The Gift

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘Do it now and, as you do it, pinch your nipple.’

  Sandy silently moaned ‘no’ while meaning ‘yes’. There was such power in his voice, such compulsion. What weird perversity inside her made her want to be tortured with pleasure by him? It seemed so deeply kinky a thing to crave, and yet she did.

  ‘Are you doing as I say?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  She shuffled down the bed until she was lying flat, took the crest of her nipple between her fingertips, and squeezed. The little pain, combined with the vibrations, made her whine.

  ‘Better. Now come on, try harder,’ Jay urged, as if he were there in the room, observing every twitch, every wriggle, every jerk of her hips. ‘Open your legs very, very wide. Expose everything, make sure the vibe touches as much of you as possible. And pinch your nipple hard, baby, no playing. Make it hurt.’

  The hard ache in her teat made her clitoris feel as if it were sizzling. Her pelvis rose involuntarily, cramming her tender pussy against the buzzing hardness of the unforgiving vibrator. She thumbed the power slider, twisted her nipple. And screamed out loud as a white pulsation wrenched at her sex.

  Arching like a bow, riding the huge hard clenching orgasm, she gasped and moaned, her voice uncouth as her heels dragged against the bedding. Behind her closed eyelids she saw Jay’s face, his triumphant smile, his burning eyes.

  ‘Jay! Oh God, Jay!’ she shouted, still jerking, still coming.

  ‘Oh yes, Princess,’ she heard him say, as if through fog. Over-stimulated, she flung away the vibe and collapsed back against the bed, cupping her simmering crotch and, instead of arching now, curling up, making herself foetal. A great well of emotion seemed to burst inside her and she found herself sobbing like a child.

  ‘Sandy? Sandy? Are you all right? Talk to me.’

  The fog cleared, and she could hear the real concern in his voice. And that only made her emotions surge and bubble. Her heart ached and ached to have him beside her. Her entire body seemed to cry out for his warm body, tight against her. Not fucking, just holding, just being there.

  ‘Sandy!’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m fine. Just a bit orgasmed out, that’s all.’ Struggling, she dragged herself up again, to sit against the pillows. With a shake of her hair she tried to tidy herself, just as if he’d been there, dragging down her nightshirt that had got pushed right up into a bundle above her breasts. Trying to steady her breathing and not snivel, she tweaked the cotton fabric down modestly over her thighs.

  ‘Was that a big one?’ he asked, sounding strangely tentative.

  ‘Um, yes … pretty big. You could say that.’

  ‘I wish I’d seen it.’

  ‘I wish you had too.’ The words just popped out, without her consciously thinking them, but it was true. She would have liked to have given him that intense experience.

  There was a moment of silence and, gritting her teeth, Sandy fought not to cry. She wasn’t sad, not really, and she wasn’t normally a baby, but the whirlwind of what she’d just been through had her at sixes and sevens. Surreptitiously, she reached for her bedside box of tissues. Maybe it was a good job Jay wasn’t here, or he’d see the tears and know how wimpy and girly she was being.

  ‘Don’t cry.’

  Her hand froze, tissue half out of the box.

  How the hell do you know these things?

  ‘I’m not!’ She rubbed furiously at her eyes. He’d probably be able to see their red rims now too.

  ‘Oh, I think you are, and I’m sorry if I’ve upset you in any way. I just thought you’d like a bit of sexy fun.’

  He didn’t sound too sure of himself either. To Sandy, his voice seemed huskier than ever.

  ‘I did. I do. It’s just sometimes … post-coital tristesse and all that, you know?’

  He sighed. He felt it too, she just knew he did.

  ‘I wish I was there, Princess. I wish I was next to you so I could hold you and kiss it better.’

  Sandy’s head seemed to float. She went hot and cold. Felt almost faint. She’d heard him say those words before. And not just in the garden at the Waverley when her feet had been killing her in those stupid shoes. The voice was so different. And yet the same. The same!

  She’d told him the story. He knew she remembered him. He must remember her, he must! But why not say so?

