by S. R. Jones
“Wow.” Her tone is softer than it has been.
“What’s so wow about it?” Cara asks. She’s got a little bit of that superior tone that bugs me going on, but not so much as usual.
“Royal Marines alone is pretty hardcore.” Maggie takes a sip of her wine before carrying on. “Toughest training course outside of the Special Forces in the world. And then to get into the Special Boat Service, that’s basically the sea version of the SAS, you need to be seriously good at what you do.”
“Seriously good at killing people?” Cara asks.
Maggie opens her mouth and closes it again, and I doubt she’s lost for words often.
“Yes. Seriously fucking good at killing the bad guys,” I say. I can’t believe we’re going there again.
Cara nods, and I brace myself for an argument or some sort of political rant, but I don’t get it.
“Must be weird doing something so…different for a living.” Her words surprise me. More surprising is her tone, there’s no judgement there.
“I thought you might have more to say about it, seeing as I know you don’t approve.”
I don’t know why I’m goading her, she’s backed down, and she’s trying to be pleasant. I think I like it when we’re rubbing one another the wrong way.
“No. It’s none of my business what you did or didn’t do before you joined our course.” She smiles at me, but it’s bland and doesn’t reach her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with being in the military,” Maggie butts in, her eyes flashing.
“Oh, Lord.” Laura stands up, and places her wine glass on the mantelpiece. “We have a lot of heated debates between the three of us, four of us when Dane was around.”
I’m wanting to know who the fuck Dane is.
“Myself, and Cara are lefty peaceniks, and Mags here is a red-blooded Tory.”
“Bloody well am,” Maggie says. “You don’t know the shit I had to put up with for the endless months Cara was with that idiot, Dane. Each time we had dinner it started. You shouldn’t drive that car, it’s bad for the climate. How can you vote Tory when they eat babies for breakfast? The military industrial complex is wrecking the world. On and on. Of course, he turned out to be a giant prick, and so now I only get it from these two.” She points at them, but laughs, and when she looks at Laura there’s nothing but naked affection in her eyes. “I must be a saint to put up with it. Hey.” She turns to me her eyes bright. “You should come over for dinner one night. Even things up a bit. Two against two will be much better than three against one.”
I laugh. “I will, but I’m not on any side, I don’t do politics.” I don’t vote for any of the fuckers after what I’ve been through and seen. I don’t trust the government, full stop. Whatever political party is in charge.
She gives me a shit eating grin. “No one’s perfect. At least you’re not going to be some bleeding-heart peace marcher who tells me off for wearing leather and driving an Audi.”
I grin back. “No, you’ll get no argument from me about your choice of vehicle.”
“It’s settled then. Come next week with Cara, and we’ll cook something.”
Cara looks about to explode. “Erm, that’s lovely, Maggie. Bbbut…erm, I don’t think we can. Luka is my student, and I don’t think—”
“Technically, he’s my student,” Laura says. “And you’re not getting married, you’re coming for dinner. You work together at the prison. It’s totally fine to have a dinner together. Let’s say next Wednesday at eight, if you’re both free?”
Cara opens and shuts her mouth and I can see her trying to think of an excuse.
“Count me in,” I say, wanting to fuck with her.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m not going to turn down the chance to wind Cara up some more, and maybe find out further about her and this Dane character.
Laura and Maggie are gathering their things together to go. They’re chatting about something, and they look at one another and laugh. For a moment, it’s that old cliché—as if all that exists in the world is the two of them. For a stupid, pathetic minute, I want what they have. That connection, the ease of shared memories.
But then I remember that whenever I connect with someone, I end up itching to get away. And my memories aren’t nice or the sort of thing to share with anyone. I choose to be alone for a reason, and I can’t lose sight of that because some buttoned-up teacher has got my dick in a spin.
“Nice to meet you properly, Luka. Out of class as it were.” Laura shocks the shit out of me by giving me a hug.
“Yeah, nice to meet you. I’ll tell Dad about you.” Maggie flashes a brief but blinding smile, and follows Laura and Cara out of the room.
The silence in their absence wraps itself around me, smothering me, making me regret my stupid decision to jog past Cara’s house.
Cara comes back into the room, her face flushed and hair adorably mussed.
I feel bad for putting her on the spot in front of Laura. “Sorry, I should have called. I didn’t mean to drop you in it.”
“It’s okay.” She nibbles on her plump lower lip and looks around the room. “Why are you here?”
I think about what to say, but she’s still doing that lip nibbling thing, and my brain goes to the other day. Her clothes are the usual shapeless sacks, but she can’t hide those curves, and I want to see them. Furthermore, I want to unravel her.
See her hair even more messed up after I’ve had it wrapped around my fist again.
She’s watching me, eyes wary, and in the air between us a hum of expectancy grows. It fills the space with its own loud mix of need and want, so jarring in this silent room.
So fucking obvious.
Not even thinking, I reach out with one hand, slow and gentle, as if afraid to make any sudden moves and scare her off.
As if she’s some skittish wild animal, and I’m the hunter, which isn’t a bad analogy when all’s said and done.
