Hard

by Donna Alam

  ‘Attached? Not much. It was a Christmas gift from my PA.’

  ‘Silk? You must pay her well.’

  ‘I do pay him very well. Though he doesn’t know that I know he charged it to the company credit card.’

  ‘Wow!’ The word comes out in a giggle.

  ‘Aye, he’s a cheeky fucker. But that’s Aussies for you.’

  ‘How about we call reception and ask to borrow scissors?’ she says, right at the moment I lower my head and begin biting the knot to loosen it. ‘You’re good with your teeth,’ she says softly. Teeth tearing into the silk knot, I look up at her. ‘I really liked it.’

  Something twists deep in the pit of my gut at the same moment the knot begins to slacken, thankfully, because I’m about to start probing the meaning behind those words. Does she like it because I do? Is she messing with me?

  ‘All done.’ My voice rumbles as I unravel it from her wrists. The silk has left marks. And fuck if they don’t look good.

  ‘You like that,’ she asserts. Running her fingers across her wrists, she flicks her gaze alternately between the marks and my guarded expression. ‘You like looking at your handiwork.’

  No point in hiding it, I decide. Not when she doesn’t appear to be judging. Unlike someone I once knew. Fuck it. I’m acting like a schoolgirl. What’s next? Sending her a note with a request to mark the truth?

  You like being tied  Χ

  You don’t Χ

  ‘Come on. Let’s go get cleaned up and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

  ‘Clean? I think we’ll need bleach and a scrub brush.’

  ‘That’s just charming.’ I chuckle, taking in her expression.

  ‘I’m serious! Do you know how many people have had sex on this comforter?’

  ‘Strangely enough, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ she answers all animated now. ‘We’d need a black light and a forensic team to be able to tell! I’m serious,’ she says as I laugh, dragging her closer to my chest. ‘We’ll be lucky to get away without some kind of skeeve.’

  ‘Skeeve, you say?’ Using my lower body, I buck up into her, the momentum moving her off my lap.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it. A bath.’

  ‘How come you’re free the whole evening?’

  The water sloshes up the side of the large bath as Paisley lifts her hand to move a few damp strands of her hair. Pressed skin to skin—her back to my front—we’re slick from the heat of the water.

  ‘Sorcha has Brownies on Fridays, then she goes to her grandparents for the evening. I won’t see her until I pick her up from her ballet class.’

  ‘So not Agnes—her other grandparents.’

  Though I don’t need to navigate these waters, I decide I will. ‘Agnes isn’t my mother. At least, not by blood. My own mother was a bit of a fuckup in the parenting department.’ As well as a whore. ‘Agnes was a local shopkeeper—she and her husband. Anyway, she kept me right. Kept me fed. Made sure I was safe.’ As safe as anyone can be when they live with a crack whore. ‘When things got really bad, she and Alf, her husband, took me in.’

  ‘Wow.’ She tries to turn, but I’m not ready to let her see my face, so I tighten the band of my arms across her chest, then bury my nose in her hair. How the fuck does she smell like the summer anyway? ‘Agnes and Alf must be very special people.’

  ‘They are—were. Alf died before I finished university. When Sorcha was born, Agnes said she’d come to London to help.’ I inhale deeply. ‘She never went back.’

  ‘But she’s like a grandmother to Sorcha. You can absolutely see that in the photographs you showed me on your phone.’

  Strange that she would see that, yet at the poncy school I pay for Sorcha to go to, the other parents treat her like the hired help. I mean, I do pay her, but mainly to ease at least a little of my guilt. But Agnes doesn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks, least of all a bunch of stuck-up snobs. And so long as she’s got a few pound notes in her wee purse—which she assures me she always has—and her “party money” put aside in her bank account—that’s money she’s put away for her funeral, the morbid bugger—she says she’s just fine.

  ‘So that must mean Sorcha is with her other grandparents.’

  ‘You could be the new Sherlock Holmes.’

