by Donna Alam
‘Hey.’ The word comes out all soft around the edges as I return his smile, partly because he’s here—in front of me—so real and so virile. But also because of that accent. The aural he gives.
You’re so shiny and wet.
I’m gonna make you scream.
I resist a full-body shudder at the echo of his words, his voice as deep and as cool as the ocean. The rasp around the edge of his need.
He steps closer, navigating the table. One hand on my shoulder, he leans in, placing his lips against my cheek. I restrain the urge to wrap my arms around him, burying my nose into his neck for a comic-sized inhale. He smells so good—spice and cedar—the warmth of his stubbled chin against my cheek doing strange things to my insides.
‘Well, are you?’ he asks, pulling the wooden chair opposite me out from under the table. Am I what? Nerves make me a little ridiculous. Surely, I can come up with more than a gooey hey. Oh, ha-ay . . .
‘Was I what? Oh, enjoying my drink?’ I look down at the oversized glass, more like a fishbowl really, and when I look back up, he’s staring at me from under his thick sandy lashes, his hazel eyes darkened by the purple light. I think I like him in jeans almost as much as I do a kilt. Though I think—no, I know—I prefer him dressed in nothing but a sheet. That lean frame and those muscles. The sandy fuzz just under his navel leading to the dick that rocked my world.
‘Hey, polka dot?’
When I look up, he’s sort of crouching as though to catch my gaze. He also looks on the verge of laughter.
‘Paisley,’ I correct automatically.
‘I know what your name is,’ he says, definitely chuckling now. ‘Polka dot is probably your sister’s name, though, right?’
‘Yeah, along with my big brothers Argyle and Plaid.’
As his laughter deepens, he leans back in his chair. Out of the purple glow, the stubble on the scruff of his cheeks now glows gold. Like someone who looks like him needs further gilding. And Lord, I know how that stubble feels between my legs. I shake my head a little because this so isn’t the time to swoon.
Go on, make it obvious you’re easy for him, why don’t you?
‘You look nice.’ His mouth might say nice, but the way his gaze devours me says something else. Something that looks more like utterly fuckable.
Maybe Max was right. Maybe there is such a thing as too much collarbone because where his gaze touches, my skin feels alive. I spent a while getting ready tonight, not that I’d admit it out loud. A long time pulling my hair into a messy bun that screams this look took thirty seconds rather than thirty minutes. I was excited, sure. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. But something tells me he’s not scanning my clothes. But maybe he’s anticipating my underwear.
And I do like underwear.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Do I come here often?’ I repeat, taking another sip from my glass. ‘No, I’ve never been here. I didn’t realise it was so . . . ’
‘Mad?’
‘I was going to say pretentious, but mad works, too.’
The outer corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth as he scans the place; the barman mixing cocktails at other tables, the waitress wearing little more than underwear and face paint. The braying laughter of some jackass city types.
‘There’s something you’d never hear a bloke say in Scotland,’ Keir murmurs, turning back to me with a wry smile.
‘Why? What did they say?’
‘Barman!’ Keir begins in a perfect imitation of one of Chastity’s uppity friends. ‘Bring me a bottle of your best champagne!’ Then he claps his hands like a flamenco dancer.
‘Scotsmen don’t drink champagne?’ I ask, trying hard not to laugh.
‘Not when they’re out on a night with the lads. It’s more likely to be pints of beer or shots of whisky. And cries of g’wan and get another round in!’
I hiccup a little around my straw. My drink is melting rapidly under the purple light, and I’m probably consuming it a little too fast. ‘You’re good at that, you know. Switching between accents.’
‘I must have missed my calling then. Maybe I should’ve been a thespian?’
‘Oh, I know there’s a market for it.’
‘Thespian porn?’ he asks just as the waitress arrives by his side.
‘Something like that,’ I mumble pink-faced in response.
Flipping open the beverage menu, he frowns down at it, eventually opting for a craft beer.
‘Not a Mexican one?’ I ask as the slightly overfriendly waitress retreats.
