watch you with someone else, when I’ll watch you feed your cock into Ethan’s mouth? That’s you, dancing for me.’
‘Bea, my darling, I get it. I do. Because I feel the same way. I want you to know you’re leading the way. The choices are yours because I like sex, period. But you. You, I love.’
Leaning down, she takes my face in her hands, slanting her mouth over mine. It’s a kiss of love and of promise, of nips of teeth and teasing tongue.
‘I love you, Kit Tremaine,’ she whispers as I roll us in the bed, sliding myself between her legs. My hands on either side of her head, I bear my weight on my forearms, my cock deliciously close to her wet heat.
‘Say it again,’ I demand, growling the words into the satin of her neck.
‘I love you. Now and for always.’
I groan, sliding my cock against her, grinding against her wetness with my hips. I want to fuck her—push myself into her body and make her scream and cry my name. But more than anything, I want to hear her whisper her love again and again.
‘I love you so, so—’ The end of her sentence is lost as I rub her clit with my piercing, licking a wet trail along the long column of her neck.
‘I’m going to break you,’ I whisper, kissing the shell of her ear. And if it’s possible, my cock swells as acceptance melts her against the bed. ‘You like the sound of that, you dirty girl.’
‘Your dirty girl,’ she whispers, then whimpers as I nudge her clit again.
As she cants her hips in invitation, I take it, lifting one of her knees to spread her wider. I take her hands in mine, pinning them above her head. The weight of my body presses her against the mattress, wanting to feel her everywhere. Then, with a groan, I slide myself home.
She exhales my name, and I still, closing my eyes as the heat of her pulses around me. I swallow over the emotion balled in my throat, taking the minute to centre my control before hunger overtakes me again. I pull back and thrust forward again. Game on, game over, as I set a hungry pace, driving into her body again and again. And she takes me, as always, she accepts me for who I am. For the ways I love her, allowing me to punish her for it with pleasure as I stare into her darkened gaze.
The first clench of her orgasm makes her gasp, her mouth a pink lewd o . I cover her mouth with my own because I want to own that part of her, too. Rooted so deeply, her cunt pulses around my piercing as she rides out her orgasm, her slickness pressed tightly against me. And all the while, I whisper to her how I need her.
How I love her.
How I’m going to feed my hand into her sweat-darkened hair.
How I’m going to wrap it in my fist.
Control her movement.
Feed my dick down her throat inch by slow inch.
Her orgasm seems endless, her eyes glazed and her pussy clenching as I rock against her, the muscles in my abdomen and thighs contracting.
She is a thing of beauty. And she takes me beautifully as I make good on my promises.
‘Best Christmas present ever,’ she whispers hoarsely, collapsed in my arms.
‘So you’re saying I could’ve saved the effort? Saved the money? You just wanted me to come down your throat.’
‘You think I don’t know what’s wrapped so prettily under our paltry tree?’
Paltry is right. Our tree is a gold spray painted stick thing Bea picked up on her way home last week. I was surprised when she walked through the door with it. Apparently, our Christmas traditions focus on other things.
‘Have you been peeking?’ I ask, pulling her closer by grabbing handfuls of her luscious arse.
‘I don’t need to. I know it’s a handbag.’
‘Says who?’
‘Oh, please. You hate how I, in your words, insist on carrying my whole life around in that massive bag .’ She pitches her voice low in her imitation of mine. ‘Stands to reason, wrapped in that box is a cute little baguette by way of encouragement. Concealed, of course, in a much larger box.’
‘Oh, of course .’
Despite my tone, she’s right—on both counts. I hate her massive bag. Mainly because she can never find anything in the bloody thing! And yes, her gift is a bag. But it’s not small. It’s a just newer and more expensive version of her own. And it contains a couple of plane tickets to Fiji next month. Hopefully, she’ll want to take me . . .
‘I haven’t had time to shop for your gift,’ she says softly.
‘I have all I want for Christmas right here.’ Tightening my arms around her, I say my words with absolute sincerity. This woman is everything to me.
‘Good because that’s what I was planning to give you. Me wrapped in nothing but a big red bow, yours to do with whatever you like.’
