by Donna Alam
Chapter 21
KEIR
‘God, I’m hungry.’ Splayed out across my chest, Paisley’s dark mane fans out to under my chin. We’re still in bed, which is perfect, with my head propped on the lone pillow left on the bed. Her body lies width ways across the mattress, her toes dangling over the edge.
‘I thought you were dead.’ My voice sounds raspy and feels sort of hoarse. And I’ve lost count of the times and ways we’ve fucked.
‘You killed me, but my ravenous appetite brought me back.’
‘I’ll say you’re ravenous.’
‘Only for you, babe.’ And doesn’t that tiny term of endearment hit me like a poke to the chest. A good kind of poke. The kind that leaves me smiling, at least.
‘Come on.’ Her face is above mine suddenly, her teardrop tits swaying closer as she kisses my nose. ‘Feed me.’
As she moves away, I push up onto my elbows, sending thanks heavenward as she bends over, blessing me with the sight of her bare arse. It’s short lived as she steps into her knickers and begins sliding them over her knees.
‘I wasn’t joking.’ She turns her head over her shoulder, then resumes looking for her bra, I think. ‘I need food.’
‘Come over here. I’ll feed you.’
‘I need sustenance,’ she says, laughing. ‘Real food. Bread. Cheese. I’d even go for fruit at this point.’
‘You don’t like fruit?’
‘I like bread, cheese, nuts. Crackers. Fruit is like . . . I don’t know. Something I push off the top of my cheesecake.’
‘I remember,’ I say suddenly, pushing myself up to sit at the edge of the bed. ‘That day in the coffee shop. You left the strawberry on your plate.’
‘You noticed that, huh?’ She smiles with a delighted kind of shyness.
‘I notice lots of things. Like how when you’re creeping out of the hotel room, you can never seem to find one of your shoes.’
‘I know!’ she agrees, animatedly. ‘I think someone put a hex on me years ago! I can literally never find a pair of shoes when I need them! Even in a hotel room where I only have two of the damn things. And now, it seems, I can’t find my bra.’
‘That must be Keir magic,’ I reply with a wink. She bites back her smile as I continue to speak. ‘Because I know you’re the kind of girl who always wears matching underwear.’
‘Maybe I only wear matching when I know I’m meeting you?’
‘Not true, trouble.’ I hold out my hand, and she comes to me, straddling my legs, settling herself lower and purposely rubbing her pussy against me.
‘This I need to hear.’ Her tone teases. ‘Come on, baby. Psychoanalyse me.’
‘You’re always put together gorgeously. And the very first day we met, I was the lucky recipient of a flash of your underwear.’ And then yesterday . . . not even gonna think about yesterday right now. About Troy. About matching underwear. Because that’s not what that was. I’m also gonna keep my eyes on her face, no matter what it takes. ‘I reckon you’ve got a deep-seated fear of being knocked over by a bus. What would the paramedics think if you were a mess of polka dots and flowers?’
‘You’re so silly,’ she says, running her fingers through my hair. Her cheeks heat as though remembering something dirty. And yep, I still manage to keep my gaze above her neck.
This girl. This bloody girl.
‘Your underwear matches your outerwear. You’re always pulled together. Co-ordinating shoes and outfit. Perfectly applied makeup. Deliciously matched underwear. And your insides,’ I say, placing my palm over her heart, ‘are as darling as your looks.’ To stop myself from embarrassing us both, I give her lips a quick peck, and as I stand, I slide her feet to the floor. ‘Come on, trouble. Let me show you some fruit you’ll love.’
In the kitchen, Paisley takes a seat at the breakfast bar, eyeing the large dish of well-polished fruit between us.
‘It all looks plastic.’ She grasps a shining red apple, turning it in fingers. ‘Or painted.’
‘It’s organic fruit, but Agnes still likes to wash the fuck out of it once it’s delivered. She used to seem content to let me pick the apples straight from her garden when I was a lad, but woe betide anyone who feed Sorcha an unwashed pear.’ Come to think of it, she used to let me steal the apples because I wasn’t getting enough food at home.
‘She must love Sorcha very much.’ Paisley’s voice pulls me from my dark thoughts.
