by Alam, Donna
Fucking maniac.
Sitting in the pickup truck, I start the ignition, knowing I need to move.
The first thought to cross my thick head when I’d heard her squealing was that she’d fallen and hurt herself. The second, after I’d rushed in, seeing that fucker with his arms wrapped around Fin, was that it was him I’d like to hurt.
Like to.
Seriously.
Still.
Was he the ex-husband? Because the way he’d looked at her as she’d put a bit of space between them was proprietary—like if I’d looked hard enough, I’d find his name stamped on her somewhere. Like I haven’t already looked hard enough. Nah, he wasn’t her ex; she was too relaxed. But for Christ’s sake, it was like he was goading me—his eyes scanning her up and down like he was picturing what was under her clothes. Probably for a spot of self-abuse later. And watching him watch her created a knot in my stomach the size of a fucking ball. Fuck knows how I’d forced myself to just stand there as the meathead’s eyes all but fell out of his fucking head. I wanted badly to grab the bastard, to punch him into the understanding that he couldn’t leer at her like that.
I’m a fucking maniac. And I’m losing the plot, clearly, especially as I’d told him to let her go.
In no uncertain terms.
Back. The. Fuck. Off.
How did I get from something casual to wanting to tear off someone’s limbs?
It’s only my sanity that keeps me in the truck. I can’t afford to go back. Can’t let my feelings show, especially as I can’t make sense of them myself. And something tells me she wouldn’t welcome being thrown over my shoulder and dragged off to bed. But that’s exactly what I want to do; erase the imprint of his gaze by placing my fingerprints all over her skin. She’s so fucking cool, or at least she manages to pretend to be. Right up until the point of cutting to the chase when it becomes so fucking clear. She. Wants. Me. But how much?
I’ve had women play hard to get. Sometimes it works—adds to the thrill of the chase—and sometimes I just can’t be arsed and am more than happy to let them walk away. But this . . . This is something unfamiliar. Confusing. It’s like she’s afraid of acknowledging her wants.
And I think I’m playing the same game.
Yesterday, as she’d pulled up in her pal’s wee car, my steps had faltered, then sped up, though it took every ounce of my restraint not to rush at her. Pull her out of the thing. To feed her hands to the small of her back, to pin them there. To kiss her senseless, kiss her until she was boneless, held up against the car door purely by desire. And my dick .
I could see myself lifting her thighs around my hips, letting her feel how hard she made me, right there, pressed between her splayed thighs. I’d swallowed, almost tasting the salt on her skin as I imagined dragging my tongue down her neck, while loosening her buttons out in the open, the cold morning air aiding my quest to make her nipples hard peaks. I’d’ve kissed them then, my mouth and tongue warm. Lick and nip. Consume, as I’d carry her back to that tiny bed. I’d desperately wanted to lie her down, spread her out under me. Probably leave those boots on her, the first time, at least. Then fuck her so hard she’d still be feeling me the following week.
Yeah, I might’ve given it a little more thought than I should.
I’d opened the door, the floral smell of her perfume preceding a flash of thigh where her dress draped. But when she looked up into my face, I was a goner. Pink, full lips with just a hint of gloss. It took me back to that first night when she’d propositioned me at the pub. What they say about men—and mouths and any kind of lip gloss—is the truth. And right then and right there, I wanted to see those lips wrapped around my cock. Not the most original thought, but as an encore I wanted to see them covered in my come.
I’d held out my hand, not that she’d needed my help, but more for the opportunity of contact, but when I’d failed to ask what happened to her on Saturday night—Jesus, her face! She’d lifted a chin, a wee bit imperious, so I thought I’d wind her up and annoy her a bit more.