‘The kind you have to add fruit to, to make it palatable?’ His mouth twists on one side. ‘I prefer the kind of beer that needs no adulteration.’
‘Naked beer, huh?’
‘I like naked,’ he responds, his tone low and definitely seductive.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, because I am, because I led him there. He’s only just sat down! I need to get a hold of my behaviour this evening. Rein it in a little. ‘This margarita is making me inappropriate.’ Because I’ve got naked on the brain.
‘Maybe I should get you another one,’ he suggests with a smirk.
‘Hold that thought,’ I say, sliding my legs out from under the table. ‘I’ve got to visit the little girl’s room.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
Naked came up a little too quickly, I advise myself once in the confines of the equally strangely decorated powder room; velvet and street graffiti. Posters of Lucha Libre wrestlers. The designers must’ve dropped acid before tackling this place.
‘Naked might be the name of the game,’ I mutter to my reflection as I wash my hands. ‘But there’s such a thing as too soon. Too easy, right?’
My reflection doesn’t answer, but the Nordic looking blonde who exits the cubicle behind me frowns. Frowns as she steps around me. Frowns as she washes her hands. And, yep, she’s still frowning as she leaves.
‘Maybe they’re a serious race of people,’ I mumble. As no further answer is provided, I dry my hands and leave.
The way into the restaurant is blocked by a couple of drunks—more city jackass types. They’re probably called Giles and Tarquin, or something equally ridiculous.
‘Excuse me.’ I tap one shoulder of the swaying pair. ‘I need to get by.’
‘Oh, an ’merican,’ the heavier of the two says as he turns, his accent denoting him as someone Robin would call a toff—someone who attended private school and who has more money than brain cells. I roll my eyes in response to they way he’s looking at me. ‘A girl with attitude. I like it,’ he scoffs—a sort of scoff-slur.
‘Had an American au pair once,’ says the leaner of the two.
‘Did you?’ the first asks, turning his head to his companion on a wobbling neck.
‘Yep. Over the kitchen table. Girlfriend at the time wasn’t terribly pleased.’
The pair begin to bray. Yep, I called it—jackasses. ‘Come on, guys,’ I say firmly. ‘I need to get past.’
‘Say please,’ the first replies, reaching out as though to touch my bare shoulder. I step back out of his reach, squaring said shoulders as I wonder which one I’ll knee in the balls first. ‘Say please and give us a little kiss.’
‘I don’t kiss frogs.’ His friend begins to laugh, so I serve him a share of the stink eye. ‘And I don’t kiss pond scum, either.’ His laughter stops immediately.
‘What did you say, bitch?’ I open my mouth, a retort balancing on the end of my tongue, but I’m beaten to it.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ At Keir’s barely suppressed growl, the pair turn.
‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ Fat Kermit says, drawing himself taller. Taller, but not tall enough. Keir towers over the pair. He’s older. Broader. And despite his dapper appearance, he looks a little wilder, too. In the growl from his lips and the razor-sharp focus of his gaze, he makes the two of them look like schoolboys searching for a fight; inexperienced and ineffectual.
‘I sugg
est you leave the lady alone and get yourselves back to your champagne.’ His words drip with disdain.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Fat Kermit says indignantly.
‘Nope. Nor do I give a flyin’ fuck. Just do yourself a favour and step away from the girl.’
‘Or what?’ He puffs up his chest. Maybe he’s a toad, not a frog.
‘Or I’ll break your face.’
‘I could have you arrested.’
‘Aye, but not a’fore I break your face,’ he answers reasonably.
‘Come on, Tristan,’ Pond Scum mutters, pulling on his friend’s arm. ‘It’s not worth it.’
Tristan seems to weigh up his friend’s words, eventually answering, ‘You’re right. She’s not worth it at all.’
‘You wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like this,’ Keir growls as the pair shuffle away. ‘Discretion is the better part of valour, eh lads?’ He watches them leave the bar before turning to me. ‘Why’re people always threatening me with arrest when I’m around you?’
