Hard

by Donna Alam

  ‘No idea. Somewhere hot. Pack light. I don’t expect you’ll need much more than shorts and a couple of bikinis.’

  ‘How do you know I own a bikini?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asks, pausing in thought as though this might be a possibility.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say as he takes a step backwards. I don’t like the space between us, so I step into him. ‘Have you met me?’

  ‘I have,’ he answers, smiling down at me. ‘You’re trouble, and I like you just fine.’

  Chapter 28

  PAISLEY

  ‘Flynn chose well.’ Keir sighs with contentment. Balancing his pineapple cocktail on the palm of one of his large hands, he digs his toes deeper into the sand. He’s quite a sight, not that he at all notices other woman as they check him out. All those muscles on display. That golden tan and tussled hair.

  He’s right. Flynn did choose well—epically so. The Seychelles has been a wonderful escape in more ways than one. Endless blue skies, golden sands, and blue ocean as far as the eye can see. I haven’t hooked up to the internet once since arriving four days ago, other than to talk briefly with Chastity who, thankfully, had nothing to say about the newspapers, photographers, or exes.

  ‘I hope Flynn is looking after Princess well,’ Sorcha says, looking up from her white sandcastle next to our pillow-festooned daybed. It’s hard to take her slight frown seriously when looking at the painted blue strip of zinc plastered across her nose. She made friends with a family of Australians staying in the same resort, promptly adopting their method of UV protection, which includes a liberal application of multicoloured zinc war paint every day.

  ‘She spoke with you yesterday.’

  ‘Cat’s don’t speak, silly.’ Sorcha sighs. ‘And she was more interested in playing with Flynn and that mouse on a piece of string.’

  ‘True, cats aren’t big on FaceTime,’ I say, hoping to reassure her. ‘And Flynn is just entertaining her until you get back. You’re her person, Sorcha. Flynn is just the cat sitter. She won’t forget you.’

  Somewhat placated, she returns to her bucket and spade.

  ‘It’s almost time for an afternoon siesta.’ Keir peers over the top of his pineapple, his eyes green and full of mischief in the light.

  ‘Any more of those,’ I reply, peering over my sunglasses balanced on the end of my nose, ‘and sleeping is all you’ll be doing.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’

  ‘Why? What else have you been doing?’ asks Sorcha, her head popping up over the bed again. I need to remember to engage my brain before my mouth when she’s around. She really doesn’t miss a thing, which has made for some interesting conversations. ‘Because Agnes says siesta is sleeping time, and if I don’t sleep, I can’t stay up late.’

  ‘Agnes is right.’ Keir leans back against the pillows, his eyes falling closed as though that’s the end of the matter. Or maybe it’s just his version of playing dead.

  ‘Yes, but what have you been doing?’ she persists. ‘If Paisley says you’ll go to sleep after too many pineapple rums, that must mean you haven’t been sleeping when I go for a nap.’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ Keir replies, opening his eyes again. ‘I’ve got trouble to take care of . . . while Paisley’s in bed. Take yesterday, for example. She lay very, very still . . . ’ Mainly because I was tied to the bed, arms above my head and my ankles secured to the edges. ‘While I worked hard. Very, very hard, trying not to make any noise.’

  His gaze slides to mine, and I shiver, a whole body kind of affair as I recall the silken feel of the rope strapping me down. The feather-light touches of his fingers and mouth. As for a lack of noise, that’s true. He promised to make me come until I couldn’t breathe. And he did. Though I’m pretty sure I screamed my release when he eventually slid into me.

  It’s definitely a good thing Sorcha and Agnes are staying in the hotel. Meanwhile, Keir and I have a villa at the edge of the resort. A beautiful place—all teak wood, thatched roofing, and billowing white cotton. Best of all, there are views of the Indian Ocean from three sides of the building. The infinity pool, the bathtub, and the veranda. And we’ve made love on them all. Because even when we’re fucking, Keir makes love to me. With his eyes. With his hands. It seems so much more since our vacation began.

  But I can’t get carried away. This isn’t reality, but a break from it. Besides, he hasn’t mentioned marriage again. And why would he? whispers a voice in my head.

  ‘Daddy, why are you looking at Paisley like you’re trying to steal the thoughts from her head?’