What I’m coming to like second best about Fin—first, naturally, is being inside her—is making her pissy, then making her spin. And, just as I think this, my smile is quick to grow . . . and quick to fall as I realise I’m fucking drunk on the woman. That I shouldn’t be loving the experience. I’ve enough going on in my life without getting involved with a woman that makes me feel like this. Add to the fact that she’s just coming out of a marriage—at least, I don’t think she’s been divorced long—she won’t be looking at getting involved. It had seemed like a fairly good reason to screw her earlier, but the way she looks at me and the responses she draws from me, really, all of the facts, as opposed of all of the feelings, tell me this is a terrible idea. I lower my idling foot and the engine roars, and then after opening the windows, hoping to blow the cobwebs from my eyes, as I push the lever into drive.
Of course, it might’ve been cooler had I avoided spinning the wheels in the gravel like a lovesick teen.
Thirty-One
Rory
It’s dark when I get back to the house, timing my arrival until I’m sure Fin will have left. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this afternoon; hypothesising while driving around aimlessly. Thinking rationally, I suppose. The conclusion I’ve come to is that I have to stop thinking with my dick. It just keeps leading me into bad decisions; Beth, Anna, and now Fin. The first two were poor business decisions, but I think messing with Fin could be much more damaging. It’s not that I want to stop this thing between us, this whatever it is, but she’s not in the right headspace for casual, despite what she might think. And me? I have all sorts of thoughts and feelings concerning the woman—wants versus needs—desire versus what’s good for me.
It’s bloody ironic, really. I love women; that’s no lie, but I’ve never been interested in the whole package deal, preferring my women in parts. Sounds slightly serial killer-ish, but isn’t at all. I love their eyes, their laugh. A pretty face and a nice smile, and I happen to like their intelligence almost as much as I like what’s between their legs. But the other parts? The truth is, I’m not interested. I don’t want to know of their dreams and ambitions, their pasts, their families or their beloved cat’s name. I really don’t give a toss about any of that stuff. But with Fin, I can see the day coming where a roll in her bed won’t be enough. Isn’t enough now.
I’ll want all of her and won’t be satisfied by parts. This isn’t only wrong but dangerous, because she’s unavailable, and I’m not sure she really knows.
Just my fucking luck that the first woman I’ve ever had strong feelings for would be only available in parts. I can have her body, sure.
But her head?
Her thoughts?
Her heart?
It’s clear I can’t afford to get involved.
As I drive around to the rear of the house, I’m relieved I’ll be leaving soon. Decision made: I’m going home. Fuck the gardens and grounds and fuck Kit. It’s for the best, but still means one more night in Fin’s bed. One more night surrounded by her scent.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I click the key fob, pointing it over my shoulder at the truck. I’m conscious of the lack of light indicating execution of both lock and alarm as I hesitate. It’s not likely to get stolen; not only is this place pretty remote, but it’s also a very conspicuous car. There aren’t many Ford F-150’s on the roads of Scotland. Run of the mill in the States they may be, but here they’re huge fuck off vehicles. Not to mention a nightmare to park. Serves Kit right if it does get nicked, I think, even as I turn to check the driver’s side door. It’s then I see there’s a light on. Not inside the car, but the house—the main house. Dragging a weary hand down my face, I make my way to the backdoor to investigate.
The door to the old scullery is open, the door beyond into the kitchen, too. I’m beginning to think Fin must’ve left in a hurry, not that I blame her the way I stormed out, when I hear the distant strains of music from somewhere deeper ins
ide the house. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help that my pulse rate picks up at the thought of her still being in the building somewhere.
I follow the soft strains, a smile growing as I realise two things. Firstly, the music is coming from the direction of the gym, and second, it sounds a little like country music the closer I get. Maybe that gorgeous exterior hides a country girl’s heart? I actually huff out a laugh at the random though. Whatever, I’m kind of hoping she’s using the gym whatever she’s listening to, maybe in tiny shorts. I’m not planning on anything, but it’s a view my eyes will always appreciate.
And what do you know, my hopes are realised as I reach the partially frosted glass doors. Well, partly realised. Fin is on the treadmill. No shorts. Knee length leggings and wrestler back sports bra top. I might not be getting involved and I might’ve promised myself I’d back away, but how could you not look at that arse?
It’s like a fucking peach.
I can look.
And I certainly can watch.
