by Alam, Donna
We all lie. It’s a fact of life, and a one-night stand doesn’t owe you anything, much less honesty. So why does it feel like I’ve just been sucker punched?
‘Yeah, so I’m Fin.’ She tips her chin, raising her arms to cross them, halting mid-motion. She slides them down her backside as though expecting to find pockets there. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never given a girl a false name.’
‘Hand on heart,’ I reply solemnly. ‘I never have.’ And that’s the truth.
‘Really?’ Her tone drips with scepticism. ‘I find that very hard to believe.’
‘I also have the decency to hang around until morning. I don’t creep out during the wee hours.’ Her cheeks, already pink from the wind, turn a satisfyingly deep red. ‘Touch a raw nerve there, did I?’
‘I don’t . . . I never . . .’
‘Let’s just call it even, yeah?’
She nods and holds out her hand. ‘Finola Rosalie Hayes.’
‘That’s some name. Did your parent’s not like you, Finola Rose? Or maybe you were just an ugly bairn?’
No idea where that sprung from; so much for calling it even. And if she was an ugly baby, she definitely blossomed into nothing short of beautiful. She’s stunning even in anger, and there aren’t a lot of women that can pull that off, or so I’ve found. Contrary to popular belief, not all women are hot when enraged. It’s an emotion that twists more than just the mind. Not Rose—Fin , though. The way she looks as she straightens is almost imperious as she pushes the wind-whipped strands from her cheek like she can’t believe they’d dare be anything but perfectly behaved.
She’s so fucking hot.
But all of this, I know, pales as to the way she looks when she comes.
Like it’s something new. Something unexplored. Like something I want to see again.
‘It’s Fin,’ she says coldly, ignoring my childish taunts and retracting any semblance of embarrassment or regret. ‘You say we have a meeting scheduled? I think you must be mistaken, unless . . .’ And then it’s her turn to appraise me, though maybe not as hungrily. I get the impression she’s trying to place who I might be. ‘You—you’re not from the office in London, are you?’
‘Nope.’ My answer is immediate. She’s not the only one who can lie. I’m hardly dressed for the office, not suited and booted as I usually spend my days; I can be whoever I want. And right now I want to be the man who gets inside her knickers within the next few hours. It’s not like she’s going to be with the company long term; she’s not an employee . . . technically. No, definitely not. This situation’s nothing like Anna. For a start, we won’t be working out of the same office. Second, she’ll only be with us a matter of weeks. Third, we’ve done the dirty deed already. Isn’t life grand!
Hear that, Kit? Thinking with my big head, not the little one, like you said.
‘Then do you mind telling me why you’re here?’
Again with the superior tone. I’d like to hear her try to keep that up while she’s riding my face.
‘Sure,’ I answer smoothly. ‘But why don’t we discuss it over a brew?’
She hesitates, clearly conflicted. So I smile blandly. Sure, she’s ballsy, but that could be to mask her discomfort. We’ve screwed, but she doesn’t know me from Adam and she’s here, alone on a secluded beach, with me. She has every right to be concerned.
‘You know, the only thing I could murder right now is a cuppa.’ She laughs, her hand moving quickly to smother both it and her smile. ‘I’ve been working on a job miles away and have come straight from there. Offer me something wet and warm—’ Sorry, absolutely not. Not one jot, and also not able to keep a straight face at the sight of hers right now. Talk about scandalized . ‘—then maybe you can show me around.’
‘Show you?’ Her stunned gaze swipes over me once more.
‘You mean they haven’t told you? I’m here to play with some of your more delicate stuff.’
‘Delicate—’
‘Needs versus wants. I’m very much a hands on man and definitely what you’d call an expert.’
‘You—you’re—’
‘Here to look at the gardens. Did I not say?’
God loves a chancer, or so my granny is wont to say.
Twenty-Two
Fin
He’s got the arms for it, I suppose. Do gardeners have big arms, or is that some kind of porn-workman-genre thing? Because arm porn, if it isn’t a thing, it surely should be. And he’d make a fortune.
