by Donna Alam
‘Fucking hell . . .’ He blows out the curse on a long breath. ‘You’re not supposed to root on the morning of your wedding.’
Now, there’s an Aussie term for you. Root, verb or noun.
To root: to fuck
Rooted: you’re fucked.
A good root: a desirable sort. So, not Rafferty, then.
When in Aus, never say you root for your favourite sports team. And if you’re rooting around in the cupboard I hope you’re both having a damn good time.
‘Let me get this straight,’ I begin. ‘On the morning of my wedding—on the morning of the day I tie myself to one woman for life, I’m not allowed to show that woman a little affection?’
‘I don’t make the fuckin’ rules,’ he grumbles. ‘And is that what you’re calling your cock these days—affection? I remember the days when you used to call it Peter the Dancing Penis.’
‘I was three years old. And piss off, those stories are for mum to tell.’
‘You fucking root rat,’ Rafferty complains good naturedly. I think that insult speaks for itself. ‘You’ve got no decorum. Your supposed to wait ’till your wedding night—and then be too drunk to get it up.’
‘I suppose that’s where you’ll come in?’
‘I am your best man,’ he reasons. ‘Some would go as far as to say the better man.’
‘You’re a tosser,’ I return as he shakes his head, slapping his manicured hand on my shoulder. ‘How long before we can expect the news of the pitter-patter of tiny feet?’
‘Kids? I’ve only been married five minutes.’ And living with her for twelve months. Living with her, sleeping with her, fucking her like it’s going out of fashion. And every month like clockwork, she gets her period. I don’t know who’s more disappointed; me or her. But we know these things take time. So in the meantime, we’re just keeping up our practice hours.
‘You did good, kid.’ Raff squeezes my shoulder and I let him have his big brother moment, despite there being only a couple of years between us. ‘Chastity is a keeper. You hit the porn peddling jackpot.’ He’s still laughing as he walks away. The wanker.
I’m a married man. Who’d believe it? I think, my eyes sliding to the vintage red London bus ambling along the road. Today has been perfect. Low key and low fuss, just as my bride intended.
We’d married at eleven this morning at Chelsea Registry Office on the Kings Road, much to the consternation of Chastity’s family. They wanted pomp and circumstance—a fucking cathedral wedding. But Chastity wanted none of that. Just a quiet day with a few friends. And family, if we must, she’d said. As there was no chance of hiding a wedding from my lot, or forgiveness after the fact, both sets of parents are here, along with my brothers, and Max and Camilla. But still, Chastity’s mother isn’t pleased. That the building we married in is beautiful—Victorian Greek revival—and that it was deemed good enough for James Joyce to marry in, didn’t seem to matter at all.
Honestly? I don’t give a fuck. I would’ve have married her stark bollock naked in the middle of Leicester Square, if that’s what she’d wanted.
The London bus pulls up outside of our favourite pub. Yep, we had our wedding breakfast in a pub. Roast beef and veggies, and enough champagne to sink a ship, and to add to the theme of low key, we didn’t hire wedding cars, we hired wedding busses.
I spot my bride as she steps down from the vintage vehicle, a tiny silver clutch and flower corsage in the place of a bouquet. She looks like a summer sprite as she jumps from the last step with a dainty swing of her dress. Knee length and almost silver, it covers all my favourite bits of her in lace, with the exception of her back, her creamy skin exposed by a deep V.
Paisley steps down from the bus next, passing a glass of champagne into Chastity’s hand as the pair laugh at something Mac’s little boy has said.
My wife. Mine. Every inch of that treasure belongs to me, and not because of the ring on her finger, but because we were meant to be.
She wanted a simple day with no fuss and a plain wedding band. And I gave her it all but took her choice of ring into my own hands. I was certain I did the right thing, though almost confessed to her in the bedroom this morning. For more reason than one, I’m happy we ended up fucking instead. Yes, fucking. Not making love, because even when we’re fucking, we are love. We’re not making it, we just are love.
Not content to watch and compelled by the sight of her, I make my way out into the sunshine.
