The Gift

by Portia Da Costa

  Oh God … a sublime trio of diamonds, two matched, and the centre one larger. A little mini poem of harmony and brilliance.

  How did you know?

  Sandy smiled though. It was easy enough to work out. She and Kat had spent hours perusing rings in the various jewellery stores in the borough’s main shopping centre, comparing their favourites. Sandy had pointed out a ring much like this one … but nowhere near as fabulous. Shaking, she handed the box to Jay and he took out the ring, setting its container on the bench beside them. Then, he made as if to get to his knees, but Sandy halted him.

  ‘No need to kneel. The ground will be cold.’

  ‘Ah, but I’d be getting down there anyway.’ Delicious salaciousness gleamed in his eyes, tempered by obvious, patent love. Before she could stop him, he was kneeling.

  ‘Will you marry me, Princess?’

  ‘Of course, Prince Charming … of course.’ Blinking happy tears, she let him slide the ring on. It fit, of course, and she suspected the good offices of Kat had a lot to do with both the choice of style, and the sizing. She’d tried on her friend’s ring, and it had fit perfectly, so that was where Jay had most likely got his intel.

  Her beloved was a big man, but she hauled him up almost bodily to sit on the bench beside her, then threw herself at him for a ravenous, grateful kiss.

  He was the man she loved. The man who’d rescued her all those years ago, and whom, somehow, she’d rescued in return when they’d found each other again. It sounded ridiculous, but there was a little bit of her that she was convinced had wanted to marry him from that very first moment in their youth.

  Gasping, they broke apart, both laughing with happiness and relief. ‘Hell, Sandy, I love you,’ said Jay, grinning like a boy. Like ‘the’ boy. Despite all the horrific injuries, the plastic surgery, and even the beard, she could see again that gorgeous, pretty youth who’d picked her up and kissed her better. ‘But would you think I was crass, and like a horny beast if I said that, right at this moment, I want to fuck you senseless too, to celebrate our engagement.’ He kissed her again, hard.

  ‘No … not at all. You’re not the only beast on this bench.’ Boldly, she reached down, folding her fingers around his erection, that vital, beloved monster.

  But what to do? Should she be the one to fall to her knees this time? And give him a gift, as thank you for the sublime ring? She hid a smile, remembering how she’d pretty much done just that to thank him for the new premises for her café.

  She started to slip off the bench, in readiness, but this time he halted her.

  ‘No. You’re Princess,’ he said firmly. ‘You don’t kneel to me … well, not right at this moment. Maybe later.’ His grey eyes sparkled. ‘I want to be inside you. I want to touch you.’

  Sandy looked around. They were far from the main hotel building now, further than they’d been that first night. ‘Do you have a condom about your person, Prince Charming?’

  ‘Need you ask?’ he said, swooping forward to give her another fierce kiss.

  Laughing and kissing and trying not to make too much noise, they readied themselves. Jay unzipped and drew his cock out of his underwear, and Sandy fished beneath the skirt of her evening dress and wiggled her way out of her knickers. ‘For safe keeping,’ she said, pushing them into his jacket pocket, then turned her attention to her new fiancé’s erection. She fished deeper in the same pocket where she’d found the ring, and wouldn’t you know it, there was the condom too, ready and waiting.

  Jay reached for the contraceptive, but Sandy brushed his hand away. With care, with reverence and with love, she enrobed him, adoring the thick, vital flesh as she made it ready. He was so strong and stiff. He always was. But tonight he seemed bigger and harder than ever.

  Adjusting her skirt, she knelt on the edge of the bench, knees on either side of him. The wood was damp and uncomfortable against her skin, but she didn’t care as she hovered over her beloved’s eager cock. Jay’s hands settled at her waist, supporting and guiding her, and she braced herself by gripping his powerful muscular shoulder. Reaching down, she steered him safely to his goal.

  ‘Omigod, Jay,’ she gasped, sinking down, down, down.

  ‘Princess,’ he answered, filling her.

