Two Wrongs: A Second Chance Romance (Trouble by Numbers Book 2)

by Donna Alam

  ‘So deep,’ she pants. I take that as an affirmation as, with a tilt of my hips, her expression morphs from happy to delirious. As her mouth falls open in a gasp of obscene pleasure, the orange streetlamp outside highlights the lust in the amber of her eyes.

  I pull myself up onto one elbow then one flat palm, reaching around behind her and tangling my fist in her hair.

  ‘Tell me,’ I rasp, pulling the strands at the base of her skull. ‘Tell me what I need to hear.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She cries out her litany, her insides pulsing greedily, but I tighten my grip because that’s not quite what I want.

  ‘Don’t make me ask again.’ My cock jerks inside her, joy and pleasure surging through my veins as she gives in to her release. Gives it to me.

  ‘All of me, Dylan. All of me belongs to you.’

  My heart beats in time to the throbbing of my cock as, finally, I come.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ivy

  ‘Hey, beautiful.’

  I wake to the sight of Dylan Duffy, billboard perfect but for the darkened scruff gracing his cheek and his thoroughly fucked hair. Leaning on one elbow, he stares down at me and his startling green eyes sparkle as a lazy half-smile graces his face.

  ‘Lord have mercy, there’s a gorgeous man in my bed.’

  ‘Gorgeous, huh?’ He smiles, flashing me those almost perfect teeth. In my bed, he’s a little less flawless than on the big screen but so much more real.

  So much more mine.

  ‘Please,’ I scoff. ‘No one likes a Bobby big balls, you know.’

  ‘A what?’ he half laughs, half asks.

  ‘A Bobby big balls? Someone who has to blow their own trumpet because—’

  He laughs louder now. ‘Like you wouldn’t blow my trumpet given half a chance.’ His tone is as playful as his gaze. ‘And now you’re imagining it, aren’t you, babe?’

  ‘I so am not!’ I protest, swatting his chest with the back of my hand. ‘This isn’t much of a disguise, you know.’ My hand dips, rubbing the nearly black scruff across his jaw. ‘You really could do with a shave.’

  ‘You’re gonna need to get used to it. It’s for a project,’ he answers cryptically. ‘And you didn’t seem to mind last night.’ He trails a finger between my breasts, down over our baby bump, and farther still to between my legs. Heat prickles against my cheeks as he leans down and kisses my belly. ‘Morning, Not-Vlad. Cover your ears, little fella.’ Then he straightens a touch, whispering above me, ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure I could’ve fucked you at the front door without protest.’

  ‘Maybe I was trying to get used to the world seeing my bum.’

  Dylan sighs, his brow furrowing. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d like to get on the right side of your family when the time comes.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just, when you decide to tell them. I’d like it to be for the right reasons, Edera. Not because the world’s watching us fucking.’

  ‘Maybe they won’t hear about it?’

  Worst-case scenario, I could warn Mac not to watch and hope the press doesn’t find out who I am. I sigh because I don’t want to think about it this morning. I don’t want to think about it any morning.

  ‘I’ve heard your brother has a mean right hook.’

  ‘And my dad has a gun. No pressure or anything.’ I laugh at his horrified expression. ‘But I’ll tell them—’

  ‘A gun!’ I laugh again. ‘Why would you mention that?’

  ‘Don’t worry. My mum won’t let him kill you; not the father of her grandchild. But maybe maim? Maybe I’ll protect you,’ I reply with a playful pout. ‘If you make it worth my while.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ His lips hover over mine, his soft breath tantalising my skin. ‘And just how would I do that?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I tiptoe my fingers down the middle of his chest. ‘You know that trumpet you were talking about?’

  His eyes cloud with desire, and he breathes my name right at the same moment . . . I hear my mother calling the same.

  ‘Fuck!’ In a panic, I push at Dylan’s chest; only I push so hard he falls out of my tiny bed. His arse hits the floor with a loud thunk and a low curse.

  What happens next is an issue all of my own making because, ordinarily, she wouldn’t enter my bedroom without knocking once at least, so I don’t know which of us is more surprised . . . shocked . . . desperate to turn back the clock as the door burst open and she dashes in.

