by Donna Alam
She wasn’t impressed. Seems the foreplay idea was a bit one-sided. So by the time the wedding rolled around, she’d made it abundantly clear that as far as she was concerned, me and her weren’t ever going to happen. To cement the point, she brought a parasol to the beach service—a white floaty thing I overheard her telling Sorcha was to protect her English rose skin.
Nah, she brought it to make a point. And that point was: I should keep my distance or else she’d make good on her threat. But I’ve always liked a challenge. And Chastity was certainly that. And though she might look like an angel, it’s a total ruse. She’s petite and sort of sweet looking. Blonde ringlets, peachy skin, and she has an accent a bit like the Queen. But beneath her sweet beauty and those warm chocolate eyes, she’s fierce, feisty and fiery. And she runs a porn company, of all things.
My dad once jokingly said he’d aspired to marry a nymphomaniac with her own pub. I think an angelic looking pornographer is something more along my fantasy lines.
Jesus, how she burned in my arms—flayed the skin from my limbs. Because, despite her apparent disinterest in any activity that didn’t involve some kind of disfigurement of me, we spent the night together, fucking until dawn. I’ve never had a night like it. And probably never will again. At least, not until the next time I get to work my charms on her . . .
‘Was the question too hard for you?’ Keir’s voice brings me back to the moment. The office. The dreary London spring.
‘What?’
‘I asked you if you were still bringing someone. You know, seeing as how Chas will be there?’
I try not to wince. As an Australian, it’s in my DNA to shorten everything. We Aussies love a good yarn, or chat, but we like to abbreviate where we can and are the kings of brevity when it comes to renaming things. Service station? Servo. Breakfast? Brekkie. Afternoon? Arvo. Australia? Straya. John? Jonno. Okay, so the last one didn’t quite work, but you get what I mean. But I hate—hate—how Chastity’s friends shorten her name to Chas. She so isn’t a Chas. A Chas is a Charles or a Charlotte, but never a Chastity. At least, not my Chastity. Not in my eyes. Not from my tongue.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s because her name has the word titty in it? And as far as tits go, she has the best fucking—
‘You’re doing it again.’ When I look up, Keir has this weird half-smirk on his face.
‘Have you got wind?’ I ask with an aggressive tip of my head. ‘It’s not like you to smile so much. That must be, what? Three times today?’ That’s not true. Keir is a solid bloke, as well as a good boss, but I shake my head in fake exasperation anyway. ‘It must be Paisley’s influence.’
‘My smile is a reflection of how good my life is.’
‘You’ve become an evangelist. Next thing we know, you’ll be banging on doors to spread the word.’
‘I don’t need to. See, I’m also smiling because of what I see in your face when I mention a certain blonde cinematographer. Looks like you’re about to be clued in.’
‘Clued in? Mate, stop talking in riddles.’
‘Flynn,’ he says, clearing his desk to clamp his hand on my shoulder. ‘Women are good news. Relationships are good news. Embrace it. And get your arse to my house tomorrow afternoon. Bring wine but not a date.’
‘It was just a thought,’ I say with a shrug. ‘My mate Sorch is all I need for entertainment.’
‘And do yourself a favour,’ he replies with an air of long suffering. ‘Don’t keep shortening my daughter’s name in front of Agnes. Or one of these days, you’ll get a nasty surprise. Most likely via delivery of her rolling pin.’
What is it with women threatening me with long or sharp objects lately? A question for the ages, though not one for Keir.
‘Nah, me and Agnes, we’re like that.’ I cross my middle finger over my index one, holding them between us so he can see. ‘Tight.’
‘Yeah, ’cause everyone loves Flynn.’
‘Too fucking right. And you especially.’
His hand slips from my shoulder as he makes for the door. ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that. And don’t forget to lock up when you leave. See you tomorrow.’
‘You do know it’s March, don’t you?’ I call after him. ‘It’s fucking freezing—not barbecue weather.’
Keir doesn’t turn. He’s adept enough to shoot me the bird without breaking his stride, multitasker that he is.