He’s so big. And masculine. And that ass. Wonder how many squats it takes to get an ass that firm?
I’m so screwed.
And I was so sure this day couldn’t get any worse.
I’d woken this morning from another watery nightmare, arms flailing and saltwater stinging the back of my throat. Only this time it was different; different as in worse. This time, Marcus was there. Marcus and his PA—as in personal ass-piece—had stood on the deck of his yacht, laughing as I’d struggled against the current, my legs growing heavy under the effort of staying afloat. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist, anchoring himself before he’d used his boot to push my head under, ignoring my begging and desperate cries for help.
It was only a dream, I know, but the echo of it had followed me all day. I’d wanted to end it—the day, not my life—draw a line under my marriage once and for all. I needed something symbolic; some way to take my power back and it seemed I’d decided just how.
I’d stopped wearing my wedding ring, regarding it as a sign of my own stupidity, one I’d kept in the bottom of my make-up bag. But yet not fifteen minutes ago, the baguette-cut diamonds had glittered in their platinum band, weighty and solid as always, though this time not on my hand, but rather in. I’d stood on the freezing cold shoreline, contemplating the level of cliché of pitching it in.
Because, yep, that was my big gesture. Cure all ills.
A more sensible plan would’ve been to sell it—I’m sure I could’ve lived off the proceeds for a year or more—but it seemed I wasn’t feeling so sensible. Either then or now. A sensible person would’ve at least remembered to pick up her jacket before dashing out. I’d gone as far as to raise my hand when I’d noticed the pale circle of skin where the ring once sat, memories rising like mist from the ocean. Though not those of Marcus. No, my body had heated and tingled in all the wrong places as I’d recalled the best bad idea I’ve ever had.
Twice .
Warming rapidly, I’d lowered my hand as tiny sparks of awareness began plucking at the edges of my focus. I’d turned, not truly expecting anything, and yet, there he’d stood. Rory. Like I’d conjured all six foot something of him.
As though my imagination is that creative.
I close my eyes as I crush the dish towel between both my hands, right now recalling that other impressive length of him. Long, thick and hard. Just how the hell did he get to be so striking? Tan and tattooed, ripped and so very, very masculine. As Nat would say, he’s built like a brick—
Oh, shit house.
Fucking Rory. He coughs slightly and I realise he’s smothering a laugh, no doubt catching me staring blindly while my mind had slipped into the land of alcohol fuelled nights, bulging biceps and hot sex. Of how, in this land, one of those strong arms had banded my chest as he’d twisted my face to his, covering my neck and mouth with kisses. He didn’t so much as take possession as he did move in lock, stock and massive barrel, demolishing the hell out me.
Fuck my life. Zoned out again.
‘P—pass me the tea bags, would you?’
Dust motes dance in the air between us as the sun begins to set, sending rays of burnt amber and bronze through the tiny high-set windows. We’d made our way from the beach to the kitchen supposedly for his desire of tea, though I’m not buying. I’m also a tiny bit terrified of what this could mean.
The kitchen has yet to be updated; it’s a truly hideous space and I try not to dwell here very often as it’s so frigidly cold. Stuck somewhere between the 1870’s and t
he 1970’s, one long wall houses Formica fronted cupboards and brown tiled counter tops, while the other has a huge sort of oven range. An ancient cold store stands at the far end of the room and behind us, out of sight, is an unused butler’s pantry full of nothing but cobwebs and dust. A Victorian lath hangs over a scarred wooden table, a solitary towel hanging where it had been left to dry.
Despite my request for the tea canister, I sense he hasn’t moved. And though the man was clearly made for looking at, I force myself to not turn. Instead, I keep busy by filling the kettle and dragging out a couple of scarred mugs. It’s not that I don’t want to look at him. No, because he’s more than easy on the eye. In fact, I’d be interested in seeing him naked again, maybe in the daylight this time.
No—no you wouldn’t, I intone. That’s not happening.