‘Aye, she does that.’
‘So where are they today that you can walk around your house, flashing your hotness around while tempting random passing girls?’
I can barely recall the last time I walked around in the semi-buff. And I definitely can’t remember the last time a girl wore one of my shirts. And very little else. Sleeves rolled, the hem hits mid-thigh, so it’s not super revealing. But there’s just something about seeing a hot girl wearing your things. Whether it’s a territorial thing, or maybe because it signifies we’ve already had our clothes off, I don’t know. All I can say is that it’s as sexy as fuck.
‘I’m only interested in tempting one girl. She’s trouble enough.’ I send her a flirty wink. ‘And today is one of those very rare Saturdays. I’m sure Agnes will be in her wee cottage at the back of the house, and I don’t have to pick up Sorcha until this afternoon. We’ve got hours and hours yet.’
‘You make it sound like you have plans.’
‘Oh, I do, trouble. Lots and lots of plan. Starting with your fruit education.’
Her shoulders slump. ‘The other F-word.’
‘Come on.’ I curl my fingers, beckoning her into the kitchen. When she’s in front of me, I back her up against one of the countertops, leaving her momentarily to open the freezer.
‘If it’s the ice cream kind of fruit, I’m down with that. Especially if it’s, say, fudge brownie or chocolate.’
‘There must be some very peculiar fruit and veg shops in the US.’ From the corner of my eye, I can see Paisley straining to view the contents of the dish I pull from the deep freeze. It’s pretty pointless. The thing has a lid, and I’m all about the surprise right now.
‘Fruit and veg? Those are some strange words you’re throwing about.’
‘Don’t tell me you refuse to eat vegetables, too.’ I stop in front of her, placing my hand on her shoulder. ‘Do you have something to tell me? Are you eight years old?’
‘Cute,’ she says. ‘I eat vegetables. I just don’t like fruit.’
‘You’re gonna like this fruit.’ The cold bowl chinks as I place it on the countertop, just behind her. ‘Trust me.’
‘That right there is a very wolfish smile. What are you up to?’
‘Do you trust me?’
She moves her head to one side, then the other as though contemplating before answering with a simple, ‘Yes.’
So I get to work, loosening the buttons of my shirt from the bottom up.
‘It might be a good time to point out that, a, I haven’t showered and, b, that I’m a little sore at his point.’
I bite back the beginnings of a smile as I spread the sides of the white cotton, drinking in the sight of her pale pink knickers and bare skin. I place my palm over her breastbone, the tanned skin of my hand a sharp contrast to the pale colour of her skin and in my shirt. Her heart beats steadily, her eyes darkening as though a little drugged. A little lust drunk.
‘Slide down your knickers.’ Without a word of protest, she slips her thumbs into the sides, slipping them partway down her thighs. ‘That’s enough.’ If she takes them off, this might not go the way I plan.
I inhale deeply because I can smell her. Smell the remains of her lingering floral perfume. Smell the evidence of our night.
‘Do you have any idea how you look right now?’
She laughs huskily. ‘Probably pretty ridiculous.’
‘Wrong, trouble. So wrong,’ I say, taking her hands and curling them around the edge of the countertop. ‘Now, close your eyes and don’t let go.’ As she does as I ask, I
lean behind her and take the top off the bowl, lifting out a piece of frozen ruby red fruit. ‘No peeking,’ I whisper, rolling the frozen grape over her nipple.
‘That’s . . . ’ Her whole body stiffens. ‘That’s so cold.’ Without a reply, I roll the grape over her other nipple, taking the first hardened bud into my mouth.
‘Keir!’ Her whole demeanour is conflicted. Hot and wet, cold and a little torturous, she doesn’t know how to react, though I sense she’s about to lift her hands.
‘No cheating. No peeking and no moving your hands.’ I pop the grape between my teeth, reaching around her and grabbing another from the bowl. This time, I press the coldness against both nipples at the same time. Paisley hums her appreciation—pants a little as I ghost my mouth over hers.
‘Want a taste?’ She nods, and I burst the grape with my teeth, kissing her, feeding her the cold sweetness from my tongue. . . . as I swap the warmed grape in my hand for a colder one.