I let my knuckles trail down the back of her cheek, and her skin is warm. Hot almost.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week.” I let my thumb brush over her jaw, and still she carries on watching me with those wide eyes. “You’ve messed with my work, I should be angry at you.”
“Ditto.”
The confidence she says it with surprises me.
“You’re an annoyance to me, to be honest, Luka Anders.”
I frown at her words.
“Something taking up my mental energy in a way I can’t afford right now.”
“Perhaps you ought to do something about me?” I cock my head to one side, comfortable with the flirtation. She’s so intent and serious, I need to lighten the mood.
“Perhaps, I should. Do you have any ideas?” She begins to smile but her flush deepens.
She hasn’t done this often, if at all. Flirting. Being a bit stupid, and a whole lot sexy.
“Well, you could always give me a tour of your house. Show me to your boudoir.” I waggle my eyebrows at her and cheese it the fuck up.
She rolls her eyes. “If show me to your boudoir is your best line, I’ve got to worry about your actual performance.” Her tone is snippy, with the superior back in there, but it’s in play.
Game on. I stare at her for a moment and then bend down and grab her around her shins. She gives a squeal as I throw her over my shoulders in a classic fireman’s lift and head towards the stairs.
“What the hell!” Cara explodes, and I laugh, because even her swearing is demure. She wriggles against me, squirming,
“For god’s sake, don’t start beating on my back with your fists, you’ll become a cliché.”
I hit the landing and pause. “I can put you down right now, and walk out of here…or you can tell me which is your bedroom door.”
There’s a long moment as she takes a full breath in and out before speaking.
“First door on the right.”
Correct answer. One point to Cara.
I reach the door and n
udge it open with my foot. Once over the threshold, she reaches out behind me and flips on the light switch.
For a moment, I don’t move. There are bright, gorgeous paintings adorning the walls. There are so many she’s got to be the artist, or someone close to her.
“What’s wrong?” Cara squirms in my arms, attempting to pull herself up, and I let her slide down my body and to the floor. I gesture at the walls.
“You paint?”
She flushes and nods once.
“Beautiful.” I walk closer to one, drawn in by the bright colors and bold brush strokes. There’s a joy to these paintings. They remind me of the Matisses I saw in France years ago.
“You like art?” I don’t miss the note of surprise in her tone, and try not to bristle, but fail.
“Yeah, I like art. I even like to read too, sometimes, as we’ve already covered. Some days, I even listen to Classic fucking FM.”
Cara raises her hands. “Whoa there, big guy, I didn’t mean anything by the question. And since when did Classic FM change their name to include the word fucking? I think I prefer it your way.” She giggles then. A proper, silly giggle and it makes me smile.
“So…what else do you like?” She moves towards me, and it’s an innocent enough question, but my response is anything but.
“Oh, all sorts of things.” I find it hard to focus on anything non-sexual what with her stood so close, her fresh, floral scent and warm body doing things to me. Things I haven’t experienced in a long time, if I’m honest.
I broke my no sex rule a while ago to seduce some sleazebag’s secretary in order to get information to help my mate Ethan. I fucked her for hours that night, and it scared me because I was going through the motions, nothing more. Like brushing my fucking teeth.
This is different. The other night blew my mind. To see her on her knees for me, it’s played on a reel over and over again.
I want her so badly, but I’m hot and sweaty.
“I like all sorts of things,” she says. “I like guys who’ve been working out.”
Whoa. Not expecting that. She’s coming on to me. Clumsily; her face will combust if it gets any redder, but that only turns me on more. I can see the flush going down her neck, and want to see if it spreads over her chest. I’ve felt her tits but not seen them, and I want to see it all.
“Really?”
She nods.
“What else do you like, Cara?” I take a step towards her and she takes one back, butting up against the side of the bed.
“Lots of things. In the same way you like your books, and your Classic Fucking FM, I like many things too that people might not perhaps immediately think I do.”
“Such as.”
She clasps her hands together, squeezing them, and moves one foot over the carpet.
I reach out and tip her chin up, making her look at me. “What things do you like, Cara, that no one thinks you will?”
“I like sex. I’m not some prude, you know. But…it’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
“Someone broke my trust…in men. I find it hard to trust guys now, and it’s been a long time for me, and I miss sex. I miss having a man touch me, but I’m scared to let it happen. The other night was a moment of madness. I don’t do things like that. I don’t get close.”
“Because of the person who broke your trust?”
She nods. I wonder what this fucker did, but I don’t want to ask and get her all up in her head reliving that shit. And suddenly, I want to make this about her. Yeah, I want her. Badly. But I also want to give her pleasure.
I can sense how fragile she is tonight, and I want to give her something good. Without taking in return.
Shit, I’m turning into some sort of sexual do-gooder.
I should leave now, but I can’t. I want to see this through.
“How about this? We make this all about you, and any time you want to stop you say the word.”
“What word? Like a safe word?” She frowns.
“No, not a safe word. Just no, or stop. You want to stop, you say so, and it’s over.”
I feel a need to give her something good, something pleasurable. Possibly, for the first time ever, a sexual experience isn’t going to be about reaching the finish line and getting my rocks off.