  Settling, she breathed deeply, at one with her man, her Prince, her love. The glitter of her ring caught her eye, the symbol of their bond. They didn’t really need material trinkets. They had each other. But it was still beautiful and fairytale and wonderful. Leaning towards him, she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Thank you for my lovely ring, my darling. I haven’t got a gift for you … will this do instead?’ Deep inside herself, she clenched her muscles, embracing his length.

  ‘Oh hell, yes!’ he growled, laughing at the same time. Reaching between them, he settled his fingers at her centre, and, rubbing exquisitely, he added yet another gift. Sublime pleasure gathered and surged, building with each stroke, until she cried out, coming hard, pressing her lips against his neck to muffle the sound.

  Moments later, in a happy rush, he matched her orgasm.

  For a while, they just held each other, breathing hard, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering sweet nothings, total nonsense.

  ‘Well, I would have liked that to last a bit longer,’ said Jay, giving her a quick hug as he restored his jacket to her shoulders. It’d slipped off while they were making love, although Sandy hadn’t noticed the loss, or the cold, at all. ‘But at least we managed to celebrate our engagement in the time-honoured fashion, didn’t we, love?’ The light in his eyes said he was more than satisfied, despite the brevity.

  ‘Short, but very sweet, Prince Charming,’ replied Sandy, smoothing her knickers back into place and righting her skirt, and then tucking the latex ‘evidence’, swathed in tissues, deep in her evening bag. ‘And we’ll make up for it in quantity when we get back home, eh?’

  ‘Amen to that!’ Jay grinned at her. ‘Come on … ten more minutes of judicious socialising, then we’re out of here. I feel like it’s already Christmas now, and I want to celebrate that too, and keep on celebrating until we’re too tired to “celebrate” any more!’

  ‘Ooh, you know how I love “celebrating” …’ Sandy winked at him. ‘I can hardly wait!’

  And not just for the sex, my Prince. If all the years ahead are like this first one.

  Sandy reached for Jay’s hand and they walked back together along the moonlit path.

  Towards a future full of fun and challenge and love.

  Also by Portia Da Costa:

  The ‘Accidental’ trilogy

  Read on for an extract from

  THE ACCIDENTAL CALL GIRL

  1

  Meeting Mr Smith

  He looked like a god, the man sitting at the end of the bar did. Really. The glow from the down-lighter just above him made his blond hair look like a halo, and it was the most breath-taking effect. Lizzie just couldn’t stop staring.

  Oops, oh no, he suddenly looked her way. Unable to face his sharp eyes, she focused on her glass. It contained tonic, a bit dull really, but safe. She’d done some mad things in her time, both under the influence and sober, and she was alone now, and squarely in the ‘mad things’ zone. She’d felt like a fish out of water at the birthday party she was supposed to be at in the Waverley Grange Hotel’s function room with her house-mates Brent and Shelley and a few other friends. It was for a vaguely posh girl who she didn’t really know that well; someone in her year at uni, who she couldn’t actually remember being all that pally with at the time. Surrounded by women who seemed to be looking at her and wondering why she was there, and men giving her the eye with a view to chatting her up, Lizzie had snuck out of the party and wandered into the bar, drawn by its strangely unsettling yet latent with ‘something’ atmosphere.

  To look again or not to look again, that was the question. She wanted to. The man was so very hot, although not her usual type. Whatever that was. Slowly, slowly, she turned her head a few centimetres, straining h
er eyes in order to see the god, or angel guy, out of their corners.

  Fuck! Damn! He wasn’t looking now. He was chatting to the barman, favouring him with a killer smile, almost as if he fancied him, not any of the women at the bar. Was he gay? It didn’t really matter, though, did it? She was only supposed to be enjoying the view, after all, and he really was a sight for sore eyes.

  With his attention momentarily distracted, she grabbed a feast of him.

  Not young, definitely. Possibly forty, maybe a bit more? Dark gold-blond, curling hair, thick and a bit longer than one would have expected for his age, but not straggling. Gorgeous face, even though his features, in analysis, could almost have been called average. Put together, however, there was something extra, something indefinable about him that induced a ‘wow’. Perhaps it was his eyes? They were very bright, and very piercing. Yes, it was the eyes, probably. Even from a distance, Lizzie could tell they were a clear, beautiful, almost jewel-like blue.