Chapter 3
CHASTITY
It’s true that I don’t have a lot of friends, but those I do have, I consider more like family. Paisley is the sister I never had, which is odd, considering I haven’t known her all that long. But I love her all the same. And I love hanging out with her and Keir, her new husband. I even like his friends. Well, most of them. I refuse to include Flynn Phillips, though it’s strange that my body seems to know the minute he walks into their kitchen. A brush of anticipation dances from the nape of my neck down, causing me to turn at the same moment as he enters the room. Our eyes meet, electricity humming between the space. It really is the most shocking of things until I let my eyes wander over him . . . and I’m met by the most ridiculous outfit I’ve ever seen.
‘I don’t remember saying today was fancy dress.’ Keir sounds wearily amused as he relieves him of a bottle of red wine and a very decent bottle of champagne.
‘Mate, you invited me to a barbie.’ I’d forgotten how much his voice affects me. There’s something about that drawn-out, lazy speech pattern of his coupled with his deep tone. ‘This,’ he says, plucking at his shirt, ‘is suitable attire.’ Ah-tie-ahh. ‘Boardies, thongs, and my sunnies.’
One arm wrapped around my waist, I bring my glass to my lips to hide my snigger. Sunnies, I guess, are sunglasses. Boardies, board shorts, and while I know thongs are what Australians call flip-flops, here in England, they’re flimsy bits of underwear that get stuck between the cheeks of your bum.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Flynn asks. Despite his relaxed demeanour, I can almost physically feel the touch of his gaze. ‘I suppose if a bloke comes to a barbecue at your place, he’s expected to wear a tux.’
Immediately, the prickling hairs on my neck turn to bristling spines. Spines that I tamp down, though I can’t help my vinegary reply. ‘Oh, that’s right.’ My tone is heavy with false sympathy. ‘You wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve never been invited?’
‘I’ll just go open this and, er, let it breathe,’ Keir says, tactically raising the bottle of red. As he pulls open one of the French doors, a gust of cold air sweeps through the room before he steps out, closing the door behind him. The room falls quiet, and I begin to feel mean. I shouldn’t be so unfriendly, only—
‘That’s true.’ My attention snaps to Flynn once again. ‘I haven’t been invited to your home.’ I don’t fail to notice his eyes travelling over me blatantly this time. It’s definitely not a casual glance, more like a thorough inventory. And the bastard knows—does it on purpose, even. All to draw a reaction. A reaction I’m not in charge of, it seems. My throat is dry, and my nipples are hard enough to poke out an eye, and let’s not talk about the reaction currently dancing between my legs.
He steps closer. Close enough to make my nerve endings erratic. Close enough to make my fingers twitch with the desire to pull him to me by the front of his ridiculous tropical print shirt.
‘I might never have been invited into your house, duchess,’ he repeats in a husky whisper, bending his mouth to my ear. ‘But I was lucky enough to receive an invitation into your underwear.’
The absolute bastard.
Instinctively, I unwrap my hand from my waist and press it to his chest. I think if it weren’t for the recent presence of Keir, I might use it to push him up against the wall to see if I can discover where he’s hidden my orgasm. Because I’m suddenly sure it’ll be on him somewhere. Say, on his fingers, his tongue, or maybe his dick . . . Instead, my brain sends a barrage of cock-blocking words tumbling from my mouth, clit-oference, if you will.
‘I thought we
agreed not to mention that night.’
It’s not surprising I’m sabotaging my own plans. For one, I don’t like him very much. I don’t think. Even if he smells so divine.
‘Did we?’ His forehead creases as though deep in thought before his eyes rise to mine, his gaze full of daring. Full of mischief. Somehow, I know he’s going to say something provocative, yet I’m still unprepared for how his words make me feel.
‘Nah, that’s not right.’ His accent renders the words into a drawl with a serve of taunt. Not roi-t. ‘I think what was said was that you’d prefer to pretend it didn’t happen. To forget. But I haven’t.’ His eyes make another shameless sweep of my body. ‘I haven’t forgotten one bit of it.’
Oh. My. God.
I came here today with a plan. A plan to get my orgasm back. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a plan as it was a demand—a demand for a second go on the Flynn ride. See, I’ve decided the blockage is all in my head. I’ve made too much out of the night we spent together—it can’t really have been that good.