‘Mr Phillips.’ Her eyes are soft and warm as I bend to press my lips to hers.
‘Mrs Phillips,’ I return, shooting her a sly smirk and enjoying the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘Have I told you how beautiful you look today?’
‘Oh, not for at least ten minutes,’ she replies, smiling up at me.
‘Well, that’s what happens when you take the bus to escape.’
‘We weren’t escaping, Flynn,’ Sorcha interrupts, as she jumps from the steep step. ‘We were just taking the bus for a joy ride.’
‘And stopping for ice cream, it seems.’ At least, if the chocolaty stain on her pretty dress is any indication. I pretend to point at the stain on the smocked front of her dress, flicking her nose when she looks down.
‘Fl-ynn!’ she complains indignantly. ‘I’m too old for you to play silly tricks on me.’
‘When you get to double digits, then we’ll talk.’
‘What’s a summers day without a little indulgence?’ Paisley interjects, taking her step-daughter by the hand. She shoots us a sly wink over her shoulder as she walks away. Louis trails behind, using a tiny plastic scoop to scrape the remnants of watery ice-cream from the small tub in his hand. It mostly ends up on his little suit.
Man, kids are fucking ace.
‘Do you think she was suggesting we grab a little afternoon delight in the bus?’ As I turn back, I catch Chastity staring down at the diamond band. ‘I did okay?’ I ask hesitantly. ‘If you don’t like it—’
‘I love it,’ she says, placing her slender hand on my arm. ‘And I love the inscription.’ Today. Tomorrow. Always. ‘But I’m still not shagging you in the bus.’
‘Eh. It was worth a try. You might want to bear it in mind for work, though. A new take on taxi cam shots?’
‘Eww. Just no. That premise is so awful. You can’t afford the cab fare, so you screw the taxi driver instead? There’s nothing very erotic about that. It’s just sad and a little desperate.’
I slide my hand into my pockets, pulling out a handful of change. ‘So I’d better not ask what this would get me?’
Chastity sets off laughing, the flowers woven into her hair moving in the slight breeze.
‘Today has been everything,’ she whispers quite suddenly. ‘I wanted to give you something, too.’
‘So we are getting on the bus?’ I wiggle my brows expectantly as she passes the glass of warming bubbles into my hand.
‘I wanted to do this better but I haven’t had a chance really to prepare. Bear with me. And don’t laugh.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, love.’
‘Here goes,’ she says, pressing a shell into my hand. ‘I picked this up from the beach the night of Paisley’s wedding.’
‘Okay,’ I answer, rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface as I try to keep my bemusement to myself.
‘That’s something old.’ Something I think might be delight pokes me in the centre of my chest. ‘This is new,’ she begins, pulling from her purse a silver Mont Blanc pen. It’s engrave with my name. ‘It’s for you. It means you don’t have to keep stealing Keir’s. My amusement this time breaks free from my chest in a burst of laughter. ‘You don’t work for him anymore. Stop stealing the office stationery. You’re paying for it, too.’ She pats my cheek indulgently.
‘But it’s fun!’ I protest, kissing her head and inhaling a deep breath of her floral scent.
‘This—’
‘Borrowed, I’ve got it,’ I reply, holding out my hand. But as she pushes up onto her toes again, she kisses m
e on the mouth. A chaste kiss, but with a little nip of teeth against my bottom lip as she pulls away. A promise of things to come. ‘Now remember, that’s borrowed. I want it back.’ She giggles cheekily.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give it to you all right.’ If I have my way, I’ll be giving it to her all night long.
‘Final item,’ she adds in a much more sombre tone.
‘Something blue,’ I assert as she dips her fingers into her purse.
‘Close your eyes.’
‘Kinky,’ I mumble, smiling like a loon. Another pen? I think, wrapping my fingers around,something that feels plastic.
‘It’s blue,’ Chastity says softly, a certain hesitancy in her tone.
As I open my eyes and look down . . . there’s a pregnancy test in my hand.
Blue.