  Or maybe it was his mouth too? His lips were mobile, and they had a plush, almost sumptuous look to them that could have looked ambiguous on a man, but somehow not on him. The smile he gave the lucky barman was almost sunny, and when he suddenly snagged his lower lip between his teeth, something went ‘Oof!’ in Lizzie’s mid-section. And lower down too.

  What’s his body like?

  Hard to tell, with the curve of the bar, and other people sitting between them, but if his general demeanour and the elegant shape of his hand as he lifted his glass to his lips were anything to go by, he was lean and fit. But, that could be wishful thinking, she admitted. He might actually be some podgy middle-aged guy who just happened to have a fallen angel’s face and a very well-cut suit.

  Just enjoy the bits you can see, you fool. That’s all you’ll ever get to look at. You’re not here on the pull.

  With that, as if he’d heard her thoughts, Fallen Angel snapped his head around and looked directly at her. No pretence, no hesitation, he stared her down, his eyes frank and intent, his velvet lips curved in a tricky, subtle quirk of a smile. As if showcasing himself, he shifted slightly on his stool, and she was able to see a little more of him.

  She’d been exactly right. He was lean and fit, and the sleek way his clothes hung on him clearly suggested how he might look when those clothes were flung haphazardly on the floor.

  The temptation to look away was like a living force, as if she were staring at the sun and its brilliance was a fatal peril. But Lizzie resisted the craven urge, and held his gaze. She didn’t yield a smile. She just tried to eyeball him as challengingly as he was doing her, and her reward was more of that sun on the lips and in the eyes, and a little nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘For you, miss.’

  The voice from just inches away nearly made her fall off her stool. She actually teetered a bit, cursing inside as she dragged her attention from the blue-eyed devil-angel at the end of the bar to the rather toothsome young barman standing right in front of her.

  ‘Er... yes, thanks. But I didn’t order anything.’

  There was no need to ask who’d sent the drink that had been placed before her, in a plain low glass, set on a white napkin. It was about an inch and a half of clear fluid, no ice, no lemon, no nothing. Just what she realised he was drinking.

  She stared at it as the barman retreated, smiling to himself. He must go through this dance about a million times every evening in a busy, softly lit bar like this. With its faintly recherché ambience it was the ideal venue for advances and retreats, games of ‘Do you dare?’ over glasses of fluids various.

  What the hell was that stuff? Lighter fluid? Drain cleaner? A poisoned chalice?

  She put it to her lips and took a hit, catching her breath. It was neat gin, not the vodka she’d half expected. It seemed a weird drink for a man, but perhaps he was a weird man? Taking a very cautious sip this time, she placed the glass back carefully and turned towards him.

  Of course, he was watching, and he did a thing with his sandy eyebrows that seemed to ask if she liked his gift. Lizzie wasn’t sure that she did, but she nodded at him, took up the glass again and toasted him.

  The dazzling grin gained yet more wattage, and he matched the toast. Then, with another elegant piece of body language, a tilt of the head, and a lift of the shoulders, he indicated she should join him. More blatantly, he patted an empty stool beside him.

  Here, Rover! Just like an alpha dog, he was summoning a bitch to his side.

  Up yours!

  Before she could stop herself, or even really think what she was doing, Lizzie mirrored his little pantomime.

  Here, Fido! Come!

  There was an infinitesimal pause. The man’s exceptional eyes widened, and she saw surprise and admiration. Then he slid gracefully off his stool, caught up his drink and headed her way.

  Oh God, now what have I done?

  She’d come in here, away from the party, primarily to avoid getting hit on, and now what had she done? Invited a man she’d never set eyes on before to hit on her. What should her strategy be? Yes or no? Run or stay? Encourage or play it cool? The choices whirled in her head for what seemed like far longer than it took for a man with a long, smooth, confident stride to reach her.

  In the end, she smiled. What woman wouldn’t? Up close, he was what she could only inadequately describe as a stunner. All the things that had got her hot from a distance were turned up by a degree of about a thousand in proximity.