So I’d decided a do-over would work. A one-time deal—okay, another one-time deal—here on my own turf, where the tropical setting wouldn’t seduce me, or I wouldn’t be drinking the wedding-romance-y Kool-Aid. But it’s not going to work if he keeps looking at me like that, not if he keeps speaking to me in a tone that reminds me of rum cocktails, sunshine, and mind-blowing sex.
‘Flynn!’ The man staggers back as Keir’s daughter comes barrelling into the room. Flinging her arms around his waist, she squeezes him tight. ‘Why are you dressed for the beach?’ she asks. Stumbling back, she’s prevented from falling by Keir’s hands as he catches her.
‘Watch it, Sorch.’ His voice trembles with laughter. ‘You’ll have Agnes coming after me with her rolling pin, or so your dad says. And I’m not dressed for the beach; I’m dressed for a barbecue. So the question should be, why are you dressed for a patrol of the arctic?’
‘Because it’s cold in the garden, silly!’ Sorcha replies, giggling as she feeds her small hand into his. ‘And now you’re going to freeze.’
‘What? You mean your dad hasn’t opened the barbecue lid and brought summer alive?’
‘You know that’s not the way it happens.’ She giggles, pulling on his arm. ‘My dad’s not magic.’
‘Not like me, you mean.’ With that, he pulls a bright shiny coin out from behind her ear.
‘A two-pound coin! How did you get that out of my ear?!’ she exclaims, clearly delighted.
My God. If as if being annoyingly attractive wasn’t enough, it suddenly hits me that Flynn is also good with kids. Fuck. Why does he have to be good with kids? I love kids . . . even if they don’t seem to like me very much. He’ll be one of those hot, fun dads someday. A total DILF. I shut the thought down immediately, taking a sip from my glass and ignoring the sudden stinging of my eyes.
‘He must be trying to impress someone. Doubling the stakes, huh, Flynn?’ Paisley shoots me a sly wink as she enters the room, thank the Lord. She pulls open the door to a commercial-size fridge, hiding her smile in the depths of it. ‘Watch out for bankruptcy.’
‘You may laugh,’ he replies, patting the little girl’s head. ‘But Sorcha here is building herself a nice little nest egg.’
‘What?’ Paisley’s response comes out as a tinkling laugh. ‘She hasn’t told you she spends it on candy?’
‘Sorch,’ he says, drawing her name out even as he shortens it. ‘Sorcha, Sorch, So.’ He shakes his head disparagingly. ‘How are you going to pay for all the things a dog needs?’
‘I’ve decided I don’t want a dog,’ she replies quite seriously. ‘Princess Kitty wouldn’t like it. Besides,’ she adds, pulling her hand from his, ‘I like sweeties.’ And as though to prove the existence of her sweet tooth, she skips off to follow Paisley and what looked like a large chocolate cake.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Flynn asks once we’re alone again.
‘I was just enjoying the cuteness factor. You’ve got hidden depths.’ I take a sip of my drink to hide my surprise at my compliment. We don’t compliment each other. We snipe and argue. Apart from that one time we fucked.
‘Seeing another side to me, were you?’
I am. And I don’t want to.
‘I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous,’ I say, my tone turning snarky once again. ‘You never performed magic for me.’
‘Huh.’ He steps closer—so close I can smell his aftershave. It’s spicy and woodsy and all kinds of yum. He smells like holidays and the best kinds of memories. Or maybe he would if I closed my eyes. But even looking at him reminds me of all kinds of things. Like how we’d snuck away from the wedding party. How we’d stumbled into my hotel room. How we hadn’t even stripped out of our clothes the first time he sank into me. How his eyes had rolled closed as I’d clenched around him and moaned.
‘I disagree.’ I shiver as his deep voice rumbles across my skin. ‘Because I seem to recall making your knickers disappear.’
Chapter 4
FLYNN
‘Life is like . . . it’s like arse. I’m telling you, man.’
‘Hang on,’ Keir states, holding up his beer bottle and his free hand. ‘I sense Flynn has something important to impart—something of note. Peel your fuckin’ ears back, lads.’ With a flourish of his hand, he indicates I should go on. Keir; my boss, and mate, and a colossal piss-taker.
‘I wasn’t making an announcement,’ I protest.
‘I feel otherwise,’ he replies with a slightly drunken, though very smug grin.
‘Come on, out with it,’ Mac, the big fucker, adds merrily, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. And he is a big fucker. I mean, at six-foot-two, I’m not exactly small.
