by Lily Malone
“I think so.” She rummaged in her bedside drawer, intrigued. “Try these.”
The cable connected snugly. “Perfect. Lie down,” he said.
Liv lay with her hands behind her head. When she opened her mouth to breathe, the click of her lips seemed loud in the room.
Owen thumbed the menus on the phone. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” She swallowed to get some moisture to her throat.
“Then here we go.”
She could hear music—nothing she recognised. Then Owen fit the plugs to her ears and turned up the volume. The violent smash of guitar and drum drowned every other thought. In her next heartbeat he turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a black that was near pitch.
Liv closed her eyes. The room went even darker.
Owen could hear the music too—Smashing Pumpkins, Aeroplane Flies High—but the sound was muted, like he heard it under water. He kicked out of his shoes, jeans and jocks, then lowered himself to the edge of the bed, judging his way in the dark by the feel of her hip at his back.
He stroked lazily up her flank to her ribs. Silky shoulder. Throat. Chin.
Liv’s lips opened beneath his thumb. Keeping his hand on her mouth to guide him, he bent over her in the dark, only letting his hand fall away when he could replace it with his lips.
Unlike the fierce clash in the hall, this kiss was slow, thorough. He wanted to take his time—since time was something Liv so obviously didn’t think he had to offer. Little idiot. He’d set her straight on that later. Now his body set out to prove the depth of his feelings.
He smelled hazelnut on her breath, tasted Frangelico on her lips. Gradually the kiss built.
He stroked her breasts, teased the nipples that jutted proudly into his palm, and when he’d finally slaked his thirst for the incredible sweetness of her mouth, he turned his attention to her breasts. Quivers throbbed through her body as he sucked the tips.
It was Liv who unzipped her jeans. Liv who lifted her hips. Owen who helped slip the denim from her thighs.
“God, please Owen…I want…”
And as her hips circled sensuously on the quilt, Owen knew he didn’t have that much time at all. His erection strained hard against his stomach, already moisture covered the head.
She was so velvety soft. Stroking the skin at the inside of her thighs was like stroking warm suede.
His thumb brushed across her pubic hair, delved into her slit, and her next breath was sucked roughly back inside her lungs.
“Owen…” Her hand gripped his, trapping it hard against her mound as she moved against him.
He reached for her shoulders.
Turning Liv sideways so that she was laid cross-ways on the single bed, he dropped to his knees on the carpet and pulled her hips gently toward him. Like that, she was the perfect height for him as he spread her legs wide.
Her thighs tensed against his shoulders. “Owen?”
He knew she couldn’t hear him, but he heard himself hush at her anyway: “Sshh. It’s okay.”
Her fingers caught at his hair, but he’d already bent his head to sear kisses on the skin of her stomach by then and though her hands gripped, they didn’t pull him away.
Owen tasted the sweet crevice at the very top of her inner thigh.
When he tongued a pathway to her silky wetness, a whole new tension arched her body. She jerked so hard in his hands he was almost thrown off. He worked his tongue against her—gently at first—so she could get used to him, letting it build.
And it became bigger than both of them.
Liv’s hips locked to the rhythm of his lips and the fingers in his hair tugged his mouth downward, pulling him against her, meeting him halfway.
That was the moment he knew he had her.
That was when he knew she was his.
Chapter 9
Liv was already coming when he entered her that first time, lost in the music, lost in the thrust of his tongue. He counted it lucky for them both. No way could he have held back any longer.
The second time was less frantic. She let him put the lamp on so he could see her eyes as he moved inside her. When they finished, they dozed, spent.
Owen woke once just after midnight because his arse was half hanging off her narrow bed. He turned off the lamp, tucked himself back beneath the covers and woke again an hour later dreaming he was falling from a bridge.
This time, a return to sleep eluded him.
Pins and needles cut at his arm where it cradled Liv’s head. Gently, he tried to jostle his arm out from beneath her ear.
She mumbled in her sleep, pitched to her side, and the movement gave him the split second he needed to free his arm.