  ‘Am I?’ He immediately adopts a blank expression. Meanwhile, I grasp my own cocktail to snigger behind. ‘I was just thinking of all the hard work I’ll be doing when you’re sleeping this afternoon. That’s the problem with trouble, you see,’ he says, all rumbly and sexual. ‘It needs managing.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not just having sex?’

  I inhale, choke a little, and sneeze a little mai tai from my nose. ‘Oh, that burns,’ I complain, holding the cocktail napkin to my nostrils.

  ‘I-I beg your pardon, young lady,’ Keir splutters, adopting the tone of someone’s elderly maiden aunt. Back in 1870, maybe.

  ‘S-E-X,’ she returns, spelling it out oh-so helpfully. ‘Toby says you can only have sex when you’re married, but I told him that Tiger Blossom’s daddy has had sex with both her mummy and her nanny. That’s why she’s getting two baby brothers next year. And a divorce.’ She taps her finger to her lip, considering something for a moment. ‘But maybe Toby is right because, technically, Tiger’s daddy is married. What do you think, Daddy?’

  ‘What?’ His word hits the air quite aggressively, sounding more like whit? ‘I think you shouldn’t be thinking about sex,’ he answers decisively. ‘And I think I might need to go have a wee talk to Tiger Blossom’s dad.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait until he comes back from rehab,’ she says, sifting sugar-like sand through her fingers. Meanwhile, Keir looks like his temper is about to eject his head.

  ‘Sorcha, do you know what rehab is?’ I ask, keeping my tone even.

  ‘Tiger’s mummy says it’s currently a means of keeping him from being served.’ I’ll bet.

  ‘And what about sex?’ I ask, evenly. ‘Do you know what sex is?’

  ‘Well, duh,’ she answers, suddenly looking back at me as though I’ve grown another head. And a dumb one at that. ‘It’s what makes b-a-b-i-e-s,’ she says, spelling it out helpfully. ‘The mummy and daddy do some round kisses like they do on TV.’ She turns her back to us both, crossing her hands over her chest, her fingers appearing at her shoulders as she mimes cuddling. Then she begins tilting her head side to side like a cat watching a washing machine, adding kissy noises for effect.

  ‘See,’ she says, turning back. ‘Then two years later, a baby comes along.’

  ‘I must be doing something wrong,’ Keir mumbles.

  I slide him a confused look; doing something wrong with regards to his parenting, or his virility?

  ‘Of course, you’re doing something wrong,’ she replies, jumping up and placing her hands on her hips. ‘You’re not married, so you can’t have any babies.’

  ‘Aye, but I’ve got you,’ he answers reasonably.

  ‘And who have I got? Princess kitty, that’s who. Come on, Dad, I need some sliblings.’ I try not to laugh and don’t correct her. That would be wrong. ‘Someone I can teach ballet to,’ she continues, pirouetting and kicking up sand onto my legs.

  ‘Oh, Agnes is coming!’ Sorcha suddenly begins jumping and waving, trying to catch the older woman’s attention, and in doing so, she kicks up even more sand. ‘She promised to take me to book a trip on the glass bottomed boat to see the fish.’

  ‘Come on, hen. Watch what you’re doing,’ Keir says, holding up his drink to protect it from the spray.

  ‘See what I mean,’ she answers, her words filled with the pique of a teen. ‘I need someone else for him to pick on. He’s only got me. I think you should marry hi
m,’ she says, throwing the words at me as an afterthought—as though her father is some issue to take off her hands. She goes to run off in the direction of Agnes when Keir catches her wrist.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘No, silly.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m trying to get some baby brothers. And I like Paisley.’ Her gaze slides to mine. ‘She’s nice, and she’s pretty, and she can teach me to do makeup when I’m big. So I think you should marry her,’ she says, nodding her head. ‘And then have sex with her without any condoms so I can get those baby brothers!’

  She scampers off, leaving us both stunned and mute. We don’t speak—not for minutes, at least. How awkward.

  Then Keir turns to me with a sly sort of smile. ‘How about we go back to the villa and get a head start on that?’

  ‘Which that? The marriage or the babies?’ I purposely leave sex off the table. Or something.

  ‘We could practise the baby making bit. I’m not ready for babies right now. But I’d be up for plenty of baby making practise.’