  ‘Oh, my Lord!’ She covers her eyes and quickly turns away. ‘I thought you’d fallen. Oh, sweet baby Jesus! Mac, get out!’ She slams the door in my brother’s startled face.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’

  Feet planted wide, she pushes her back against the bedroom door as my brother begins hammering on the wood, quickly squeezing her eyes closed with a squeak. Because it seems at that exact moment, Dylan had decided to stand—very naked and semi-hard—to slip his jeans back on.

  ‘We thought we’d surprise you, not the other way around!’

  ‘This isn’t what it looks like,’ I protest.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Dylan agrees as my brother begins hammering the door with his fist, causing it to jump in its frame. He slides his hand out of his pocket, pulling out a necklace or a chain, his fingers fumbling with the clasp. It takes me a moment to realise what’s hanging from there, my mind flashing back to the last day I saw it.

  The day we fucked in LA. It was hanging from a chain then, too. A chain around my neck.

  Exactly one second before the door bursts open, Dylan grabs my left hand, sliding my wedding ring back where it belongs as he whispers, ‘I don’t want to be shot.’

  ‘What the feck is going on in here?’ my dad roars, my lovely ape of a brother beating his chest just behind. Okay, not really. ‘You!’ He points one blunt finger at Dylan. ‘Why have you got your hand on my daughter’s erse?’

  I twist my wrist and lift my hand while whispering a weak, ‘Surprise.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ivy

  Six Months Later

  ‘Cheer up, triple D,’ Nat says with a laugh, knowing full well that Dylan hates the moniker. Dylan Dickalicous Duffy. Yes, it’s odd that she calls him that to his face, but she really has no shame and, as she points out, she’s seen the proof. Thankfully, the pair get along these days, and by that, I mean she teases him mercilessly. And he puts up with it.

  ‘I mean it’s not like those photographers will never penetrate your fortress of solitude. Likely, they’ll have to hang around and pap people as they arrive. You know, all your celeb pals as they drive across the moat.’

  ‘We don’t have a moat,’ I scoff, adjusting my hold on the bundle in my arms.

  ‘No, but you live in a mother fluffin’ castle. How cool is that?’

  Yes, we do live in a castle, but to be fair, it’s smaller than some of the houses we looked at, and in our defence, we needed something specific. Something private. Claish Castle is a fifteenth-century castle built from beautiful Scottish stone. So we don’t have a moat, but we do have salmon fishing in the nearby loch. And grouse in the woodlands. The spot is so bloody beautiful and looks like something out of an enchanted forest with mullion windows and turrets and everything! While I’m not sure it’s a fortress of solitude, it’s definitely a fortress of seclusion. A fortress fit to raise our family, away from the press and prying eyes.

  ‘Here, let me take him.’ Dylan slides his hand under the blue swaddling, bringing the bundle to his chest. ‘Hey, buddy. Did you enjoy your lunch with Mommy?’ He shoots me a wink and a sly smile. ‘Is it my turn yet?’

  Nat’s expression is classic, causing me to chuckle as I tell her, ‘That face would sour milk.’

  ‘Can we not . . . talk about—’ She halts, affecting a full-body shiver. ‘I’m away to drown that almost incestuous image in champagne.’

  Dylan has been well and truly removed from the realms of Nat’s wank bank or so she says. Whether
this is in relation to his official title as my husband or the fact that he’s recently shaved his beard and had a decent haircut, thanks to yours truly, is unclear. But the wild and woolly look he’d been sporting since he turned up last summer had been for an upcoming movie of his. The historical romance set in Scotland has meant he’s been around almost constantly since. And lucky for me, he’s spent the last few months wearing a kilt. What I do know is this time together cocooned in our little bubble of family and friends has been a godsend. Our perfect second chance, and the absolute antidote to the start of our marriage. Where I made him a secret.

  As Nat begins to walk away, I place my hand on her forearm. ‘Wait. Where’s June?’

  ‘She’s probably got Sam taking her for a turn around the gardens.’