Not that it did much good. His arse was off the bed again and he’d started thinking about all the things he had to do in the morning if he was going to ride with Liv and Ben to Mannum—buy himself another motorbike for one. He’d seen an ex-police bike advertised in the Saturday Classifieds and it sounded good when he’d talked to the owner late yesterday, before he’d picked up Liv. Not perfect, mind. It wasn’t a 650 Pantah, but the BMW would do.
If he was going to make it happen, he had to get down to Adelaide in the morning, test-ride the bike and get back up here by ten. He started pacing out the hours in his head, getting more and more restless.
Shit. At this rate, he’d wake her up for sure.
Owen pressed a kiss against the warm skin of Liv’s shoulder. Then he swung his legs to the carpet.
It didn’t take much groping in the dark to find his clothes and boots, but his mobile phone was still buried in the bed somewhere and he didn’t want to disturb her by looking for it. So he left it behind.
Owen slipped out of Liv’s bedroom and made his way toward the kitchen. Opening the fridge gave him enough light to match shirt holes to buttons and get the right boot on the right foot. After that, he found a switch to trigger the overhead lights.
There were squares of delicate flower-patterned loose-leaf papers in a special holder near the phone. The pens were arranged there too, in neat picket-fence rows.
He picked up a red pen and started to write:
Good morning, Lovely
Unlike you, beautiful girl, some of us need our beauty sleep. (p.s. Did you know you snore?)
I have something I have to do early in the morning and I didn’t want to wake you. I will see you back here at ten o’clock with the Duke, and I’ll have a surprise.
He thought for a second and signed:
Last night was the best night of my life.
Love Owen.
Tucking the pen back in its place, he folded the note and left it propped at the base of the camellia vase on the kitchen bench. There were petals all around it which he could have swept away, but he thought they looked kind of nice scattered like that. He thought she’d like it.
Owen let himself out the front door and locked Liv behind him.
****
She woke with a hard lump digging at her rib and a niggling sensation she was missing something. Propping herself on her elbows, Liv looked around. There wasn’t much light, but it didn’t take light to know she was alone in the room.
Liv switched on the lamp.
Owen’s clothes were gone, too.
She tilted her head to the side, listening for the splash of a shower, but heard nothing. Nor was there any sound or smell of a six-foot male cooking breakfast or making a cup of tea in her parents’ kitchen.
She thrust herself upright. The movement bounced Owen’s mobile phone from the tangle of sheets and sent the trailing earplugs crashing over the edge of the bed.
He can’t have gone far. Not if he’s left his phone. There’ll be a note to say he’s gone out to get breakfast.
And on its heels, the single thought: Don’t panic.
Swinging her feet to the floor, Liv grabbed jeans, a skivvy and a cardigan from her wardrobe, underwear and thick socks from her bedside drawer. She was two paces out the door when she swore and r
etraced her steps. Yanking the quilt over the bed, she did her best to smooth out the creases. Her parents’ would be home late today. Solo residential bliss, over.
In the kitchen, she scanned the flat surfaces.
She checked the bench—covered with a new layer of camellia petals. She checked the sink and the top of the microwave. There was no note under the magnet on the fridge and nothing near the phone.
Her mother’s birds watched her turn ever smaller circles in the kitchen.
Racing into the front room, Liv snatched the curtain aside and peered out at the carport.
No Ducati 650 Pantah.
Surely she would have heard it leave? Had Owen been so keen to sneak away undiscovered, he hadn’t wanted to start the engine?
That thought writhed in her stomach like centipedes under a lifted brick. Liv covered her mouth with her hand so she wouldn’t throw up on her mother’s tiles.
Swallowing the bitter lump in her throat, she drifted back to the kitchen. Like a rudderless boat, the current bore her to the pantry door. Liv took the dustpan and brush from its shelf.
Camellia petals made a papery swish as she tipped them into the kitchen bin. She had just enough time to see the petals flow either side of two foil packets, burying a pair of sad condoms in an avalanche of pink and white.