My sigh is full of contentment. ‘You know me so well, Dr Honey Bea.’
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Chapter Seven
ELLA
CHRISTMAS EVE
‘Ow-ow-ow!’ My fingers grip the stone worktops so hard they’re likely to break.
‘What? What is it?’ Mac turns from the oven, wooden spoon in hand. He looks so handsome in his gleaming white button-down and dark jeans. A suggestion of stubble covers his chin, his dark hair damp and curling from his shower. But as is often the case when he looks at me these days, his face creases in a frown.
‘It’s nothing.’ I hold up a hand to ward off his concern before moving it to my outsized stomach as the shooting pains begin to subside. ‘It was just one of those Braxton-Hicks contractions. The midwife says they’ll start to get heavier over the coming weeks in preparation for BD Day.’
‘BD day,’ he repeats. Resting his hand on the small of my back, he gently steers in the direction of the living room.
‘Big Drop day,’ I explain. ‘And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, manoeuvring me out of the kitchen.’
‘I dunno what you’re talking about,’ he responds, his tone completely benign. ‘But I would be happier if you sat your arse down .’ The last of his words are said through gritted teeth as he takes my hand to help me lower my swollen frame into the man-sized armchair set to the side of the fireplace. It’s not a traditional piece, more like a square in the wall that houses one of those fake fires, though it looks very real. Mac recently had a mantelpiece fitted above it when Louis began to wonder where he’d hang his stocking wif care tonight.
Lots of things have changed in this loft-style apartment since Louis and I crashed into Mac’s life. Brightly coloured storage boxes are stacked against one wall filled with toys and books, and pale picture frames stand on the mantle, displaying snapshots of our lives. Signed Louis masterpieces are tacked to the fridge along with the number of the nearest paediatrician, his school, and the like. The rugs and soft furnishings have changed; no more child unfriendly tones or fabrics. And since last week, we have a Christmas tree—a real tree, the scent of Scots pine permeating the room. Unless you happen to be on the kitchen side of the room right now because that smells just like booze. And spices. But mostly booze. Mac’s secret recipe mulled wine. Apparently, mulled wine contains brandy. Who knew?
‘You’re so bossy,’ I complain as Mac drags over a leather footstool, propping my feet on top. My fat feet and pudgy ankles. God, I look disgusting. Today is not a good day unless you like riding the crazy train emotional rollercoaster, which I may have just boarded.
‘I look forward to the days you appreciate my dominance,’ he says, standing back to survey the lump sitting in the middle of the chair. ‘Hen, why are you cryin’?’ I didn’t realise I was, but sure enough, as I raise my hand to my face, my cheeks are wet. Instantly, Mac falls to his knees in front of me, sympathy etched on his face. ‘You know I only want the best for you and the wee one. I don’t me
an to be so—’
‘I know, I know!’ I wave away his apology, my words not hitting the air so much as a sob, but a howl. ‘I’m just so sick of feeling like a f-fatso whale. A f-fatso w-whale pig who can’t do anything around the house!’
‘What? You’re pregnant, not fat! Even without the complications, you’re supposed to put your feet up and let me help. Christ knows you’ll be busy enough in a few weeks. You should take advantage of me.’
‘I think that’s what I did yesterday.’
‘Oh, yeah, you really took advantage. Did you think I was lettin’ you do me a favour? That I sat back and thought of the Queen while you gave me a hand job?’
‘I hope not,’ I say, my words now still wet and bubbly. ‘She’s like, ninety or something.’ But then another thought occurs. ‘At least she hasn’t got an arse the size of B-buckingham Palace.’ And just like that, I’m sobbing again.
‘Ella, you’re stunning.’ Through my sad haze, I hear the sincerity in Mac’s, and the sensible side of my brain knows how I currently feel is ridiculous. I haven’t packed on the podge since yesterday, and yesterday, I didn’t feel fat. I felt pretty damn sexy holding a whole lot of Mac in my hand.
But Louis and our guests are due to arrive any minute. I have to pull myself together tout de suite , I think as he takes my hands in both of his.