  Prince Charming had been beautiful. Jay was beautiful in his own savage way. But it was a beauty crafted by a surgeon’s knife out of cruelly damaged raw material. Could they be the same man? Dare she ask? Would he admit it? And where did that leave them if he did?

  More silence stretched on, heavy across the airwaves. But she couldn’t take it.

  ‘Are you him? Prince Charming?’ The words came out tiny, as if she hardly dared speak them, as if she was allowing herself an opt out and she could claim he’d misheard her.

  She heard a great drawing in of breath. Shocking somehow. And deeply revealing in such a hard unflappable man. He’d started this by using the words ‘kiss it better’, but was he now regretting that and wishing he hadn’t?

  But either way, he’d told her all she needed to know. Jay Bentley and Prince Charming were the same man.

  ‘Are you him?’ she prompted.

  ‘I was once.’ He sounded so weary now, and she could hear the pain in his broken voice. But was that from regret, or his injuries? That was less clear. ‘But I’ve changed too much to ever be that man again. I’ve done too much.’ He sighed. ‘I wasn’t an admirable person then, and I’m far worse now.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that!’ Sandy cried. She was on that strange merry-go-round of panic and confusion again, trying to reach some intangible goal, some half-imaginary person. He kept floating into reach then being snatched back away from her. And now she had a feeling he was gone for good. The tears she’d suppressed before flowed freely down her face.

  ‘I’ve destroyed your dream, haven’t I?’ His voice was cool, flat. Oddly emotionless. ‘You’ve spent all these years fantasising about your pretty saviour and now you know you’ll never find him. Not in any form that’s recognisable as the man he once was.’

  ‘Do you think I’m so shallow that I only dream about someone because they look cute? Looks aren’t everything. And anyway, you look fine to me as you are.’

  A bitter jag of laughter.

  ‘Well, that would be fine. But I’m not chivalrous and high-minded like your dream guy. You don’t know anything about me, and it’s probably better that you never do.’

  Sandy flung away her mushy, crumpled tissue and grabbed another one. It wouldn’t come out of the box, and she bashed and smashed at the cardboard, aware that she was behaving like a child having a tantrum but needing some kind of release for the pressure cooker of her emotions.

  ‘Is that it then?’ she demanded. ‘Just a few incredible shags and a bit of sexual experimentation? And fifteen years of dreams stomped to pulp into the bargain.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The words were simultaneous, and so was the laughter that followed within a heartbeat.

  ‘I’m sorry for being a drama queen there,’ said Sandy at last. A strange calm settled over her. She felt tired, but not unhappy. ‘How can I possibly expect anyone to be like somebody I just dreamed up? And indeed, why should they be? Prince Charming was just a figment of my imagination really, based on someone I met briefly, who was kind to me.’ She paused. ‘And please don’t try to deny you were kind, because you were.’

  ‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re not a drama queen, you’re Princess.’ His rough voice sounded unexpectedly tender. ‘And you’re not the only one who can lay the weight of unrealistic fantasies on the shoulders of an unknowing stranger.’

  What was he trying to say?

  Panic started to geyser up again.

  ‘Oh shit! Now I get it. I’m a huge disappointment to you.’

  A cold hand gripped her heart. How could she have been so stupid? And
so arrogant? Jay had harboured expectations of his dream person too, and she didn’t match them.

  ‘No-fucking-way,’ he said steadily. ‘There’s nothing disappointing about you, lady. You’re exciting and beautiful and you arouse me in ways you can’t imagine.’ He laughed softly. ‘Hell, here we are having a row and I’ve got a hard-on all over again. I’m going to have to wank myself to sleep at this rate, imagining all the things I want to do to you.’

  It had been a long, long night. One in which she’d travelled across an ocean of time, revisited a dream, lost it, but somehow recovered it again. Sandy felt tired, confused and suddenly very sleepy. And yet at the same time, the seductive vision formed again.

  Jay in his grey robe, stretched against white sheets, handling himself. It seemed so simple and so straightforward to just concentrate on that, and push to one side the perplexing and puzzling issues of identity, not to mention the insidiously gathering curiosity at how he’d found her. It couldn’t be coincidence, surely?