  Nat slides Dylan a grateful look over her shoulder, one he refuses to acknowledge again as his gaze remains completely absorbed by the fat little fist gripped tightly around his finger. Maybe this is where Dylan’s removal from her list stems. It’s hard to objectify someone who’s taken on the role of a surrogate big brother because Sam is the day nurse Dylan hired to look after June when he sprung her from the rehabilitation place. Yes, sprung. Like a prison inmate. After a stroke, a couple of cracked ribs from the CPR effort, a case of respiratory arrest, and a subsequent infection, June was sent to a place full of geriatrics to recuperate. With the purple streak in her bangs, her love of the smutty, and her general lust for life, it quickly became clear she was never going to benefit from being there. Rather than progressing, her health seemed to deteriorate. So in stepped Dylan, without a word to any of us, arranging all the medical help she would need to live once more in her own home. He’s also footing the bill. Help, which includes Sam, the very cute and very male day nurse she’s currently smitten with. Having Sam has also meant Nat has been able to take on the running of the salon, which has been a great help. I still pop in from time to time, but my best clients—Nat, Fin, and June—all come to the castle for their cut, colour, and of course, baby squeezes.

  Sensing Dylan’s lack of interest in any notion of thanks, Nat shrugs resignedly, turning her attention to me.

  ‘She’s probably got him wheeling her about like the bloody Queen Mother again. Making him pick flowers from the garden, just so she can steal a wee squeeze of his bum.’

  ‘Well, it is a very nice bottom,’ I agree, earning me a tolerant though unimpressed look from my husband. ‘And a valid exercise for her motor skills, I should think.’

  Dylan mumbles something about potential sexual harassment cases, which we ignore.

  ‘That face and an arse like that.’ She shakes her head, making that noise. You know the one; cake eating appreciation. Or as she’d call it, the sound you make when he first slips his fingers in. ‘That man bun could really have its fu—fluffing way with me.’

  ‘Good save,’ says Dylan, patting her on the shoulder. ‘More money for your pocket. Cutz, we’d better go join the throng.’

  Eurgh. People. Parents. Hangers on. Famous folk. I think I’d take a few years of hermitage in a fortress of solitude over joining this throng. But it’s not every day your first-born is christened. In your own church, no less. As in, the church within your own castle’s grounds.

  I’m probably being unfair. My parents are great. Mostly. They like Dylan. At least, they do now. The morning Dylan gave me my wedding ring back, I came clean to them about everything. Again, mostly clean. And only once they’d allowed me enough privacy to dress. With Dylan by my side, I explained how we’d married the year before. I told them of how I was ashamed to tell them for fear they’d think less of me. I didn’t go into specifics but said I’d left Dylan for pretty much the same reasons as I hadn’t told them. Because of some childish sense of being good and doing the right thing. Pathetic really.

  Mac was most hurt, and this still weighs heavily on me. I’d like to be able to make it up to him, but I’m not sure how. We’re trying, and he did agree to be godfather to our son, even though his relationship with Dylan is strained. He’s read the articles regarding my Dylan’s slutty slice of fame, and I know he finds it hard to reconcile a portion of the blame to me.

  As for my parents, well, Dad just wants me to be happy, and Mum loves having a movie star son-in-law. Bragging rights, I think it’s called.

  Nat leaves, and we descend the grand staircase, making our way into the great hall. It is pretty great but not as big as it sounds.

  ‘Have I told you how beautiful you look today?’ Our son curled in the crook of one muscular arm, Dylan’s free hand drifts from the small of my back to cup my bottom.

  ‘Stop that. People will see.’ My words lack conviction, and for a moment, I consider dragging him back upstairs for a little light relief. Light relief, heavy on the orgasm. ‘And I think harassed is the word you’re looking for. But if harassed makes you hot, then I’m your girl.’

  ‘You make me hot,’ he replies, his gaze dark and liquid. ‘And that’s why you’re my girl.’

  I tsk, my words coming out all husky as tiny shivers of anticipation run down my spine. ‘My mother warned me about men like you.’

  ‘Your mother fucking loves me; you said so yourself. I’m a good Catholic boy and from excellent stock.’ How can he make those words sound so dirty? Maybe it’s just me? It’s just as well I’m taking a break from the salon because lusting after Dylan has become my part-time job.

