Hard

by Donna Alam

  HARD

  COPYRIGHT

  The moral right of this author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © Donna Alam 2018

  Cover Design: Kellie Dennis: Book Cover By Design

  Image: Eric Battershell

  Editing: Editing 4 Indies

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Dictionary

  About the Author

  HARD

  A Standalone Romance Novel

  A man walks into a coffee shop and gets offered a job in porn.

  Sounds like the start of a joke, right?

  Or every man’s fantasy.

  Until I remember I’m trying to be a good man.

  A single father.

  One who doesn’t do casual relationships,

  Let alone get paid for sex.

  But for those curves and that mouth?

  Any man might change his mind.

  ~*~

  It was an honest mistake . . .

  I’m new to the “adult entertainment” business.

  So when I’m sent to interview for our next production,

  I assume the hottie with the coffee is him.

  Lord knows he’s hot enough to take a starring role.

  Especially in my fantasies.

  And with that accent,

  The aural he gives must be ahh-mazing.

  I thought a hard man might be fun for the night.

  But a good man? He might be everything.

  Chapter 1

  PAISLEY

  One phrase can sum up my whole move to London.

  That didn’t go quite as planned.

  Even closer on the timeline scale, if someone had said a month ago I’d be sitting in a coffee shop waiting for a well-hung stranger to arrive, I’d have told you to keep taking the medicine. You know, for your kind of crazy.

  What’s worse, I’m not even waiting for said stranger for myself, but rather because of business. No—not the whoring kind of business. Although, if it weren’t for my friend, Chastity, I may well have already begun to sell my body in order to eat. But that’s another story. One with an unhappy ending, strangely enough, beginning just two months ago. But I don’t have time to let my mind wander down that particular memory lane of distaste as the door to the hipster-chic coffee shop opens, and a man steps into the space. His large silhouette is framed by the afternoon light, highlighting the cut of his dark suit and how it fits perfectly to his broad shoulders.

  I turn my wrist, glancing down at my watch; on time and dressed to impress. He certainly seems to be taking this interview seriously.

  From my table in the far corner—chosen so as not to upset the late afternoon crowd with talk of dick and pussy and other such things—I stand and wave. It’s weird how quickly I’ve become desensitised. These days, I can discuss the merits of butt plugs and clitoral stimulation with the best of them. Not that I’d necessarily choose to have these conversations in public, with strangers, but I digress.

  The arc of afternoon sunlight cuts out as the door closes behind him, making me wonder why these places are always so dark. No matter as his long legs eat up the space between us, his intense gaze flicking my way. Wow. He’s even more handsome in the flesh. I add a smile to my greeting, unable to resist glancing down once more at the tablet on the table in front of me. A tablet filled with the black and white stills I’ve been examining all day.

  All. Day.

  More than is professionally acceptable, for sure. I tell myself it’s nerves—that it’s because I’ve never done this part of the job before. Interviewing potential candidates. But I don’t know why I’m bothering to lie to myself because I know I’ve become a dirty ole perve. It’s what happens when your new job includes studying a person’s photographic résumé, one that includes pictures of the cut of his jawline, abs, and cock. And then there are one or two on-the-job photos—and I mean on the job. A woman bent at the waist over a table, his body bowed, her blonde hair twisted in his hand.

  I drag my mind from the images as the man hesitates on the other side of our table for two. Butterflies with wings like vultures beat in my chest cavity. I’ve never interviewed anyone before, porn star or not.

  Imagine him naked, my mind whispers. Wait—that’s probably what has me twitterpated in the first place.

  Honey brown hair and dark eyes, the man is gorgeous. And dressed as he is, he certainly looks at home in the heart of the city—he has that whole captain of industry vibe going on. But on my second look, the tiny display of hesitancy in the jut of his brow immediately sets me at ease.

  ‘Hi, I’m Paisley.’ I offer him my hand across the table. ‘You’re expecting Chastity, I know,’ I babble as he presses his large hand against mine. Large hand. Strong wrist. The tensing of a large bicep beneath his sleeve. ‘But she was called away at the last minute. So you got me!’ I make a stupid jazz hands motion as the hottie looks back, bemused? Amused? Probably both those things.

  ‘Chastity,’ the low rumble of his voice repeats, sending a shiver of appreciation down my spine. Since I’d moved to London a year ago, accents have become my thing. His accent, I’m going to guess is . . .

  ‘You’re Scottish, right?’

  He agrees with a slight incline of his head.

  ‘And I know what you’re thinking; it’s a little oxymoronic for a purveyor of porn to be named Chastity.’

  I might snort a little, knowing Chas would kill me for using the P word. It’s the dirty connotations in porn, I almost hear Chas’s cut-glass accent intone. All that deep throating and banging. It just doesn’t do it for the mass female audience.