  Bollocks to it. Concentrate on now. Thrash all that stuff out another time, when you’re sharper.

  The picture of a gorgeous cock wrapped in long dextrous fingers eased the mind as much as it stirred her sticky body. It was so simple and so relaxing just to think of it.

  ‘So, are you going to do that?’ He laughed again.

  ‘How do you know that I’m not doing it already?’

  In her imagination the hand moved, began to pump. Narrow male hips lifted, thrusting the reddened shaft through the sticky gripping hand.

  ‘How do you know that I’m not doing it already too?’

  Jay’s breathing was rough now. ‘Oh, please say you are.’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘There’s no “might” about it, Princess. Touch yourself for me.’ Sandy smiled. It was so easy. Unbelievable, but easy.

  The weight of dreams and memories and suspicions lifted as she touched herself.

  Chapter 15

  Sandy stared around but she couldn’t see any sign of the notorious Waverley Grange ‘behaviour’ that Kat was forever telling tall tales about. But then, this was the restaurant, and perhaps people were only interested in eating here. Other appetites were probably catered to elsewhere.

  She was on edge. She was tired. She felt out of place. She wished she’d never said she’d meet Jay here. But after his revelation the other night, she wanted neutral ground. With people around, she had a buffer against emotions that were huge and confusing. With people around, she could control her desire and her thoughts, see things more clearly.

  Saturday-night dining at the Waverley was clearly a gala affair and, judging by the lack of vacant tables, the restaurant was probably booked up well in advance. But Jay obviously had the clout to secure a reservation at short notice.

  She reached for her glass and took a sip of wine. The bottle had already been on the table in a cooler when the handsome hotel manager, Signor Guidetti himself, had seated her at the table. He’d poured for her and assured her that ‘Mr Bentley’ would be with her shortly. In other circumstances, she might have gone a bit girly under all that Italian charm, but she was so distracted, all she could manage was a nervous smile.

  The wine was soft yet light, quite sophisticated for a rosé. She didn’t think in a million years that this was the sort of thing Jay would drink, but he’d clearly ordered it for her because he already knew her tastes.

  She put down the glass, frowning at it.

  Just because we met fifteen years ago, Mister, it doesn’t mean we’ve known each other for fifteen years. You know nothing about me, and I know even less about you.

  On Thursday night, lulled by orgasms, the impact of Jay’s identity had been blunted somehow. But since then, she’d done nothing but turn the revelation over and over in her mind. She almost felt angry with him for negating her cherished dream of all those years, by being a strange, scarred, troubled man who rigidly denied his own chivalry. And yet she knew she was probably as far from his dream of her as he was from hers of him.

  Fuck you, why did you ever come to Kissley?

  Which begged another question.

  Why had he come to Kissley? For her? And if so, how had he found her here? How had he known to come here?

  She stared around the room, her eyes idly flicking over other diners, in an effort to distract herself. But everywhere there seemed to be couples who looked happy and relaxed. At a corner table she noticed the young blonde woman who’d brought room service the other day. No embargo on the hotel’s staff becoming patrons on their days off, then? The vivacious blonde was holding hands and laughing with an older thick-set guy who gazed at her with a combination of fondness and clearly simmering lust. Lucky bitch, to have such a sexy, affectionate and probably straightforward relationship!

  Sandy straightened her already immaculately set-out cutlery, and glanced in the other direction. Narrowing her eyes, she peered at another couple sitting by the window. She could swear she knew the guy with glasses from somewhere. Handsome as an angel and with a mop of black curls. Wasn’t he on the telly, some history guru? It didn’t matter though, whether he was the celeb or not, he was clearly spoken for. His companion, a curvaceous tawny-haired woman with a rather magnificent bosom, was giving him looks far more intense and intimate than a mere fan ever would.

  Life seemed so straightforward for some people. But then, so had hers been until a certain scarred hard case had walked into her life, screwed her senseless, and dislocated a dream she’d harboured in her heart for fifteen long years.

  ‘Fuck you, Jay Bentley,’ she muttered, then swigged her wine again.