‘That’s not too bad.’ Eyes still closed, Paisley smiles to herself as she chews, and all I can think is how beautiful this all is. This time, we’re getting together. The things we’re discovering. The unexpected joy in each moment.
As I trail the new frozen grape the length of her body, she whimpers a little.
Moans as I trail it over her pussy.
Gasps as I part her lips.
Cries out as I press it to her clit.
Rub. Glide. Slide.
I press my mouth to hers. Kiss her. Suck her tongue. Lick the sweetness from the seam of her lips. Trail my cold fingers all over her heated skin.
‘More,’ she whispers as I pull my fingers away.
‘Greedy.’ Chastisement or delight? Definitely the latter, but she’s sore. So I won’t do what I want to do. What I long to do.
‘Touch me,’ she says, rocking against my fingers and the cool grape. When I don’t answer, her eyes flutter open. ‘Please.’
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I pull the grape from between her legs. Her breath halts as I paint her arousal over her lips. She’s smiling a lazy half smile, her lips shiny and wet. I want to devour her—bend her over the worktop and make her beg. But this morning is more than that. She’s more than that, I think, as I pop the grape into my mouth, splitting it between my molars to feed her again. She whimpers so beautifully; her chest heaves between us, and the sound of her need echoes through the room. I can almost taste it, and it’s such a sweet agony.
I press my lips to hers in a passionate kiss. The earthy salt of her and the sweetness of the grape, her soft cries and how she tries to press her body against me are satisfactions of the sweetest kind. My heart swells, my cock like a pole between us, rock hard for my little deviant.
‘Here endeth the fruit lesson.’ I pull her panties back up her thighs, unable to conceal my smirk as I pull away, reminding myself that I’m trying to be good. Even if she isn’t.
‘Fruit lessons, huh?’ Before I can answer, she has the bowl gripped to her chest and is flicking the little frozen cannonballs at my head.
‘Oh! Fuck! You’ll put someone’s eye out!’
‘I know something else that’d put someone’s eye out,’ she taunts, her gaze on my dick, tenting in the soft cotton of my shorts. ‘But nooo,’ she taunts. ‘Instead, someone’s being a big. Fat. Tease!’
She punctuates her words with grapes pinging off my thighs. Gives a whole new meaning to grapeshot. And, ‘Fuck!’ her aim is good, and her tits bounce so perfectly as she moves. ‘Ow, watch out!’ I round the breakfast bar as she continues to hammer me with grapes.
‘You’re running scared!’ She giggles delightedly, following me to the other side of the room.
‘I most certainly am. I might never father a child again—not if you catch me wi’ one or two well-aimed grapes.’
‘You can see yourself having more kids?’ she asks, suddenly halting and momentarily lowering the bowl.
‘I could,’ I answer, realising this is absolutely true. I don’t think the thought ever occurred to me before now but, ‘Yeah.’ Which can only mean . . .
I lunge and grab the bowl from her hand, grapes rolling everywhere.
‘Not so brave now.’ For each step she takes back, I take one forward, the threat in my words and my smile wickedly wide.
‘Oh, no.’ Her eyes widen comically. ‘Whatever will I do?’
‘Well, I was trying to be nice, given you’re a wee bit sore. But now? Now you’ve had it.’
‘Not yet, I haven’t.’ She squeals, feigning left, then dashing in the direction of the laundry room. ‘Stop with the maniacal laughter.’ She giggles over her shoulder.
As I round the corner behind her, she realises her error.
‘Damn. You caught me. I surrender.’ Her words are husky and honeyed, her eyes burning bright. And never were sweeter words spoken as I push her against the dryer, hook my hand under her knee to slide her thigh over my hip, before kissing her for all I’m worth.
‘Keir. Keir, listen.’
But I don’t want to, lost to her lips, grinding up against her like a kid with his first hard-on. Until I hear the pitter-pat of skipping feet.
‘Daddy? What are you doing in the laundry room?’
I freeze—turn to stone. Sorcha’s never seen me with a woman. Not in the romantic sense and certainly not like this—half undressed and rubbing up against one another.