‘You’re a bunch of tossers,’ I complain cheerfully to the faux grumbles of the small garden crowd. Pushing the meaty arm off my shoulder, I make the inappropriately appropriate gesture with my hand.
We’re in the garden, and it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, though at least Keir has a state-of-the-art setup—outdoor heaters and a fireplace—plus I’ve put on street clothes since. Jeans. Boots. A jacket—the lot. Spring has arrived, my arse. We’re not eating outside in the frigid weather, just standing around with beers like men, critiquing Keir’s cooking skills while dishing out innuendo.
Keir’s mates, Mac and Will, can hold their own pretty well, chucking food-based puns around and basically taking the piss. How does Keir like his salad tossed? How does he pull his pork? I know, juvenile, but it’s a manly kind of bonding. And I’m in good company. Australians, as a rule, are a sweary lot, but this lot match me curse for curse.
‘Go on; life is like arse,’ Will, aka Dr Pussy, prompts. And that’s not my name for him. Nope, that’s his wife’s name, and I’m not arguing with a newborn wielding woman for no one.
‘Yep.’ I nod. ‘The way I see it, you’re either kicking it, kissing it, busting it, or trying to get a piece of it.’
‘Aye, and we know which one you’re doing tonight,’ taunts Mac.
‘I don’t kiss Keir’s arse,’ I retort. ‘I already got my pay raise this year.’
‘If you’re not kissing my arse, you’re not busting it for me, either.’
‘Mr McLain, I’ve told you, I don’t swing that way, no matter the price.’ I clutch a set of invisible pearls. ‘Talk about harassment in the workplace.’
‘What workplace?’ someone jeers.
‘You know, this one,’ Keir continues, hooking a thumb in my direction, ‘wouldn’t work if his arse was on fire.’
‘You employ him.’ Will laughs. ‘So which of you is the stupid fucker, eh?’
‘Piss off,’ Keir retorts before turning back to face me. ‘According to my calculations, that leaves kicking it, and I don’t fancy your chances,’ he says, comically flexing his shoulders. ‘Or trying to get a piece of it.’
‘And we’re all spoken for, y’ken,’ roars Mac, clearly delighted by his own half-drunken wit.
‘All spoken for out here, but not in there.’
We all turn to the bank of windows at the back of the house where the sensible people sit. And that would be the female contingent. And of more interest to me, where Chastity sits. I know I was a bit of a cock to her in the kitchen, but she seems to bring out that side of me. I want to pull her pigtails and snap her bra strap just so she’ll look at me. And when she does look—really look—I see the real her. The shit she can’t hide as her breath hitches and her pupils dilate, her fingers flexing like she wants to pull me closer rather than push me the fuck away.
Beyond the glass, the fire is lit and the lights are low, Chastity is curled against the arm of the sectional sofa, holding a glass of something pale in her hand. She throws back her head, laughing at something one of her companions has said, and the light from the fireplace catches the gold in her softly curling hair, giving her a goddamned halo. Fuck a duck, I want to storm inside and chuck her over my shoulder. Drag her back to my lair and screw her for weeks. I’ve been avoiding thinking about her and that night for six long months, yet I still wake some mornings to the spectre of her curls dragging across my chest. And the smell of her floral perfume lingers on sheets she’s never lain in. It’s the most bizarre thing, but I think I might be formulating a plan to get my life back, especially after hearing what the ladies were discussing when I stepped inside earlier to syphon the python.
See, I reckon these feelings I have are like a holiday hangover, and that’s why I can’t get her out of my head. It’s like, I had the greatest holiday—only substitute holiday for sex—and I can’t get the fun of the experience out of my head. So what do you do when you come back from a fabulous break to grey skies and normality? You start planning your next little trip. And I think I might just have a plan . . .
‘I think you missed one.’ Keir pulls me from my thoughts, my gaze turning from the window at the sound of his voice.
‘Missed one what?’ I ask, my mind a step behind my mouth.
‘Life is like arse; you’re either kicking it, kissing it, busting it, trying to get a piece of it, or in your case, acting like a total arse.’ He tips his bottle towards the window again. ‘Any fool with eyes can see she’s got you tied up in knots. Question is, what are you gonna do about it?’