I want to explore her, get to know her better. The thought flat out terrifies me. But right now, I’m too caught up in this.
I take hold of her hair, gently, and pull her into me. One soft brush of my lips over hers and I’m fucking lost. She tastes amazing, all fresh, and with a hint of red wine. I want in, so I ask permission, running my tongue over the seam of her mouth. She opens for me, and I make sure to gentle my kiss. I taste her, explore her, but slowly, letting her get used to me.
Her heart is pounding, and I think I might have pushed her too far the other day. She fucking loved it at the time, but I’ll bet good money she’s been analyzing it and freaking out about it ever since.
My dick is rock hard, pressing against the seam of my briefs, but I don’t dare rearrange myself and bring her attention to it in case it breaks the mood. And I quite like the discomfort, being a freak and all.
She moans into the kiss and I hold myself back, taking it slow.
Whatever the guy who hurt her did, I want to erase it. Why do I even care? The woman irritates me, and provokes me, and yet I want to soothe her. Do something for her. When normally it’s all about the end goal of getting off.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some selfish prick, and I always make sure the woman comes too. But sex is normally a race to the finish line. A goal focused exercise: Get her off. Get myself off. Leave.
This is a totally different game, and I’m not sure I know the rules.
Chapter Seven
Cara
Luka is kissing me as if his life depends on it, deep sensual strokes of his tongue in my mouth. It’s not the same fiery onslaught as the other day, but it still turns me on beyond all belief.
He smells sweaty, but in a good way. Clean, fresh sweat. His hair is slightly damp as I curl my fingers into it and hold on for dear life as he sweeps me off my feet with nothing more than a kiss.
He pulls away and looks at me, his eyes dark and glittering. In the dim light of my room with his pupils all enlarged they might as well be black instead of the intriguing hazel I know they are. It gives him a devilish look.
“I think you’re trying to tempt me.” I chuckle to lighten the mood.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” His honest answer knocks me for six.
“I think this is against every rule in the book,” I say.
He smiles. “Probably.”
“We ought to stop.”
He kisses my neck. “Probably.”
“This is all kinds of wrong.”
He nips my earlobe. “Probably.”
“If we don’t stop now, we might get carried away again.”
His fist tangles in my hair and pulls it to one side to give him greater access to my neck. He nips and licks at the skin down the side of my throat. “Probably,” he mumbles.
One warm, palm smooths up my spine, under my t-shirt, and the contact makes me yearn for something more. I want the sex because he’s got me so worked up I swear I could come from one touch where I need him. But I want more. For once, I want someone bigger than me, so much bigger than me, to hold me.
He probably wants a re-run of the other night, though. And while I do, I’m also weirdly wired and on edge. I’m not sure what the hell I want. This whole situation scares me. And I want him to fuck me. So much it hurts, but I also fear him fucking me.
“You got any oil?”
What? Shit, does he want anal or something? No way.
“You’re tense, and I give a mean massage.”
It takes me a moment to make sense of his words. I wasn’t expecting that. I nod at him. A massage sounds good. And my back and shoulders are aching. So is my head, come to think of it. Too much stress and wine in one nig
ht.
I shake my head and point to the bedside table. “There’s a bottle of body lotion in there, though. Will that do?”
“I can work with it. Take your top off but keep your bra on if you want.”
I do as he says and settle back down on the bed. Still unsure and nervous but calmer than before.
He leans down and kisses my neck, feather soft, and then opens the drawer. The cap makes a loud pop as he opens it and in the silence of the room it echoes. Squeezing some out into his hands he rubs them together, and then motions for me to stop watching him and lie back down. I do, and turn my head to the side, closing my eyes.
His hands land on my mid upper-back, gentle but firm, and then sweep out in an arc to my outer shoulders. The movement is smooth and light. He repeats this a few times, and then brings his hands up to the bunch of knotted muscle calling itself my shoulders. His fingers dig in more there. He kneads the muscle, working it, loosening it, and I let out a sigh as he works his magic. When he said he gave good massage, he didn’t lie.
I wonder where he learned to do this, and if a girlfriend taught him. Then I get a nasty, sour little feeling in my stomach, and push it to one side. I’ve no right to care about girlfriends of his—ex, or future. We aren’t anything to one another, and never will be. We’re far too different for anything more than whatever this weird interlude is.
After ten or so minutes of his, frankly spectacular massage, I’m almost falling asleep, but then his hands move lower. Over my clothes, they move to the base of my back, where he begins to loosen up the muscles there using his thumbs. His hands are so big his fingers are at my waist while his thumbs sweep up from the base of my spine. He does this for a while, and once more I’m almost drifting off when he moves down again.
His hands skim down my thighs, past my knees, to the bottom of my maxi skirt, where they move up, taking the material with them.
The frisson of fear returns, but something more pleasant overwhelms it. Shivers follow the path of his fingers up my calves, the backs of my knees, and then my thighs, until he reaches my panty-covered behind. He smooths his palms over my bum cheeks, and starts to massage them.
I’m lost for words at how good it feels. He digs into the muscle of my buttocks and oh, God, who knew you could store so much tension there.