We spring apart, Paisley hurriedly working the buttons of my shirt closed. Meanwhile, I grab a bath towel from the pile on the worktop and wrap it around my waist.
‘She’s not supposed to be here,’ I whisper-hiss; my panic-stricken expression reflected in Paisley’s gaze. She looks kind of worried, too. Until I start to frantically look around me as though I could hide her somewhere.
‘There’s no way you’re getting me to climb into the dryer,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘And I’m pretty sure that’s the start of a cult horror movie.’
‘What’s a cult?’ says a little voice from behind. ‘Who are you?’
‘That’s not how you’re supposed to introduce yourself.’ I’m surprised when my tone sounds completely even. Normal, in fact.
I turn to Paisley as she rolls her lips inward, and I know what she’s thinking; it’s probably not the height of manners to be half dressed for a first meeting, either. With a comic widening of her eyes, she steps around me, holding out her hand to my daughter.
‘Hi, Sorcha. I’m Paisley. Your dad and I are friends. He’s told me so much about you.’
Over Paisley’s shoulder, I watch Sorcha’s gaze travel up then down, her face scrunched a wee bit as she tries to work out what’s going on. ‘Okay.’
‘Daddy, what were you doing?’
‘Well, I was . . . I was . . . ’ Chasing Paisley through the house with the intention of fucking her everywhere is not the answer.
‘What are you doing in the laundry room? Agnes says you didn’t even know we had one.’ Paisley laughs, smothering it quickly. ‘Have you been having a sleepover?’ Before I can deny it, she bulldozes on. ‘I went upstairs to look for you first. There were lady’s clothes on the floor.’
I try to read what she’s saying between the lines but can’t find any hidden meaning there. Hair band in her hand—they usually spend more time there than on her head—her long wavy hair falls from her shoulders, shining bright in the light. At least as bright as the sequins on her t-shirt. Sequined seahorses. That’s the latest fashion statement. A denim skirt, thick grey tights and pink boots that Agnes says look like she should be working on a building site.
‘Clothes?’ I begin. ‘Aye, well, they would be—’
‘Mine,’ Paisley interjects. ‘They would be mine. Because . . . because it was too late to get the bus home.’
A look passes over my daughter’s expression. One that says, I’m a child, not daft.
‘Tiger Blossom from school, her mum and dad are getting a divorce. She says her daddy has lots of sleepovers with ladies. Her daddy is a singer in one of the old
-fashioned rock bands’—of course, he is. From all the way back in 2010, I’ll bet—‘and his assistant quit because she said it wasn’t in her job description to clean up the condoms.’ Sorcha doesn’t even come up for breath. ‘Condoms are things that stop people from having babies. But Tiger says her daddy can’t be using them right ’cause her mum just told her she’s pregnant.’
I don’t have an answer. Probably something to do with the fact that my jaw has unhinged and hit the floor. I pay a fortune for her to go to that school, and this is the stuff she’s learning? That’s just . . . effed in the a, to coin an expression.
‘So what are you doing in the laundry room?’ she asks, her cool blue gaze flicking back and forth between us.
‘The . . . here?’ I point at the tiled floor, stalling for time. ‘What are you doing in the laundry room?’ Yes, I know. I sound about twelve years old. I can tell as, beside me, Paisley smothers a smile.
‘Ballet was cancelled, so Agnes came to collect me. Also, I was looking for you. Also, I was looking for the cat food.’
‘But we don’t have a cat.’ I feel my brows lower. ‘So we shouldn’t have any cat food. Anywhere.’
‘I’ve been buying cat things with my pocket money,’ Sorcha answers sheepishly, pulling open the cupboard under the sink. As she does so, it seems as though an entire pet shop falls out. ‘Damn and buggery.’
‘Hey. That’s not the kind of language we use in this house.’
‘No, it’s not,’ she agrees straightening. ‘I’ve heard you say much worse things.’
‘When?’ I can’t believe I’m arguing with her. In the laundry. About . . . swearing? Standing in the laundry . . . with a half naked Paisley.
‘On the phone to Uncle Mac. Or Uncle Will. Sometimes to Flynn.’
And I can’t believe I’m being played. She’s guilting me about swearing to distract me from—