  I’m suddenly and irrationally annoyed. Why? Probably because he said he’d marry me and then never mentioned it again. And I know how ridiculous my anger sounds, especially as he was already on his knees at that point in Chas’s kitchen. His offer was well meant but ridiculous—a reaction to my call from the immigration department, that’s all. Because Keir is a good man. A kind man.

  Which all just serves to remind me how ridiculous my anger is. I’ll probably return to London from this vacation to an angry immigration official who’ll confiscate my passport. I’ll be lucky if I’m given time to pack before being escorted to a flight to the States—probably with a guard and a prison jumpsuit.

  And these hips weren’t built for stripes.

  As Keir reaches out and strokes my arm with the backs of his fingers, tears prick behind my sunglasses. I love him. I think I knew before we even arrived on Mahé Island. I just couldn’t admit it to myself.

  ‘What would you say to a little afternoon delight?’ he asks, his tone dripping with innuendo and suggestion, unaware of the knots my insides are currently tying themselves in.

  On instinct, I decide to stay in the moment. We no longer have an infinite number of those ahead of us.

  ‘To a little afternoon delight, I might say he-llooo.’

  He chuckles at my answer—part sexy, part silly, but all yes.

  ‘Oh, trouble,’ he says, smiling as he stands. He holds out his hand, helping me to my feet. But what I don’t anticipate is when he throws me over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, don’t! Put me down, Keir!’ I begin pummelling his back, giggling like a schoolgirl as the blood rushes to my head.

  ‘You know,’ he says, jogging away as I bounce upside down, ‘I don’t think I will.’

  But when I begin to pull down his shorts, he does.

  The drapes blow in the afternoon breeze as Keir wraps his arm around my waist, kicking the door to the villa closed. He gathers my hair and pushes it over my shoulder, his fingers teasing the skin as he slips my beach cover-up from one shoulder, then the next.

  ‘Keir,’ I whisper, pulling free from his arm. The villa is set high in the bay, but the whole place is open right now—the shutters pulled wide—exposing the interior to the elements. And to potential eyes.

  I step from the pool of gauzy fabric, placing my sunglasses on the table, then make my way to the shutters with the intent of closing them.

  ‘Leave them.’ His voice is one of absolute authority as, from behind, his fingers stroke my spine as he toys with the string tie of my orange bikini, before pulling the knot loose.

  ‘People will see.’ I turn my head over my shoulder, even as I let my bikini top fall. As it drops to the floor, I cover my breasts with my hands as I turn.

  ‘You are so fucking sexy.’ Keir draws the words and his compliment out, his body so tanned and so strong, his gaze igniting my skin. Electricity pulses between us in short bursts, like an understanding or an acceptance of what this moment means.

  Because these moments mean everything.

  My breath hitches as he steps towards me, hooking his thumbs in the sides of my bikini bottoms and dragging them down my legs until I’m standing before him bare and shivering, every inch of my body aching with need. His hand begins to stroke and touch, to squeeze and hold like he doesn’t believe I’m here—that I’m real. Like he can’t quite get enough. His eyes intent on mine, he splays my fingers farther, exposing my nipples to the warm air. He looks unholy, wicked, and all kinds of delicious and wrong as he begins to tease between the V with the point of his tongue. My nipple stiffens, and I throw my head back, the echo of the sensation beating between my legs.

  ‘I want you,’ he whispers. ‘All the time and everywhere. But right now, I want you on your knees because I’m going to eat you out.’

  This man owns me—owns me with his dirty promises. Owns me with his body. In less than a moment, I’m there, on the bed, my hair splayed out against the comforter, the embroidery tantalising my nipples as he spreads my thighs farther apart.

  ‘Fuck, what a sight. I love this arse,’ he growls, his hands kneading and touching my flesh roughly. He slaps each cheek—once, twice—an absolute first, causing my breath to catch in my throat with a gasp that’s electrified.

  ‘You like that, darlin’.’ It’s not a question, but a proclamation as I push myself up on my palms. Push myself farther into his hands.