When I don’t answer, the smile slips from his face. I don’t get the sense that he’s worried about my lack of words, but rather it’s like a temporary mask that’s slipped away. His eyes scan my body as though assessing me for signs of handling or fingerprints. Fierce. Possessive. Like he’d punish me for their attention.
The last thought sets off a lightbulb in my head. He likes hard, angry fucking. Like a chain reaction, my heartrate trips, setting off a deep fluttering in my belly because maybe I like that, too.
‘Paisley,’ he says urgently, taking me in his hands. Not his arms. ‘Did those fuckers frighten you?’
I wet my suddenly parched lips; his eyes follow the motion, though I feel he does so almost reluctantly. My voice sounds scratchy when I finally speak, my pulse tripping so hard in my neck I can actually feel it. ‘I want to leave.’
‘You want me to take you home?’ His words are even, completely void of inflection, the mask back in place again.
‘No. I don’t want to sit here and pretend this isn’t happening tonight. I want to leave right now. With you.’
He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t move his gaze from mine. But he eventually takes my hand and leads me out of the narrow hallway. After tossing a few bills down on the table next to his barely touched drink and my half-empty glass, he leads me out into the crisp autumn evening.
We take twenty or thirty hurried steps then turn a corner, our mouths crashing together as Keir pushes me up against a brick wall. In the twilight, cars rush past the opening of the alleyway as we kiss with a ferocity that melts me to the bone. A Ferocity that makes Keir groan into my mouth.
‘I couldn’t wait.’ His growly tone seeps fire into my bloodstream, his lips finding my neck. ‘I want you so bad,’ he whispers ferverently, licking and kissing his way up my neck. I want him to bite—to mark me. I want to feel the weight of his need against my skin. ‘Why me?’
‘Because you fuck like a champ,’ I answer hoarsely, ignoring the smug lift of his lips against my skin.
‘So you’re using me for sex?’
‘Not right now, I’m not.’ I stifle a sigh as his teeth graze my earlobe. ‘And I guess you’re on the clock.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m in a hurry, or that I rush things?’
‘I’m down for a little hustle,’ I rasp as his large hand draws down my arm.
‘You make it sound so sordid.’
‘And you make it sound like it turns you on.’ My whole body reacts as one of his hands finds my hips, his thumb rubbing in small circles.
‘Dirty fucking is underrated,’ he answers, ‘but I wonder if you think you know me that well or if you recognise the same things in yourself?’
‘Why don’t you find out?’
‘That sounds like a dare.’ His mouth finds my neck again, his tongue licking the column of my neck.
‘You did say I was trouble.’
My heart beats with a thousand anticipations as his hands lift from my hips, his fingers clasping mine. My feet work on delay, along with the rest of my body and brain as he begins to lead me away.
‘Filthy alleyways aren’t the kind of sordid I enjoy. And you deserve better,’ he says, tugging on my reluctant hand. ‘Always remember that.’
Our footsteps echo against the sidewalk, the minutes that pass thick with anticipation. Then we come to a hotel; the kind with an expensive façade and a uniformed doorman out front. We make our way to the reception where Keir lets go of my hand to pull out his wallet.
‘Checking in, sir?’ asks the twenty-something receptionist. Her hair pulled into a chignon, her expression is a perfectly professional yet blank mask.
‘One night, no reservation,’ Keir answers succinctly, handing over a dark coloured credit card to secure the room as he wraps his arm around my waist.
The receptionist slides a form across the desk, his arms briefly leaving my body as he fills it in, leaving much of the information blank. No car registration needed. A company name for an address. Transaction complete, the tips of her ears turn red as he tells her we don’t need help with our luggage . . . as we don’t have any.
‘That was a little unnecessary,’ I whisper as we reach the elevator.
‘What?’
‘Telling her we have no luggage.’
‘What would you have had me say?’ He smirks, chin tipped as he watches the old-fashioned numbers above the doors light up as the elevator passes each floor.
‘I don’t know. Maybe our bags haven’t arrived from our flight.’