Chapter 10
Owen had pushed the Ducati as far as the primary school before he started the engine, not wanting to wake Liv or her neighbours at two in the morning. Aunt Margaret’s dogs hadn’t bothered to bark as he rode up the drive, single headlight bouncing across the veranda.
Way too wired for sleep, he’d lain in bed imagining Liv in his arms. Her softness. Her scent. The way she felt beneath him…
A sharp tattoo on the door woke him. “Hey, stop-out. You gonna sleep all day? It’s almost eight.”
Eight?
Owen threw back the covers. Last time he’d looked at the clock it had been five and he’d debated getting up.
After the fastest shower on record, he’d slung his helmet and jacket over his arm and made a grab for Mark’s toast as he left the house at a sprint.
Now, two hours later, he was stuck in a snarl of crawling traffic on the Freeway uptrack and he was so pissed off with tunnel maintenance and orange-flashing delay signs it was an effort not to swing the ute into the emergency lane and plant his foot.
He checked the rearview mirror. Liv’s Ducati and the new ex-police BMW 2003 cruiser were roped in the back. Behind them, the mirror filled with cars and trucks snaking back as far as he could see.
Owen switched his attention to the front. The line was moving, albeit like a conga-line of snails.
Five more minutes crept by. Traffic constricted to one lane near the tunnel and a sign flashed: Hazard ahead. Prepare to stop.
Shit.
He couldn’t call Liv. He couldn’t call anyone. His mobile phone was buried in Olivia’s bed.
Owen stamped his foot at the brake and swore. He’d almost driven up the rear of a Corolla hatchback, doing all of—hell—walking pace.
God, he wished he had his phone.
****
When Liv heard the front door open, her traitorous heart kicked.
“Hello!”
The voice wasn’t Owen’s. It made her bolt from the couch to the kitchen bench to scrape toast crumbs into her palm.
“We’re home, ’livia.”
“In here, Dad.” She wiped a sponge over the bench and wondered whether she had time to clean fingerprints from the front of the microwave. She couldn’t remember which cupboard held the Windex. Was it under the sink with the kitchen cleaners or in the bathroom with the bleach?
She leapt for the roll of paper towel—tore a piece—wet it, and scrubbed at the microwave’s glass.
“Hi, Liv,” came her mother’s soft, tremulous voice.
Liv heard the scuff of shoes on the tiles and the bump of luggage against the wall. Then her parents exited the hallway where it poured into the lounge.
“Did you have a good time?” She squished the wad of paper towel in her fist.
“Crows lost,” her father grunted. “Other than that we had a great weekend. How ’bout you?”
“Yeah, fine. Ben’s coming soon. We’re going for a ride.”
Jack Murphy’s gaze slipped away.
“It’s so nice to be home. I’m so looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.” Alison Murphy put her handbag on the kitchen bench. Then she noticed the camellias. “You got out that old vase, Liv? Did you dust it before you used it? I hope the flowers weren’t full of ants. Camellias can be, you know. They can get scale. Ants suck on the scale.”
“No, Mum. I didn’t dust it. I don’t dust. There are no ants.” Liv flicked her finger at a petal. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll throw them out when I get back. Or you can ditch them if you like.”
“They’ve passed their best, Liv,” her mother said, her tone one of mild reproach. Then she turned a slow half circle and stopped short, staring wide-eyed at the lounge-room wall. “Would you look at the dust on those frames!”
She darted around the bench, making a bee-line for the kitchen cupboard and emerged brandishing the mystery Windex.
“Leave it, Ali,” Liv’s father warned.
His wife hurried to the paintings. She squirted the Robin and the Wren and wiped the glass. The scent of cleaner hung heavy in the air.
Liv’s father dropped the luggage to the alabaster tiles with a whump. “I said leave it, Alison.”
Her mother stopped rubbing. When she turned to her husband, her face was white as the ceiling, the skin papery, like it was stretched too tight.