Positive.
‘You mean you’re . . . we’re . . . ’ She nods. ‘We’re going to have a baby!’
Fuck me blind!
The End
Thank you so much for taking a chance of my words. I hope you enjoyed reading about my Aussie and his duchess. If you did, and you’d like to read more, why not check out Keir and Paisley’s book, Hard, or Will and Sadie in Easy. There’s a short sneak-peak of both titles in the following pages.
You might also like to learn more about Mac, Ella, and their brood, in Single Daddy Scot. Or maybe dip your toe into the Hot Scot’s world. Read about Mac’s sister, Ivy, and her secret beau, Dylan, the twins Rory and Kit and their respective love interests, Fin and Bea.
These and the above books are all standalones in an interconnected world, taking you from the wilds of Scotland to London, Dubai and L.A. No cliff-hangers and no need to read in a particular order. Hours of giggles and squirms.
And all free to KU readers, too!
Sneak Peek
EASY
WILL
Another day, another round of vaginas.
‘Evening, George.’ I greet the porter with a quick nod in his direction, not waiting for his response before taking the stairs to my apartment two at a time.
Despite being a card-carrying vagina enthusiast, I must admit, being in the vagina business does sometimes get old. Not that I’d say as much out loud.
I’d probably be crucified.
Ask any of my friends their opinions on what I do for a living, and you’ll find they fall into two distinct camps: I’m either the man with the best job in the world, or the one whose job has the potential to turn them gay.
As if that were even possible.
So I do have bad days, but everyone wants to bleach their eyeballs some days, surely? We all have days we could happily drown ourselves in a vat of liquor. And this just happens to be one of those days.
But it’s not all the vagina’s fault. I’ve also spent the last two hours with my father who is, unfortunately, a different kettle of cunt. Excuse my French.
I pause at the third-floor landing, my own apartment one above. The penthouse, actually.
‘Fuck it.’ I flex my jaw in an effort to relieve the tension and the lingering distaste of this afternoon. A finite number of experiences can help ease the tension held in my body, and those are fighting, fucking, or at the neck of a bottle. Only one of those three is available right now, and as I could also do with a dose of sane, light-hearted company, I decide I’m not drinking alone.
I raise my hand to the doorbell when the sound of someone moaning behind the closed door leaves my index finger in the air and the bell un-rung. It’s not the moan exactly that gives me pause, but maybe the tenor, or the tone—the absolutely feminine plead for divine intervention. One that has my cock flickering to life in my pants.
‘Oh, God!’
Go ahead and call me big-headed, but it’s a sound I’m well familiar with. There’s nothing quite like hearing the woman lying beneath you thanking the heavens for the hammering you’re delivering. It’s enough to make a man feel like God himself.
And while you might think the possibility of disturbing someone getting shagged senseless on the opposite side of the door might be enough to make me swing on my heel and head for home, you’d be wrong.
Apart from the voyeuristic element, urgent sex happens to be one of my favourite things. Stumbling in through a front door so desperate that you can’t wait the extra few steps it might take to get to a bed. The absolute need at that moment. The collision of bodies. Mouths and fingers seeking pleasure, slippery and slick. The illicitness in this kind of coupling is unique.
But that’s not the reason I pause. It’s more that the possibility of this happening behind this particular door is slim.
No, not exactly slim. This isn’t an anomaly or an incongruency.
More like fucking impossible.
Because Mo, my neighbour, couldn’t get it up for a girl if he tried. And I know because I’ve known the man for years. He likes to wear a kaftan, for fuck’s sake.
Curiosity, I’m told, leads to trouble, but female trouble is the very best kind, in my opinion. So in my characteristic give-no-fucks way, I ring the doorbell, interested to find out exactly what’s going on here.
The dog barks.
A soft, feminine voice draws closer, her tone chastising. And this time, I hear the exact words.
‘Stop repeating me and tell me exactly what you’ve done!’
The door swings open and—surprise—it isn’t Mo. Nor any relation, as far as I can tell, even without her American accent. Whoever she is, she’s a tiny wee thing. And bloody stunning.