  I clear my throat, pulling at the hem of my dress, which is a total giveaway if his expression is anything to go by. ‘And don’t forget rich,’ I add, a touch sardonically. ‘And stop laughing. Ovaries are exploding all over this room because of you.’

  ‘What?’ he splutters, his eyes ridiculously sweeping the room.

  ‘Really? You’re like sex on a stick, with your million-dollar smile and your sexy laugh. And you’re holding a baby! That’s like . . . the jackpot.’ I push to the tips of my toes to kiss his cheek. He takes the opportunity to slide his hand under my hair, making me shiver. ‘You certainly make me hot,’ I whisper. ‘But I’m surprised we aren’t suffocating in estrogen.’

  ‘Hot, huh?’ His mouth is just a bare breath from mine, his gaze roaming my face then dipping. ‘I have a couple of ideas how I’d like to be suffocated.’

  All the tingles. Everywhere.

  ‘Hear that, Junior.’ I pull back the blanket from our now sleeping child as I whisper, ‘Daddy’s trying to steal your food again.’

  I tremble as Dylan’s hand releases my neck, skimming down the front of my cream fitted Ellie Saab dress. ‘You look so fucking innocent,’ he says, low and huskily. ‘But I know better. And those tits were mine first. Just remember that.’

  I open my mouth to answer, expelling a mild swear instead. ‘Frig! Here comes auntie Ellen.’ Talk about pouring cold water on the mood. ‘Why do people feel the need to ask when you’re going to reproduce next only five minutes after you’ve just given birth?’

  So far this morning, I’ve been asked five times when am I having my next wee one. My standard answer is when technology finds a way to grow babies outside a uterus. Maybe in life-sized plastic eggs.

  ‘It’s so bloody rude. And why do they feel it’s okay to rub an expectant mother’s stomach, unsolicited?’

  ‘Who does that?’

  I turn to Fin’s voice. She and Rory are here as our friends, as well as in the official capacity as godparents.

  ‘People in the street; people in the salon—random, handsy people, Fin! It’s invasive as hell. Oh, hello, Nigel.’

  Nigel, my dog-mop-Shetland pony hybrid follows Fin, his eyes glued covetously to the canapé she has wrapped in a napkin. Nige looks very at home in the castle—very regal—and so much more suitable than when he arrived at my tiny flat a few days after Dylan moved in. We had to move—and fast—and not only because of the media furor, but also because Nigel’s travel crate was almost as big as the kitchen.

  I no longer read what’s written on the internet, and not just because of the edict fro
m Dylan’s new management team. Our reconciliation was apparently a shock to Ric, but he was already on the way out by that time. And let’s just say the man was lucky to hang onto his teeth—veneers?—once I’d told Dylan the things he’d said all those months ago. The seeds of doubt he’d planted in my head.

  So no more sleazy Ric. And Dylan’s new publicist is worth his weight in gold, as far as I’m concerned. Especially after what he’s dealing with following the court case.

  In the case of Duffy versus Dynamic Entertainment, we were able to prove the person selling the tape was one part of a two person team of thieves. It turns out Melissa, the dog walker, had helped herself to several things while looking after Nigel. After copying some of our filth, she’d passed one such recording to a friend. A friend who subsequently claimed the video not only as hers, but also as something she’d recorded with Dylan’s consent. Basically, she pretended to be me—the dark haired girl getting a really good seeing to from Dylan. On tape.

  It seems Melissa and her friend were expecting to get rich from the proceeds of the sale.

  But we now have a court order blocking its release, and Dylan’s heavy hitters have promised to rain down lawsuit hell if there’s ever a whiff of it going public.

  In the real world—with my family and friends—I’ve played it down as something saucy and laughable, rather than hardcore. And no one ever mentions it, thankfully, not in front of us, at least. They have more tact, with the exception of Nat, who lives to tease me about it, I’m sure.

  Nigel slinks off once Fin has shared her piece of high-brow haggis. Because I wasn’t allowed to serve just vegetarian food . . .

  ‘They’re just wishin’ you congratulations, hen.’ Rory leans in, kissing my cheek before preceding to do the bro-shake-hug-thing with a one-armed Dylan before greeting his godson. ‘Hey, little man.’