Though I can’t help but wonder. What if I’d built our last night up to more than it was? More than he was. Between the tumult of emotion triggered by those awful photographs and the realisation that I could sleep with Rory again, so many years after the first time, maybe my mind had embellished our evening together. Passion isn’t something I’m intimately acquainted with; perhaps I’d been so starved for attention the evening was less than the sum of the parts I recall. Perhaps his abs aren’t as ripped, his tattoo’s not so vivid or striking. And maybe my mouth doesn’t really thirst for his tongue.
So, it’s not that I won’t turn because the view doesn’t appeal. It’s more that I don’t trust myself not to want to investigate him more thoroughly.
It feels unnatural, keeping my gaze averted against this magnetic pull. I swallow against the notion, wondering if the sexual energy between us is flowing only one way, but as my gaze glides over my shoulder, the fine hairs on my arms stand like pins.
His butt is pressed against the table, his long legs stretched out in a study of calm. A picture of nonchalance. He might not have moved—he might not yet have made his move, but according to his gaze, he clearly has plans.
‘Tea,’ I say again, this time my gaze directly on him, the word hitting the air as more of a demand.
‘Are you givin’ out orders, titch?’
I close my eyes, his tone washing through me as my fingers grip the wood framing the tiled countertops. Was that an aural flashback, or did he actually speak?
‘We both know how vocal you can be.’
Jesus God, the man’s low rumble has me wet at the crotch. How can something so combative—so provocative—sound so sexual?
‘In the tin behind you.’ More terse words, though I’m not trying to be ballsy; it’s just been a hard few days and I don’t trust myself to know what this is. Am I projecting my lust onto him?
‘We both know I’m not really interested in tea.’
The kettle starts to boil, the steam misting the wall before petering out in tiny puffs as he’s suddenly behind me, one long finger flicking off the switch. His hands come to rest either side of my hips.
‘We’re supposed to be working.’ I whisper the unnecessary words to the kettle, the heat of his presence prickling my skin. ‘W—we really shouldn’t. We don’t even know each other.’
‘Are you asking or telling? You don’t sound overly sure, Fin .’ I feel myself redden, partly the usage of my name—of being caught lying—but mainly the result of his breath, hot against the bared skin of my neck. ‘I think what’s between us is more than one night.’
The shock of this revelation gives me a physical start, my mind racing through the memories of my very first night with him. Does he remember before, when we were younger? When did it all come back to him? As my mind scans the moments we’ve spent together, I realise what I’ve actually heard; he doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember that summer evening.
‘Or maybe you’re good at lying to yourself.’ His tone is soft and pondering, his fingers brushing my shoulder as he reaches to twirl a lock of my hair. ‘I wonder what else you’re lying about.’ My stomach plummets even as my fingers tighten against the elderly frame. ‘I know your reactions, at least, were genuine. Some things you just can’t fake.’
‘Are those your professional observations?’ The words sound cool—cooler than I feel.
‘If by professional, you mean skilled.’ Loosening my hair from his fingers, he trails the back of them lightly down my arm. ‘Like I know you tremble in your wanting. Like how your pussy is wet and aching right now.’
‘I—if you touch me, I’ll scream.’ The words sound more like a soft invitation, all husky and sexual, like my brain has detached itself from my vocal cords.
‘Oh, titch.’ His chuckle is soft and almost admonishing; a low, gravelly sound that causes a clench between my thighs. ‘I know you will.’
I want to be strong—to pull away. Tell him he’s arrogant and presumptuous and way off the mark.
But I can’t. I can’t make myself.
And I really don’t want to lie again.
‘You say we don’t know each other. What you’re really thinking is, we know each other better than we should.’
I shiver because I know the memory of him, perhaps the feel of him; the light touch of his fingers and the thick drag of him between my legs. And this—this is how I want to know him again.
‘But I promise,’ he continues, ‘we don’t know each other nearly as well as we will by the end of today.’ His fingers find me at both chin and hip, at the latter squeezing tightly, the former turning my face gently to his. His lips touch mine; just one delicate kiss. Delicate but not at all tentative. ‘And now you’re thinking.’ Grey eyes stare down at me, the heat of his words whispered against my lips, air kisses that make me long to swallow his breath. ‘Shut the fuck up, Rory, and make me scream.’