Mac on his knees in front of me. His declarations of love, his face shining with honesty. This is what I want for Christmas—what I want and what I haven’t been able to say. It’s not a sudden thing, but rather something I’ve refused to acknowledge. Something from my subconscious.
I want the ring and the promise that goes along with it. Forever and family.
I take a deep breath and try to get a grip on this madness. Mac already proposed, I remind myself. And I said no—my choice. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to marry me just because I was pregnant. But now I feel like he’ll never ask me again—not when I’m such a blimp. Not when he’s seen how unhinged I am.
‘You look so lovely,’ he says, squeezing my hand between his.
‘No, I’m not! Look at me,’ I demand, plucking the front of my festive red dress. ‘This dress is big enough to be a dust cover for a s-sofa!’
‘But you loved it when it arrived yesterday?’
‘Yesterday,’ I squeak, both hands in the air, ‘I didn’t realise I looked like Tweedle-Dum in drag!’
‘Ella, darlin’, he says, taking my hands in his. ‘I can barely see straight for wanting you.’ From anxious to resolute, emotions flit and flicker across Mac’s face. ‘It’s just hormones. That’s all this is.’
‘Yesterday, I was happy,’ I wail. ‘Yesterday, I felt sexy, and today, I feel like . . . like . . . not me.’
‘What was different about yesterday?’ he almost says to himself. ‘Shall I whip out my dick, and you can wank me off again?’
My shoulders continue to shake, but this time a little giggle mixes with my tears. ‘You’re an opportunist, Mac Adams.’
‘I thought I was offering to take one for the team.’ He sighs as he reaches out to swipe the tears from under my eyes. ‘Because that’s what we are. A team. And these tears? They’re just hormones, that’s all.’
And fear, Mac, my love. So much fear.
‘Why don’t you wash your face, and I’ll make you a cup of that horrible tea you like so much.’
‘It’s not horrible, it’s hyacinth.’
‘It smells worse than cat pee. Come on,’ he adds, feeding his hand into my hair. ‘I want you to hear me, Ella. You’ve looked radiant this whole pregnancy. Gorgeous. Fucking sublime. And I, for one, can’t wait until this wee one is born. And sure, I can’t wait to meet her, and I can’t wait to be her dad. But you know what else? I can’t wait until I can touch you again.’ His expression is tender, love shining in his gaze. ‘And by that, I mean fuck.’
I roll my lips inwards in an attempt not to laugh. An attempt that fails.
‘You may well laugh, but I wasn’t joking about becoming a funny shape!’ I don’t get a chance to answer as the bell to the front door chimes. Mac’s expression morphs from relief to resignation. ‘And so the horde doth descend.’
‘This was your idea,’ I remind him. ‘Christmas Eve drinks, you said, not this full-scale production.’ I nod my head in the direction of the kitchen to where the caterers had laid out a festive buffet not an hour ago. ‘A few nuts and nibbles would have been enough.’
‘With that lot here, there’ll be enough nuts. Besides,’ he adds, ‘you haven’t seen how much my Ivy eats,’ he grumbles, getting up from the floor. ‘I just wanted this to be about family.’ He shrugs, the simple action belying what this means to him.
‘Go open the door. Let your people in.’
‘You make me sound like Moses,’ he says, turning.
‘Wrong holiday,’ I answer. ‘Wrong religion.’
Moments later, the noise of family fills the place. Mac’s parents are the first to arrive along with Louis and wee Alisdair, whom they’ve had in town for the day.
‘I knew I should’ve restrained your mother,’ I hear his dad complain. ‘Christmas Eve shopping is my idea of a nightmare.’
‘But we had to go and visit Santa Claus, didn’t we, Louis?’ she responds.
His hand placed in mine, Louis nods. ‘It’s not weally Santa Claus, Granny.’ His words are soft yet solemn, as though he doesn’t want his grandmother to be too upset. ‘Santa can’t be everywhere. It was just one of his helpers. And I heard one of the big boys in the queue say his name was Peter Paedophile.’
We all try not to laugh, feigning interest in other places in the room.