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I, Jack, love? Sorry.” She stowed the cleaning product back beneath the sink. “I think I’ll have a shower, help myself relax after the drive.”
Jack Murphy let out a sigh as his wife left the kitchen.
“You’re home early, Dad,” Liv said, crossing to the pantry where she tossed the paper towel in the bin. A surreptitious check proved the condoms were completely covered in petals, and now paper.
“Ali started stressing yesterday about the hotel room because the cleaners only change the towels. They don’t clean the room unless you specify it and I didn’t specify it or she would have spent more time making sure they’d got every last speck of dirt than enjoying herself. She started talking about coming home yesterday. I thought it was best not to push her, so we hit the road. We stayed in Keith last night.”
“You did the right thing,” Liv said, shutting the pantry door. “Coming home earlier, I mean. There’s no sense pushing it, especially on her first trip away.”
Her father’s shoulders lifted and he gave her a tired smile. “So you’re going riding with Ben?”
“Yes,” Liv said carefully. Ben had always been a sensitive topic. “We’ve been talking about taking a ride up to Mannum on the Queen’s Birthday Monday for a while—since I saw the Pantah outside the Langs’. Remember I told you I was going to buy the bike? We planned the ride as a goodbye to Luke.”
“That bloody bike.” He stabbed his toe underneath one of the overnight bags, making it skid on its plastic wheels. “It’s not out front. Where is it?”
Disappointment knifed her insides. “Mr Lang got a better offer.” And I got duped, Dad.
“Maybe that’s for the best, Liv.”
The purr of a motorbike engine on Church Street saved her from answering, even though she knew it wasn’t Owen—there was no way the Honda had that magnificent throbbing roar of the Duke.
“That’s Ben, Dad. I need to get my jacket. I’ll catch you later. I’m glad you both had a good time in Melbourne.”
“Hey, Liv?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you could tell Ben hello. Say that I asked after him.”
Surprise cut through the fog in her head. She looked her father square in the eyes. “It will mean heaps more to him if you tell him yourself.”
His eyes did a quick tour of t
he ceiling. “Me?”
“He’s right outside.” She could see him wavering and decided it was time for a none-to-subtle-shove. “Jack Murphy, you face fires for a living almost every day. A fire is much more terrifying than bloody Ben Trencher.”
“I bet he tells me to piss off.” Her dad pulled his foot out from beneath the luggage.
“He’s a lover not a fighter.”
Her father grimaced.
“Sheesh, Dad. Relax. You’re way too old for him.”
“Yeah. Lucky that,” Jack Murphy said with a wry smile, muttering as he passed her on his way to the door: “Don’t know where you got such a smart mouth, kid.”
The sound of the Honda’s bike engine petered out.
Walking back through the house to her bedroom, Liv could hear the splash of the shower. Alison Murphy was singing an Adele song, the theme from Skyfall, and not making too bad a job of it.
Liv picked Owen’s mobile phone off the carpet. For the third time that morning, she straightened her quilt. Then she grabbed her leather jacket and the carry pouch she wore for riding to store her money and phone, and ambled back to the kitchen. About then she realised she was stalling—playing for time—hoping against hope that Owen might show.
Being damn naïve.
Liv sent Owen’s phone skidding across the old wax bench, into the camellia vase.
Outside, it was another perfect winter’s day, sunny and still, with a sky the colour of deep blue silk. She waved at Ben from the porch before shoving her feet into her boots. Picking up her helmet from where she’d left it propped against the wall late Saturday night, she stepped out to meet Ben at the road, her boots swishing through the damp grass.
Ben had taken off his helmet and every few seconds he swapped it from his left hand, to his right. Her father stood straight as a flagpole, hands in his pockets, and Liv doubted the conversation was comfortable. Then again, compared to the stalemate these two had played for years, it was progress.
“Well, then. I’ll leave you both to it,” her father said, as she neared. “Good to see you, Ben. It’s been a long time.”