  But as she set down her glass the hairs on the nape of her neck all came to attention. Turning to the door, she saw him there, paused momentarily and staring at her. How could he possibly have ever been Prince Charming? He was so tall. So steely-looking. So intimidating. And yet he already looked different, as if seen through a new filter.

  As he threaded his way between the tables, walking towards her, his dark finely tailored suit jacket seemed to float from his broad shoulders. He dominated the room. Women at other tables stared at him, not in the least put off by his scars. Sandy didn’t blame them. God, he looked even better now that he appeared to be letting his hair grow. Even in a couple of days it had thickened, and was looking extraordinarily dark. The same black as Prince Charming’s shaggy mane.

  ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ he said, sliding into his seat. ‘I meant to be here much earlier, but I was detained.’ He sighed and poured himself some water from the bottle of San Pellegrino on the table. ‘More wrangling with the old man. He’s a bloody stubborn old git.’

  How odd. He talks to me as if we have known each other fifteen years. As if we’re old friends. Old lovers.

  And for all his strangeness, she felt his body call to hers with a familiarity out of all proportion to the hours and days that she’d known it. Following the way he moved his fingers over the stem of his glass, she shuddered as if they’d left permanent tracks on her skin, on her breasts and her sex, ley lines that were suddenly irradiated anew by his proximity. Her own fingertips tingled too, as if his skin, his scars and his cock had left their brilliant spoor on her.

  She wanted to talk, ask questions, set ground rules, but an electric field of pure lust short-circuited her brain.

  ‘It’s OK. I haven’t been here long and it’s nice. And the wine’s nice. Don’t worry.’

  She blushed, aware that she was babbling and that she couldn’t stop looking at his fingers, his strong wrists, and then the wedge of tanned skin in the open neckline of his black silk shirt. She saw a peppering of dark hair deep in the V, and the thin but angry line of one of his body scars.

  ‘You’re too forgiving,’ he said. His husky voice sounded tense and tired. Was that from aggro with his father, or something else?

  They stared at each other. Sandy’s brain seemed to grind thoughts and information slowly, and it was hard. Looking at Jay’s body in his b
eautiful clothing, the strong shape of his chest and arms, was easy. It seemed a coward’s way out, but the temptation to shove issues aside in favour of sexual attraction was so strong she could almost taste it.

  She wanted to taste him.

  His grey eyes glittered as if he understood her perfectly. And concurred.

  ‘So …’ He sipped his water again. Sandy reached for the wine bottle, to pour him some, but he shook his dark head slightly. She set it back in the bucket and stared at him.

  ‘So …’ she echoed.

  Jay laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s too much to think about, isn’t there? Too much to process.’ He leaned forward in his seat, his forearm on the table. ‘Why don’t we just enjoy the moment for a while? Instead of raking over the past.’ He paused, his mouth tightening. ‘Or prodding at a future that’ll bite us in the arse?’

  What did he mean? Sandy opened her mouth to ask, but Jay reached for her hand and folded it in his. The action should have been innocuous, but the way his finger stroked her palm was electrifying. Delicious energy shot from the tiny caress, careering along her nerves at light speed to settle and bubble in her sex. Within a couple of heartbeats, she felt her body moisten and bloom like a tropical flower.

  The fingers of her free hand tensed against the tablecloth and Jay’s glance darted towards the tiny movement, monitoring her. The hard line of his mouth curved now, becoming mellower and more sensual. His nostrils flared as if he’d caught the aroma of the juice that drenched her panties all of a sudden. It was impossible, of course, but she could still half believe it. Had they given him bionic powers when they’d put him back together?

  ‘So,’ he said again, his voice low, ‘have you played with all your toys yet?’ His eyes scanned downwards, as if he had more superpowers, and he could see through the table, its cloth and her clothes. ‘Are you wearing some of your new lingerie tonight?’

  She was. The coffee and chocolate ensemble. She’d nearly chosen the black and red high-end stripper set, but right at the last minute she’d chickened out and gone classy rather than overt beneath her simple black heavy silk sheath dress. It was her other ‘best frock’ besides the dress she’d worn to the Chamber of Commerce cocktail party, but this time she had on her own shoes, elegant, but not too high.