  At least my ex’s parents want to maintain contact. We have a prickly relationship, and we don’t often see eye to eye. Although we do have a consensus when it comes to their daughter: we’ve all washed our hands of her. I think a lot of the issues between us stem from their pain. How could they have raised a daughter who was willing to abandon her own child? But I’m sure they also blame me for offering her money in the first place. In my defence, I was hurting—I never in a million years thought she would accept my offer. Friday sleepovers are a relatively new thing. For all of us.

  ‘I’d look good in one of those funny hats—you know—like Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘A deerstalker?’ She nods. ‘You’d look good in a sack.’

  ‘And you are a sweet-talking man.’

  ‘With a gorgeous wet girl in his hands.’

  ‘If wrinkled and prune-y does it for you.’

  ‘You do it for me,’ I reply, tightening my hands. But fuck if that wasn’t a little too much—too much truth. Too heartfelt.

  ‘That was an awfully big sigh.’

  ‘Aye?’ Loosening my hold, I wipe a hand down my damp face. ‘It’s just, I suppose you think you’ve grown—moved on. Think that the universe has no more lessons to give. No more surprises around the corner. Then it throws you curves like this.’ Like magnets, my hands move to the heaviness of her teardrop-shaped tits, and despite my suddenly dour mood, my cock flickers back to life.

  ‘I want to be straight with you.’ I tip my head against the edge of the bath, speaking my truth into the damp air. ‘I know we’ve only met twice, but I haven’t felt like this about anyone in a long time.’ She makes to move again, inhaling as though to speak. ‘But I can’t be with you. Not like you deserve a man to be.’

  ‘That last bit? I think that’s my line,’ she says, sort of laughing. ‘You know, I think I get to decide what’s best for me. Did you forget I just got out of a relationship? We were together three long years. I’m not looking for that right now.’

  ‘Two years? You must’ve been about twenty when you met him.’

  ‘Again with the sweet-talking! I was twenty-six,’ she says. ‘And I’m plenty old enough to decide what’s right for me.’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘But nothing. I like you. And I want to be with you, but not in the way that you’re thinking. Not in the way you’re afraid of.’

  ‘Who says I’m afraid?’ The thought of another relationship is fucking terrifying; not that I need to say it out loud.

  ‘Come on, Keir. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.’ Her hand snakes between us, her fingers giving my cock a swift tug. ‘I like you, you like me, and together, we’re a dynamite fuck.’

  I grunt, pushing up into her hand. Dragging my hands down her body, I push them to the inside of her thighs. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘That’s not what you said earlier.’ Her voice is a soft tease as, from behind, I slide my hands between her thighs. She moans so beautifully, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. There’s such sweet agony in her tone as I press my fingers against the purpling marks of my teeth.

  ‘Do they hurt?’ My voice is hoarse, and the need to hear her answer consuming as I hook my legs around hers to pull them farther apart.

  Her damp hair tickles my chest as she nods. ‘Like the best kind of hurt.’

  ‘Think you’d like me to tie you up again?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Her arms come up out of the water, looping around the back of my head. Thrusting her tits out, she raises her pussy to my touch. Everything drops away as she begins to pant gently as my finger applies pressure to her clit.

  I block ev
erything else out—my fear and feelings and how my base reactions are so wrapped up in this woman I feel like I’m bleeding out. In the heat of the moment and the steam of the room, I somehow convince myself that I can make this work without either of us getting hurt.

  Chapter 17

  PAISLEY

  As much as I didn’t want to, I left Keir that Saturday morning before he awoke even though my body longed for a few more hours of sleep next to him. But he’d made his position more than clear, and I understood. Even though his words stung, they were also a good reminder. Something I needed to hear.

  Since then, there have been other Fridays. Some which have led to lazy hotel Saturday mornings, and others which have ended with one of us creeping out before the morning fully comes to life.

  Like this morning.

  We ate a rare dinner together last night—we usually feed our more pressing hunger before satiating the other much later from the room service menu. But not yesterday. We ate together. Broke bread, drank wine. Talked about everything and nothing before this time. Then later, I watched him sleep. Watched as the dawn peeped through a chink in the heavy drapes, gilding his golden-brown head. Then I dressed in the semi-darkness and crept like a thief from the room.