Hair the colour of butterscotch, she’s dressed for a night out on the town. If that night was back in the 1930s. Her silver dress clings to her in all the right places, and as she grapples with the dog, the door, and her phone, there’s a stellar amount of side boob going on.
And then, through the phone, another voice says, ‘I hired you a male escort.’
And by the way her gaze works its way slowly from my shoes to my face, guess who’s it.
I’ve always been a bit of an opportunist. Let’s face it, most men are. And paid for sex? That sounds like an even better deal than my current one.
Why did I go to medical school again?
At the beauty’s stunned expression, I bite back my burgeoning grin, along with the instinct to tell her I’d happily fuck her on the house . . . all over the house.
For free.
SADIE
Ten Minutes Earlier
‘But what happens if he doesn’t remember me?’
‘No,’ Kallie replies stridently. ‘Don’t you go there.’ Her responding look is one I know well; dark and elegant brows pinched above fierce honey coloured eyes. But it’s hard for her to stare me down right now, given we’re oceans apart and reliant on both an internet connection and the phone I hold in my hand.
‘I refuse to indulge you in this negativity,’ she continues. ‘Say the words again. And lift me up; I don’t need to see how fabulous your tits look right now.’
My eyes glance down at my silk covered form, ash coloured to accentuate my pale colouring. According to the sales associate, at least, right before she’d parted me from the equivalent of a week’s rent. ‘Do you think it’s too much?’
‘Take me to a mirror so I can get a better look.’
I make my way over to a massive gold rococo style mirror in the hallway.
‘Hang on. I’ll just switch the camera around.’ I do so, feeling a bit silly; I look like I’m about to take a selfie. I know this is how some friends are, but not me and Kallie.
Probably because our social lives aren’t all that interesting.
‘Sadie, it’s . . . beautiful. You look like a starlet from the days of the silver screen.’
The dress does have that sort of vibe. The cowl neckline leaves most of my back bare, save for the V of the straps clasped low at the base of my spine. I’ve never owned something quite so gorgeous. Or so expensive.
My self-conscious moment over, I flip the camera to Kallie smiling back at me.
‘You know, when I’m sitting in bed pulling toast crumbs out of my hair, I could maybe do with not seeing just how fabulous.’ I ignore this. Jammies or not, she’s gorgeous herself—quite the exotic beauty.
‘I wished I was still in bed.’ And not because of jet lag.
‘Play your cards right tonight and you might be,’ she answers with a bawdy wink.
‘That’s not why I’m in London,’ I mumble. Although the chance would be very welcome. I think. It has been a while since . . .
But I have higher hopes for tonight.
‘We had a real connection,’ I whisper, running my fingers over the invitation I’d printed from my email. The familiar mixture of anxiety and thrill twists inside—familiar because I’ve been riding its wave since I boarded the plane a few days ago.
It’s safe to say I’m sort of terrified.
‘Yes, that connection is why you’re there.’
‘No,’ I say, looking back at my screen. ‘I’m here because you got me drunk and made me book a ticket to fly to London last Saturday night.’
‘Ha, true story,’ she replies, delighted. ‘It was a tactical plan on my part. You’ve been droning on about the fair Julian for weeks with no signs of movement. A potential love connection or not, this thing has to be tested by physicality, if not physically, to see if this spark has actual power—a momentum, if you will. And you were never going to do it without me.’
‘I was supposed to be doing it with you,’ I complain. We’d both booked flights. We were going to travel to London together.
‘Believe me, I’m not happy about it either. But now you’re there, and you have to make the most of it—grab love by the balls and make it your bitch.’
‘Your metaphors are . . . frightening. Best you stick to teaching science.’
‘What I’m saying is, you have six whole weeks before school starts again. That’s six weeks of lounging in bed to look forward to, and whether you’ll be accompanied by hot tea or a hot man largely depends on your attendance tonight. Now, the words,’ she demands. ‘Say them again.’
‘For me or for you?’