‘You’re pretty full of yourself.’
His smile is wide and unashamed. ‘You really should stop setting these up for me.’
Twenty-Three
Rory
Her eyes go wide, and if that doesn’t send some kind of primal surge to my dick, then I’m not sure what did. What is it about her that makes me want to push her buttons? Pull her metaphoric pigtails? I don’t want to psychoanalyse my reactions or risk spouting anymore bullshit, so I decided to kiss her, my lips barely touching hers. Chin tilted high, she pushes up on her toes, the points of her fingers white against the kitchen bench as her mouth seeks a more solid contact.
Taunting, teasing, I keep my touches feather soft, my hands feeding around to brush the skin now bared above the waistband of her leggings. Jesus wept , the small whimpers she makes have me rock fucking hard.
My fingers against the sharpness of her hips, I turn her to face me and kiss her properly. Solidly. Teasing over. For now.
Her lips don’t taste of lip gloss today, but there’s still that hint of sweet need in her sighs as we kiss. Soft lips and tiny nips, a little tongue and she’s squirming beautifully against me, and in all the right places.
‘I see a pattern,’ she says between small pants as my lips slide over her neck, her arse now in my hands.
‘Fuck that.’ This is more growl than actual words. ‘I want you to see fucking stars. For you to be so high you could reach out and touch them.’
‘Oh.’ She pulls just far enough away that I see her lips look slightly swollen and lipstick red, but not far enough that my hands move from her arse. Her hair is a mess from where I’d threaded my fingers, the cream of her bra just visible from where I’ve worked her t-shirt. Fucking beautiful . ‘I—I meant you. A pattern of sex while standing.’
‘I’ll fuck you wherever you want.’ I pull her back to my mouth briefly, twisting her until her arse is pressed against my front, our feet scuffling against the uneven flagstones until she’s bent over the old wooden table. ‘How about here?’ I press myself harder against the cheeks of her cotton clad arse, just a few thin layers of fabric away from where I want to be.
Christ, if she were any hotter, we’d both be frying.
‘Still technically standing.’ Her cheek is pressed agai
nst the scarred oak and under the loose strands of her hair I can see she’s smiling. Or maybe dazed.
‘Technically, I don’t care,’ I almost grunt, pushing her feet wider with my booted ones. I’m so hard already and the heat between her legs has me panting like a whore. God, I want this pussy and I want it quick as my eyes scan the kitchen for an alternative to keeping her on her feet.
‘How about a chair?’ There are several ancient looking ones around the table, the kind that look as though they’d be cold and uncomfortable against bare skin. They don’t look like they’d withstand much exertion either, and I want her hard—I want to see the sweat on her skin, feel it matting in her fair hair. I want to taste it on my tongue as I lick it from her neck.
My mind works on overdrive as I continue to pulse into her behind, as beneath me, she squirms making those breathy little sounds. It’s all I can do to stop myself from popping my fly and ripping the material down her legs.
‘I hate to tell you, titch, but I don’t see a bed.’ She pushes the hair from her face, holding her hand out towards me so I take it, pulling her upright and flush against my chest again. ‘I’m happy here,’ I whisper into the skin of her neck, following it up with a kiss. A press of teeth. A little tongue. ‘Right now, I’d happily spread you across the table and lick you from arse to clit, but it’s up to you. Just make it quick.’ She quivers as I feed my hands under her t-shirt, though her words contradict her body.
‘Are you in a hurry?’
‘You could say that,’ I half growl.
‘Have you thought about me?’ She tilts her head to look at me as best she can; her face pink as much from kissing and touching as her next words. ‘I’ve thought about you. So much.’ The softness of her tone catches me off guard. ‘I can still see our reflections in the mirror as you’d pounded into me.’
And now I can see it, too. ‘Your mouth says pounded, your mind thinks fucked.’ I whisper the latter into her ear with a hard F that causes her to shiver. ‘Did you touch yourself while reminiscing?’