  Fridays have become my favourite, though they do leave me feeling like I’ve experienced a punishing yoga class come Saturday morning. Just like now. In Chas’s kitchen, I stretch my legs out along the window seat, relishing the aches, each one tied to a sensation or memory from yesterday.

  His dark gaze as I’d peeled him from his jeans.

  His carnal groan as I’d taken his cock between my lips.

  The way he looked as I’d cried when I came the second time.

  In some ways, it seems we were made for the other. Yet I know we can never be more than we are on Fridays, and I’m okay with that. Mostly. Sometimes life is just too hard to force in the direction you most want it to go. It is what it is, and I remind myself of this daily.

  My dad used to say that people came into your life for either a reason, a season, or a lifetime.

  Robin was a learning curve. And in my time with him, I learned. Boy, did I. I moved from one side of the world to the other. Moved from what was familiar to what was almost alien. In the process, I came out of my shell a whole lot. Made what I thought were friends. And I flourished for a while. Later, I learned how resilient I truly am. Learned how my heart had the capacity to heal itself.

  Chastity is in my life for the long haul whether she knows it or not! That girl picked me up, gave me a place to heal, and then a place to live. And later, a reason to get out of bed. I hope I’ll never need to return the favour because I don’t want her ever to go through what I did. Also, I can’t imagine I’d have much to offer her if the tables were turned. Support? Sure. A safe place to fall? Definitely. A swanky pad in Chelsea? Not unless I win lotto. A job? I suppose she could hold my makeup brushes . . .

  But seriously, I’ll always be there for her in whatever capacity she needs.

  And that leaves Keir. He’s my season. One I’d like to think I’ll look back on in fifty years when I’m sitting on my front porch and rocking in my chair. My children will have grown, my grandchildren with them. My husband will no doubt be dead because come on, after birthing and raising our brood of four, I’ll deserve to be the last woman standing. Maybe I’ll be a little like Blanche from the Golden Girls—a little man hungry. Or maybe I’ll be more like sweet like Rose. But whatever kind of senior citizen I turn out to be, I’ll always have my dirty memories.

  ‘You’ve pulled all the strawberries out again?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I turn from the window and the greying clouds that I wasn’t really seeing. ‘I did what?’ I hug my cereal bowl closer to my chest, dropping my feet to the ground as I stretch, then notice the little red lumps rolling from my thigh onto the floor. ‘Damn. Who puts strawberries in granola, anyway? Strawberries are bad enough, but dried?’ The spoon chinks against the china as I push the offensive crumbs into a pile with my foot.

  ‘You’re an odd thing,’ Chas says, sitting next to me. ‘If you don’t like fruit, buy granola with nuts or something.’

  ‘I was trying to be virtuous.’

  ‘That dreamy look on your face tells me you spent last night being anything but.’

  My cheeks heat immediately. ‘Yesterday was Friday.’

  ‘Just call you Captain Obvious, yeah?’ Her mouth twists into a worried little pout. ‘Are you sure he doesn’t have a wife?’

  An arched brow is my only response because, really? Just because my boyfriend cheated on me doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot. I mean, not that I can know for certain, but—fuck it! Now I’m worrying even though I know—just know—that’s not who Keir is. As I glance from the clouds to Chas, she suddenly looks a little contrite.

  ‘Fridays are his day,’ I answer with a short shrug. ‘It keeps things on track. Transparent. It works for me.’ Even though I sometimes long to see him more. Sometimes to the point where I ache for him. Even though we text almost constantly. Check in each morning and last thing at night.

  ‘What happens if you meet someone else? Someone you want to date, not just fuck?’

  ‘Then I’ll date.’

  ‘And so you should. You’ve been seeing Keir for months with no sign of moving on.’

  ‘Six weeks. And I’m hardly throwing my life away.’

  ‘Good, because I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Someone you’d like to meet.’

  ‘I think we already agreed no adult entertainers.’ Not that I have anything against those who work in the sex industry. But there is jealousy. I’m prone to it, so I don’t think I could have a meaningful relationship with someone who screws for a living. Nor with any man who goes gay for pay. ‘Chas, you really should be saving your efforts for your own love life. How can you nag me when you don’t have a boyfriend yourself?’