  ‘Hello... I’ll join you then, shall I?’ He hitched himself easily onto the stool at her side, his long legs making the action easy, effortless and elegant.

  ‘Hi,’ she answered, trying to breathe deeply without appearing to.

  Don’t let him see that he’s already made you into a crazy woman. Just play it cool, Lizzie, for God’s sake.

  She waited for some gambit or other, but he just smiled at her, his eyes steady, yet also full of amusement, in fact downright merriment. He was having a whale of a time already, and she realised she was too, dangerous as he seemed. This wasn’t the kind of man she could handle in the way she usually handled men.

  ‘Thank you for the drink,’ she blurted out, unable to take the pressure of his smile and his gently mocking eyes. ‘It wasn’t what I expected, to be honest.’ She glanced at his identical glass. ‘It doesn’t seem like a man’s drink... neat gin. Not really.’

  Still not speaking, he reached for his glass, and nodded that she take up hers. They clinked them together, and he took a long swallow from his. Lizzie watched the slow undulation of his throat. He was wearing a three-piece suit, a very good one in an expensive shade of washed-out greyblue. His shirt was light blue and open at the neck.

  The little triangle of exposed flesh at his throat seemed to invite the tongue. What would his skin taste like? Not as sharp as gin, no doubt, but just as much of a challenge and ten times as heady.

  ‘Well, I am a man, as you can see.’ He set down his glass again, and turned more to face her, doing that showcasing, ‘look at the goods’ thing again. ‘But I’m happy to give you more proof, if you like?’

  Lizzie took a quick sip of her own drink, to steady herself. The silvery, balsamic taste braced her up.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She paused, feeling the gin sizzle in her blood. ‘Not right here at least.’

  He shook his head and laughed softly, the light from above dancing on his curls, turning soft ash-blond into molten gold. ‘That’s what I like. Straight to the point. Now we’re talking.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, he drew out a black leather wallet and peeled out a banknote, a fifty by the look of it, and dropped it beside his glass as he slipped off the stool again. Reaching for her arm, he said, ‘Let’s go up to my room. I hate wasting time.’

  Oh bloody hell! Oh, bloody, bloody hell! He’s either as direct as a very direct thing and he’s dead set on a quickie... or . . .

  Good grief, does he think I’m an escort?

  The thought plummeted into the space between them like a gr
eat Acme anvil. It was possible. Definitely possible. And it would explain the ‘eyes across a bar, nodding and buying drinks’ dance. Lizzie had already twigged that the Lawns bar was a place likely to be rife with that sort of thing, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t know anything about escorting. One of her dearest friends had been one, if only part time and not lately, and Brent would most certainly be alarmed that she’d fallen so naively into this pickle of all pickles. She imagined telling him about this afterwards, perhaps making a big comical thing out of her near escape, and hopefully raising some of the old, wickedly droll humour that fate and loss had knocked out of her beloved house-mate.

  Trying to think as fast as she could, Lizzie balked, staying put on the stool. Escort or casual pick-up, she still needed a moment to catch her breath and stall long enough to decide whether or not to do something completely mental. ‘I think I’d rather like to finish my drink. Seems a shame to waste good gin.’

  If her companion was vexed, or impatient, he didn’t show it. In a beautiful roll of the shoulders, he shrugged and slipped back onto his stool. ‘Quite right. It is good gin. Cheers!’ He toasted her again.

  What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? This is dangerous.

  It was. It was very dangerous. But in a flash of dazzling honesty, she knew that the gin wasn’t the only thing that was too good to waste. The only question was, if he did think she was a call girl, did she tell him the truth now, or play along for a bit? She’d never done anything like this before, but, suddenly, she wanted to. She really wanted to. Perhaps because the only man she knew from the wretched party she’d left, other than Brent and some other friends from the pub, was a guy she’d dated once and who’d called her uptight and frigid when she’d rebuffed a grope that’d come too soon.

  No use looking like a pin-up and behaving like a dried-up nun, he’d said nastily when she’d told him to clear off.