  His fingers stroke my cheeks, slipping to where I’m wet. When he pushes two fingers inside, I cry out, arching my back and impaling myself on his hand. In seconds, I’m writhing and whimpering as his fingers work me into a frenzy. And I’m glad—glad for the distraction. Glad of the release building in intensity inside me. I’m not thinking about the window. I’m not thinking about what awaits us back at home. There is only this. Keir and me. And our ecstasy. Our unspoken love.

  His fingers slide from my pussy, his voice part groan, part wonder. ‘You’re so slippery, darlin’.’ Covering my body with his, he rubs the evidence between his glistening fingers and thumb in front of my face. ‘So wet. Just for me.’

  ‘Yes!’ Just for him. And only for him.

  He pulls back, and with a rustle of fabric, he hooks his forearm under me, adjusting my position at the edge of the bed. Then, with a groan of pure masculine appreciation, his tongue slips between my legs. I cry out, the sensation of this one swipe enough to turn my legs to Jell-O. To make my entire body ache for him. One lick and I’m done for, sobbing as my fingertips ball in the bedding, but I’m unprepared for the sensation as he buries his face between my legs.

  As he works me with his tongue—with his fingers—as he savours me like I’m a banquet and he’s a starving man, he murmurs to me.

  He tells me how much he wants me.

  How beautiful I am.

  How delicious I taste on his tongue.

  How he could drown in me.

  His words and his body drive me to the brink of insanity. I’m so desperate to touch him, my hands grasping and groping blindly for him. I want him—all of him. Harder, faster—I want him more than I can remember ever wanting anything.

  ‘Keir, please,’ I pant, ‘please.’

  ‘You want somethin’, darlin’?’ His words are puffs of air against my skin, mere wisps swallowed by his seeking tongue.

  ‘I need, need, need you.’ I chant a litany of pleasure as the sensation builds between my legs, white hot and blinding but just beyond my reach.

  In a spark of realisation, I slide my hands between my legs to touch my clit. Or at least, I would, if Keir didn’t grab my wrists—first one, then the other—pulling them to the small of my back.

  ‘That’s cheating.’ He chuckles, wrapping my wrists in his hand.

  ‘You didn’t think so last night,’ I retort. Turning my head, I attempt to blow the hair away that’s covering my mouth.

  ‘Last night I asked you to—for both our pleasure. Today, I’m telli
ng you not to. For mine.’

  If I had a response, its stolen from my tongue as he suddenly slicks the head of his cock between my legs. My breath hitches and my body stills, filled with the anticipation in the moment.

  ‘And I own this body.’ He slides himself along my wet seam, bumping my swollen clit. I whimper or cry, I’m not sure which. ‘That sounded like an agreement,’ he purrs, his tone full of satisfaction, but with an edge of something that sounds like desperation. A desperation I understand.

  The flickering of my orgasm is quick to rise again, my mind woolly, my skin hot and tight as I rock back against him, as though the desire to have him fill me is enough to make the sensation reality. But as is often the way with Keir, he anticipates my actions.

  ‘Greedy girl.’ His hot skin covers me as he kisses my cheek. Bites the soft skin of my neck. My wrists still in hand, we’re pressed skin to skin, his cock rubs and tantalises, just a fraction from where I need him to be.

  ‘Greedy because you make me.’

  ‘And I love to hear you beg,’ he agrees. ‘Come on, darlin’. Do it . . . for me. Tell me what you need.’ He pulls back, kissing his way down my spine, decorating my back and sides with licks and sucking bites. And as he reaches my hands, he sucks my fingers, bites the knuckles. Flicks his tongue between the flesh of the soft V.

  Before Keir, I would never have thought of these things as sexy, but as he tongues between my fingers, all I can see is his wicked gaze between my thighs. And as he sucks and bites, I can only revel in the possession of the moment. His possession of me. I don’t realise I’m speaking—chanting—until he pulls away, balancing the head of his cock right where I need him.

  ‘That’s it, trouble. I know it. I know you need me. I just need to hear how much.’

  ‘God, Keir.’ My whimper sounds desperately but I just don’t care. ‘I need you so much. I need you inside me more than I need air.’ And right now, it’s true. I can barely breathe for the anticipation of the feel of him.

  ‘I own you. Say it,’ he demands. I twist my head back to look at him. The sun streaming through the drapes casts his hard body in bronze. But this is no statue. His body was made to fit mine and for as long as I can have him, I will.