  ‘I don’t think I could look after a boyfriend,’ she replies. ‘I’m too busy creating a business. Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for the responsibility. I mean, how often do you need to walk a boyfriend? Feed him? That kind of stuff?’

  ‘Har-har.’

  ‘On the other hand, this guy I met—Troy? He’s perfect for you.’

  ‘Troy? His parents named him after a movie?’

  ‘Actually, the name Troy predates Brad Pit. Troy is more ancient. Think of the Iliad.’

  ‘I was teasing you.’ Mostly. Wasn’t there a much older film, too? ‘Tell me, does he at least look like Brad Pitt?’

  ‘Better.’ Her answer is a little too excited. ‘Brad’s heading for his pension while Troy is only thirty, tall, dark, and pretty buff. Plus, he’s got this whole Clark Kent thing going on.’

  My heart sinks. I thought she wasn’t truly serious—that maybe she’d been window shopping at best. But as she begins to animatedly recount a meeting at her bank, I realise how serious she is about this. She’s never met Keir—why would she? Our boundaries dictate that we don’t get involved in each other’s lives. But maybe if she had met him, she’d know why I’m still hanging onto Friday evenings. Because Keir is fun and decent and good. Plus, the filthiest individual I’ve ever met. Seriously. He should be the one running a porn company.

  ‘You’re not even listening, are you?’

  ‘No—I am.’ I duck my head to granola and yoghurt mess. ‘I totally am.’ When she doesn’t speak, I look up. ‘What?’

  ‘You might be fooling him. You might even be fooling yourself. But sweets, you’re not fooling me. This . . . this whole thing is unhealthy.’ She stands, her hands slapping her thighs as she shrugs in a motion of futility. ‘I worry about you. You’re going to get hurt, I just know it. And if he’s as decent as you say he is, you aren’t going to be the only one. So soon after Robin, too.’

  ‘This isn’t the same,’ I say, unable to hold her gaze. ‘Robin and I had a past spanning years. Keir and I . . . well, I suppose what we have at best is a temporary contract.’ Without a gu
arantee.

  Chas’s brow creases, her eyes moving to the gloomy morning beyond the kitchen window. A morning that started so promising.

  ‘Speaking of Robin. Have you heard from him at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’ And no news is good news, as far as I’m concerned.

  ‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange? He chased you for weeks after you left. Flowers, gifts, phone calls. The man was obsessed.’

  ‘I guess having his nose broken was enough to make him stay away. Or maybe the fact that I spent the night with another man was enough to turn him completely off.’

  ‘It’s still strange. It’s like there’s been no closure, don’t you think?’

  ‘I got closure enough when I saw him poke his needle dick in some other chick.’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning for you—that’s a given. I just think it’s strange how he stopped bothering you all of a sudden.’

  On occasion, I get the odd feeling that I’m being watched, but I keep that to myself because voicing those feelings makes me sound like a nut. Besides, I’ve seen evidence of his moving on. Pictures of him coming out of the places we used to frequent. A different girl on his arm as he attends music events.

  ‘Don’t you have a shoot to get ready for? I’m not supposed to be on set today. I’d intended to treat myself to a coffee and maybe mooch around some of the expensive Chelsea boutiques.

  ‘I’m really not looking forward to today.’

  ‘Do you want me to tag along? I don’t mind.’

  ‘You wouldn’t?’ she asks a little cautiously. ‘Only, I’ve booked a couple of rooms at the Bawdy House Hotel. We’re doing this whole bordello scene, and Jackson is only in the UK for a few more days.’

  ‘Sure.’ I don’t have concrete plans. ‘What time are we going?’

  ‘Could you meet me there? Say, around three? There are enough bodies for a hotel room as it is, but it would be really great if you could be there at the end.’

  ‘I can do that,’ I answer, glad that I can help her in some way. ‘I’ve heard their rooms are something else.’

  ‘More four poster beds than you can tie an orgy to.’