That’s not harming anyone, least of all Fin.
I won’t make a noise, won’t even open the door. Apart from startling and possibly knocking her off her unforgiving stride—because, Jesus wept, the woman can run— I don’t want to give her any ideas, especially as it seems I can’t do normal around her. Apparently, I can only do antagonistic with a side of innuendo. Why is it that mad sexual tension is our baseline?
Her feet pound against the belt as I consider the music as a strange choice of song for a run. I run myself, usually along Canary Wharf, where our office is. I’m a road runner essentially and not a big fan of filling my head with anything while I do so. Running provides me with valuable thinking time and if I’d had my running gear with me today, I might well have taken off on foot rather than in the truck. The point is, I don’t run to music, but if I did, I wouldn’t have chosen this song. It’s an older one and, as it turns out, not country. Probably from the eighties . It plays from a music channel on one of several TVs mounted to the various walls.
Won’t open the door, my arse.
Ignoring the implications, I push it open with my foot and slip inside.
The lights illuminate only one side of the room, casting the entrance in shadow. This, and the angle of the room, means she likely won’t see me, though I can see her.
And I can watch. Like a fucking perve.
Sweat glistens against the skin of her lower back, shoulders and neck, the latter causing the hair at her nape to kink and curl. Through the mirror, my attention is pulled to her mouth—no surprise there—her lips open as she pants. It’s just fucking indecent where my mind wanders, but the sounds she makes don’t exactly help. Running. Think of running. She’s got good technique; good pace and stride. I try to concentrate on this rather than the fact her mouth is open and that, in the mirror, it’s reflected like some sort of deliciously obscene gasp.
Pounding. Glazed eyes. Open mouth.
Fuck.
Yep, this is definitely a song from the eighties, confirmed by a glance at the TV.
Keep watching. Don’t stare at her mouth or her arse.
It has to be the TV or the pink soles of her running shoes, because I know there’s no way I can move. I couldn’t make my feet leave even if I wanted to. I tilt my head to the TV partially listening to the lyrics. As far as I can make out, it’s a song about a girl who likes chocolate. Typical eighties; a song with a story. Cheesy and abstract though kind of catchy, it holds my attention until, from the corner of my gaze, Fin’s stride begins to falter. I’m already moving from the door as one of her knees buckles, her other following as her arm splays out in slow motion, smacking the emergency stop.
The treadmill halts, as does she, her tiny feet hitting the baseboard heavily, her brain playing catch up against relative velocity. In the milliseconds it takes for her—for me—to process this, she falls into a heap against the baseboard.
Before I know it, she’s in my lap, my arse on the floor and my back pressed up against the side of the machine as I examine her knees and ankles for signs of abrasions and swelling.
‘You were going at a rare old pace. Do you always run that fast?’ I keep my voice light as I run a hand over her thigh, retracting it quickly. Looking’s one thing, touch is something else.
‘Chocolate girl,’ she says on a gasp, her chest rising and falling, the side of one breast pushed up against my chest.
‘I think a PowerAde might be better. Electrolytes, no sugar.’ Surely she must know that?
‘No, that’s me. I—I was the chocolate girl. When I was . . . when I was married, before—’ Through the fog of having her body pressed against me, I become aware of the watery quality of her words, words that stop abruptly as she gasps. Her shoulders begin to shake and I realise that it wasn’t so much a gasp as a sob. ‘B—broken up . . .’ she stammers, as the chorus blasts out from the TV, the singer finishing Fin’s words.
A song with a story. About a very unhappy girl.
One arm around her waist, I pull her closer, smoothing the hair from her face with my free hand. ‘Shh. You’re okay. You’re here now with me.’ Not sure that makes her safer, though I’ll try.
As she cries gently, she curls and presses her face into my chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t mean to be like this, b—but it sometimes catches me like a wave. Drowning me.’