‘How is it,’ Mac asks me quietly, ‘the lad can’t pronounce his Rs but he can manage to repeat that ?’
‘Lord knows,’ I whisper back, rubbing the expanse of my tummy.
‘Another Braxton-Hicks?’ he asks, his gaze full of concern.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him, reaching up to touch his face. And for once, I’ll do as I’m bid, resolving not to move from my chair this evening unless necessary.
Next to arrive is Rory and Fin. Hand on heart, I can say I feel nothing but pleasure that they’re here. And Niall is such a lovely baby. Even if he does have a rare set of lungs. Even his scowl is cute.
‘You look so lovely,’ Fin tells me. ‘Positively blooming.’ Tears prick behind my lids as she envelops me in a hug. ‘It’s the hormones,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘I was an absolute mess the month before Niall was born. I’m sorry to say for the month after, too. But you’ll be fine,’ she adds with a final reassuring squeeze. ‘We can’t wait to meet her.’
And while it’s a relief to hear my reactions are somewhat normal, I can’t help but recall how Fin looked nine months pregnant. Like she had a football tucked neatly under her blouse. She wasn’t forced to wear dresses big enough for a family of five to camp out in.
‘You’re late,’ Mac says as his sister and Dylan arrive, shrugging off their winter coats.
‘It takes time to look this good,’ comes Ivy’s response before she holds out her arms for her child to toddle into. ‘I’ve missed you, my wee man,’ she tells him with a tickling hug that makes him squeal.
‘I expect they were too busy unwrapping each other, rather than wrapping up in layers,’ says a red-cheeked Nat coming in behind them, wheeling an equally swaddled June.
‘Nat!’ Ivy chastises. ‘We were not.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Mac complains. ‘That’s my sister. Immaculate conception, y’ken?’
‘Sure, if it helps you sleep at night,’ she replies with a grin. ‘Where’s Ella, the other immaculate conception case?’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ gasps June, pulling a cream woollen hat from her head. ‘I think that girl is trying to see me off. Look at this scarf!’ she begins to unloop the matching cream woollen scarf that must be a metre and a half long.
Bea and Kit are the last to arrive, telling glances exchanged between the pair.
/> ‘We know what they’ve been up to,’ whispers Nat as she hands me a glass of orange juice. ‘It’s as plain as the jizz in that girl’s hair.’
‘Actually, I think that’s snow,’ I say, watching as the flakes of white melt. ‘What about you, Nat? Anyone special in your life right now?’
‘Absolutely.’ She shoots me a saucy wink. ‘You’re looking right at her.’
After we exchange kisses and greetings all around, drinks are doled out and someone switches on some bluesy Christmas tunes. We settle into a pleasant evening of catching up on each other’s lives as fluffy tufts of snow float past the wall of windows.
‘It’ll never lay,’ someone asserts. ‘No’ like it does back in Scotland.’
‘Hey,’ Nat says to her granny. ‘Remember that television program we watched about the men who’d paid thousands of dollars for those life-sized dolls to be custom made?’
‘Oh, aye,’ answers June with animation. ‘Dating Dolls or some such? They dressed them and slept with them and the like,’ she tells us all. ‘These were’nae dolls meant for wee girls, mind.’
‘I think I saw this one,’ interjects Stella, Mac’s mum. ‘Like models they were—and anabomically correct.’
‘Anatomically,’ corrects Mac’s dad with an air of long suffering.
‘Is that no’ what I said?’
‘I saw an article about this in the press,’ Fin cuts in. ‘Before I went on maternity leave. I heard the manufacturers in California were now making male dolls. For the female market, I mean.’
‘I hope to God you haven’t put one on your Christmas list,’ grumbles Rory.
‘Aye, they cost a pretty penny,’ adds June, as though the gift idea is a reasonable one, even if the cost is steep.
‘How do you know about the cost?’ asks her granddaughter.
‘I had a look on their website.’
‘Christ, I hope you haven’t put one on your list, because if you have, I might need to see if I can buy it bit by bit. Might take me until your ninetieth birthday to get a complete model.’
‘I’m no’ going anywhere,’ June answers with a cheeky grin.