  ‘You had me at porn.’ Amusement colours his tone as he pulls the chair from under the table, lowering his frame into it. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s fighting a smile. Hazel eyes, I realise, golden flecks matching his hair, and a large though lean frame. The camera would eat him up. Given half the chance, I think I’d do the same.

  Except for the porn thing.

  Hell, what was his name again? I’ve been perving all day at his stills, but I can’t remember his name? No matter, I decide, babbling again.

  ‘Okay. What can I tell you?’ The hottie looks on expectantly as I begin what Chastity calls the company spiel. ‘Fast Girl Media produces women and couple-centric erotica with an emphasis on seduction, romance, and sensuality. We provide a highly curated experience from beautiful cinematographic sequences to sensual photographic stills. Also available on the website is an extensive collection of erotic literature for a different kind of stimulation.’ I pause, feeling a pinprick of discomfort as the barista sud
denly appears, placing a tiny white cup in front of him. At least I wasn’t in the middle of mouthing the word cock or dildo. Not that I physically mouth those things for the company, you understand. In fact, I don’t do anything, other than a little assisting. And a little admin

  As the hottie gestures to my cup, it suddenly occurs to me that I didn’t see him order his own drink. But as I murmur a no thanks and the barista retreats, I inhale and begin again.

  ‘You’re a little older than I imagined—’

  ‘Is that so?’ His mouth hitches in one corner, and good Lord, the man has dimples. Well, at least one of them.

  And that accent? I bet he gives amazing aural. He just exudes poise and a taunting, relaxed kind of confidence. So much so, he’s totally making me blush. It’s almost as though he knows exactly what I’ve been looking at. Hell, imagining. These are all good signs, I decide. I want him on the job. I mean, I want to give him the job.

  And me a vicarious screwing.

  ‘W-what I mean to say is, your age totally works in your favour. And,’ I add quickly, ‘it does not in any way diminish your attraction.’ He already knows this, but the advice Chastity supplied was to pander to their egos. ‘Or indeed your suitability.’

  ‘Suitability?’ His coffee cup half conceals his sultry smirk as he lifts it to his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, making a judgment call I know Chas will get behind. ‘We have a shoot coming up next week. It’ll be filmed on location—Barcelona, to be exact. So providing you can supply the appropriate paperwork in time and don’t have an aversion to anal, I’d like to offer you the gig.’

  His response has me squealing a little as I jump up from my seat.

  I wipe the coffee explosion from my face as my mind intones once again, Well, that didn’t go at all as planned.

  Chapter 2

  KEIR

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I reply, coughing and trying to wipe both the coffee and the smile from my face. ‘That’s some offer. But I only came in to grab a coffee.’ I pass her a paper napkin from the dispenser as her expression falters, the smile quickly slipping from her face.

  ‘You mean you’re not . . . ’ Her words trail off as she pats her face dry, bending at the waist to swipe the electronic tablet on the table, the action causing the front of her dress to gape. Full, soft breasts, and a barely there black bra. I drag my reluctant gaze away but not before I get another eyeful as the tablet lights up.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ she mutters, and somehow, this doesn’t sound as harsh in her soft, American accent. She flips the thing upside down, snapping ramrod straight.

  ‘That’s not me, and that’s definitely not my dick,’ I answer, chuckling as she turns suddenly and begins rifling through a bag the size of Sicily hanging on the back of her chair.

  And the rear view is as fantastic as the front.

  ‘Antonio Uccello!’ she calls in the vein of eureka! as she pulls a battered white envelope from her bag. ‘I’m looking for Antonio Uccello.’

  ‘I’d say you were just looking at quite a bit of him.’ Even in the low lighting, it’s easy to see the two distinct spots of pink colouring her cheeks. Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms across my chest, feeling a certain satisfaction at her flustered expression. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to flirt—even this little bit. It feels good. Gratifying. ‘And that’s not me.’

  ‘Hell,’ she breathes out softly. ‘Your accent should’ve been my first clue. You know, with this name.’ She waves the envelope as she takes her seat again.

  ‘Not really. I went to school with a lad called Aldo De Luca. And you couldn’t find a more Scottish sounding fella.’

  ‘You can never tell a book by its cover, huh?’

  ‘Looking at you? I’d say that’s especially true.’ I let my eyes deliberately wander over her again. A navy blue dress printed with tiny birds, the kind of dress I’ve heard Sadie, my mate’s wife, describe as vintage. ‘You don’t look like the kind of girl who works for a porn company.’ She looks like she might work in an art gallery or something. Then again, one girl’s art is another man’s porn, I suppose.

  ‘Erotica,’ she replies, a touch defensively. ‘Visually artistic with an emphasis on seduction, romance, and sensuality.’

  ‘And fucking. I bet there’s plenty of that going on.’

  I regret my words the second they hit the air. I’m usually much more circumspect around the fairer sex. Even those who work in porn. That thought, of course, leads to another. Does she do porn? While gorgeous, she doesn’t look the type—not just because of a lack of platinum hair, or long fingernails, or silicone rack. Maybe she stars in the girl-next-door type scenes. All startling blue eyes and pink lips . . .