‘Hush now.’ Something uncomfortable tightens in my chest even as I force those two words out; relieved, at least, their delivery is soft. This isn’t exactly the highlight of my night, seeing her so cut up over her ex. I’m not the caring type, the staying type, but for some reason I just don’t want to let go. ‘It’s okay.’ I stroke her hair while making gentle, reassuring sounds. Even as I do so, I’m conscious of our skin touching where the damp waistband of her leggings has pushed my t-shirt up. It’s dangerous territory, but doesn’t stop me from pulling her closer, settling her into my lap more solidly. How long we sit there I really don’t know. Is there a set time for hiccupping tears to slow? That she feels right, the weight of her against my thighs, the way her upper body has curled into my chest, solidifies my view that I need to leave. And soon.
Just maybe not right now.
‘Babe.’ That doesn’t sound right—doesn’t feel right. ‘Hey, titch,’ I whisper, tilting my head to get a look at her face, though as she moves along with me, I realise she’s cried herself to sleep.
Gut wrenching. That’s how this feels. I run a hand across the back of my head as I try to control my breathing. I’d wanted to tear the meathead’s arms from the sockets for being near her earlier, but that’s nothing to how I feel about the prick who made her feel like this. I shake my head—a rueful motion—well aware that these thoughts are not for me. In the place of anger, I curl an arm under her thighs, the other supporting her back as I bring myself up to stand.
Over at her wee house, I’m pleased to feel she had the foresight to leave the heater on, meaning the room isn’t as frigid as it could be. Manoeuvring her through the small space, I manage to get her into the bedroom without waking or whacking her head on a wall. Go me. I move back the quilt and lay her down and she curls away immediately, almost into a ball. A protection mechanism? Her clothes are still damp and the night outside frigid, so I do the only thing I should: slide off her running shoes, pull the covers up to her neck and leave the room.
Which leaves me . . . anywhere but in the bedroom.
The light from the tiny lounge dimly illuminates the kitchen as I open the fridge, more for wont of something to do. There’s little in there, I already know. After all, I stayed here over the weekend and snooped till my heart was content. Well, almost. Dunno about my heart, but my cock would’ve been better satisfied if she’d been here with me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling so . . . antsy. Is that what this is? A need for sex?
The room grows dim again as I close the fridge, its contents nowhere as tempting as her underwear drawer.
What to do? What can I do when a
ll I want is to walk into that room, pull back the quilt and slide in beside her? I’d turn her over, pulling her once more to my chest, sliding my thigh between hers. I’d kiss her head and wrap her in my arms. That doesn’t sound like sex.
I lean back against the kitchen counter, exhaling a long breath as I pull out my phone. I can’t do anything until she wakes when I’ll offer—no, insist—on giving her a lift home, because home she’ll have to go. It’s best for both of us. And besides, I have nowhere else to go. None of the other cottages are habitable and I’ll be damned before I spend a night in the local B&B.
In the meantime, I need some kind of distraction or diversion. Something to stop me from going back in there, because I’m not delusional enough to believe it’ll stop at chaste kisses on her forehead. Wrap her in my arms and keep her there. No—I won’t. I can’t. What was that song she was listening to? Something about chocolate and a girl?
Milliseconds later I have my answer. It is an oldie—a song by a band called Deacon Blue. Volume low, I play the song through. And again. Then search for a copy of the lyrics, just to be sure. To be sure that Fin’s husband cheated. To be sure she felt tied to a man who made her feel like a trophy. To be sure she felt used and misunderstood.
It’s just a song , I tell myself, but somehow I know this was her reality.
A pulse hammers inexplicably in my head as I exhale long and hard again, trying to control the red wave of rage filling my head.
I’m not husband material and I’ll never be, but I won’t ever be that kind of bastard. Relationships begin and end all of the time and no one truly knows what goes on behind doors between people, especially looking in. But this, this bullshit I’m reading and listening to? This is how she felt—how she feels—and no one deserves this.
How can I want so badly to protect someone who won’t let me in?
Jesus Christ, I feel like I need to punch someone until my arms ache. Or have a drink. Looks like I’ll have to settle for the latter and I think I know just where I might find a bottle suitable for the occasion.