‘And your shoulder is red from what?’ His amused gaze slides to my shoulder. ‘The strap of your handbag?’
The elevator dings as it opens, my grip tightening on the clutch purse pressed between my arm and body as my free hand drifts to my shoulder. Did he bite me there? As we step inside the mirrored elevator, I see exactly what he means.
‘Hickeys? Are you kidding me?’ Three sucking marks adorn my right shoulder.
‘It was the only flesh available to me.’ His eyes flick my way, lingering on my shoulder before moving down. ‘Don’t worry. The next lot aren’t going to be so visible.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Less challenge and more an enquiry as he steps into me, his hand drifting to between my legs. But barely touching.
‘I’m gonna decorate the silky skin of your inner thighs. Suck. Bite. Lick.’
The words bloom between my legs like the most delicious surprise. ‘I’m down for that.’ I try to appear unaffected, hoping to conceal the shake in my voice. I feel so desperate for him to touch me. Frantic for the sensations of his fingertips. His teeth.
‘What else are you down for?’
God, his voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound sexy. Suddenly, the echo of Chastity’s words floats into my consciousness.
‘Boundaries are meant to be tested,’ I hear myself repeat.
Above me, Keir’s eyes light up like Christmas has arrived early.
Chapter 15
PAISLEY
The door closes, the sound of my heart the only noise in the room. Keir walks farther into the space, placing his wallet and the spare key on the dresser as he passes, walking to the wall of windows before turning to face me.
‘It’s not quite Claridge’s,’ he says quietly, taking in the king-size bed, the pair of chairs set against the window, the dresser, and upholstered chair. I can’t help but wonder if he’s considering their uses for all the wicked things. ‘But it’ll do.’
He’s right; this isn’t a suite in Claridge’s, but it will do. The room is warm after the crisp chill of the autumn night and rich with tactile fabrics in shades of grey and plum. Not that it matters. Especially as I consider I might have gone to at least third base in that grimy alleyway.
I place my clutch down next to his wallet and lean against the dresser. I’m not shy, I don’t think, but I’m not exactly forward. Even when my body literally hums with need.
‘It’s nice.’
‘Nice?
’ Keir gives in to the smile he’s fighting. ‘Is nice what you came here for?’
‘I’m not really sure why I’m here.’ I stretch my legs out, crossing them at the ankles, clasping my hands together in front. To stop them from shaking. To hide how I ache for his touch.
‘Tell the truth and shame the devil.’
‘What?’ My word bubbles with laughter.
‘It’s just another way of sayin’ I don’t believe you, hen. You know why you’re here. Same as me. Because you couldn’t stop thinking of the last time we fucked.’
‘Maybe I just need a little direction.’
A deep burst of laughter breaks free from his chest. ‘Well, aren’t you just the perfect girl.’
Hands still between my legs, I shrug as though unaffected even as his words warm my insides. ‘I try.’
Keir’s eyes roam over me, and just when I think he’s going to tell me to strip, he stalks towards me. His fingers are warm and a little calloused as he takes my hand, encouraging me to stand.
‘I don’t know what I did to deserve seconds,’ he says when we’re toe to toe and he’s twirling a curl that hangs almost to my shoulder. ‘But I’ll admit I’m greedy for it. Greedy for you.’
When he reaches behind me, my eyes fall closed, my every nerve ending alive in anticipation of his first touch. His fingertips brush against the nape of my neck, eliciting a shiver before he begins to expertly pull the pins loose from my hair.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I whisper, my eyes opening to the tilt of his lips.
‘I might’ve,’ he says as he pulls my ponytail holder free without causing me pain. ‘At least once or twice.’ It’s silly, but I don’t want to think about that. At least, not until he says, ‘I can also plait a mean braid.’
A man who learned to braid for his child? Now that must be something to appreciate. Something to swoon a little over even. And a man who can loosen a girl’s updo pain free, only to gather the strands in his fist oh-so gently? Also totally swoon worthy.