  Sir, you want to put that where?

  I shake my head, dislodging the inappropriateness again.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with sex,’ she says, her spine straightening again. And the front of her dress pulling a little too tight . . .

  Unless you’re not getting any, I don’t say. And I’d know because I’m not. Getting any, that is. And I haven’t for a while. A conscious decision, I remind myself.

  ‘True,’ I answer, uncrossing my arms. ‘But I’m not likely to be starring in porn at this time.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sorry for the confusion,’ she replies as I stand, tilting her head to indicate the offending tablet on the table between us. Next to it is an empty cappuccino cup plus a dainty plate with a dollop of cream and a slice of strawberry abandoned on it. ‘Apologies for the, er . . . ’

  ‘Full frontal nude?’ I supply. She nods her head rapidly, big blue eyes blinking back at me. ‘Well, here’s to hoping he rocks your world when he does arrive.’ At odds with the tightness in my belly, I offer a bawdy wink as I pull myself away.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ Flynn, my assistant, asks as I walk back into the office.

  ‘What? Am I not allowed to smile now?’

  ‘Doesn’t happen fucking often,’ he says, his Aussie accent as thick as the peanut butter he has spread on his toast.

  ‘What have I told you about that mouth?’

  ‘I’m on my lunch break,’ he protests, picking the last square of toast balanced on a tea plate on his chest.

  ‘Remind me why I keep you around again?’

  ‘Because you couldn’t find your way out of a lunch sack without me. And also because I know where the bodies are buried.’ He kicks his feet down from his desk. ‘Come on, what’s put that smile on your face? You went out for coffee looking about as happy as a bastard on Father’s Day. And anyway, where’s my Frappuccino?’

  His words piss on my mood immediately, reminding me why I was in a foul mood when I left.

  ‘Who in the hell schedules a business dinner on a Friday night?’

  ‘Ah, there’s my little ray of sunshine. Didn’t we already establish someone hoping to get you relaxed enough to screw up? Just drunk enough, just sloppy enough, to promise them something you don’t want to deliver. Whether it be a signed contract or a night in your bed.’

  ‘Joe’s not my type,’ I grumble. ‘Beer bellies don’t do it for me.’

  Joe Shelby is in construction, the same as me. I pass a decent amount of work his way. Mainly subcontracted. I’m currently trying to buy a disused convent from the local archdiocese, and the sly fucker thinks I haven’t realised he’s trying to get into bed with me. Figuratively, at least. Not so figurative is his daughter, Amelia’s, interest. But I only have time for one female in my life, and that’s my own child, so neither of those scenarios interest me. But in business, you’ve got to play it canny.

  ‘The daughter, though? She’s hot.’

  ‘Aye, hot like a stolen car. And just as much trouble.’

  ‘I’d still do her.’

  ‘And that, right there, is why I’m the boss and you’re the PA.’

  ‘Boss or not, I’d still go for a piece of that.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t screw her with your dick, so let’s call
it a difference of opinion and move the fuck on.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Flynn picks the iPad up from his desk. ‘And I am the lowly serf. So you’ve got the conference call in fifteen, and the plans for the Barclay job are on your desk. The architect for Ullridge is waiting on a callback and . . . ’

  Flynn’s voice suddenly becomes background noise, the afternoon’s demands no longer of importance as I notice a tiny coffee stain on the cuff of my white shirt. I can’t resist examining it, my mind roaming back to the pretty girl in the coffee shop.

  I wonder if she really does porn?

  It’s late in the evening when the cab drops me home. It’s been a long day, and I’m in a bastard of a mood, but it’s my own fault. I should’ve said no to dinner. A dinner that dragged more hours into my workday. But truthfully, where work is concerned, I find it hard to draw the line. I suppose it’s a healthy kind of fear that keeps me powering along, but it’s also tiring. While I might now wear a tailored suit to work rather than a hard hat and steel toe-capped boots, my days are no less taxing. The difference is, these days, the things that drive me aren’t the basics of an existence; food in my belly or a roof over my head. I won’t ever need to worry about where my next meal is coming from, or how I’ll pay my bills.

  Yet I’m still jogging on that treadmill.

  Like tonight. I could’ve said no—should’ve said no. And now, I’m pretty pissed off that work has once again eaten into my me time. I know, me time sounds a bit gay, but Friday nights are the only time I get to myself.

  I spend my days working my arse off—five days a week, often fourteen-hour days. Outside of that, I’m all about Sorcha, my little girl.

  The life of a single parent is absolutely rewarding but sometimes hard.

  I’m lucky I have Agnes, Sorcha’s pseudo granny, to help. Though I pay her well to head up our home, she’s really more like family. She’s more of a mother to me than my own ever was and loves Sorcha with the fierceness of any grandmother tied to a child through blood. You might say that little girl is the central hub from which the spokes of both of our lives turn.