by Donna Alam
My hand works harder now, no longer satisfied by light touches except where my thumb strokes my sensitive, leaking cock-head. My heart is pounding as I imagine what it would feel like to have more than my tongue in her mouth . . . those lips wrapped around my base . . . her head moving . . . her hand twisting . . . her tongue flicking . . . In my mind, I have her hair tight in my fingers, directing the movements of her hot, wet mouth. I buck up into her, listening to her desperate sounds as I—
‘Fuck!’ Heat shoots up my shaft, jets of come spraying my abs and chest.
My breathing is heavy, my skin taut, my eyes are on the ceiling and I’m smiling to myself. Then chuckling.
So much for not feeling it this morning.
I wonder if that hair salon is open on Sunday? And more to the point, I wonder if she’d be up for another round?
Chapter Fifteen
Fin
‘Somebody hasn’t been sleeping in their bed.’ Natasha’s voice greets me as I open the door to the flat. ‘What happened to your tights?’
I glance down at my bare, cold legs, quickly looking back up again to where Ivy is curled on the sofa like a cat. Okay, a cartoon cat seeing as how she’s almost as green as the pillow supporting her head.
‘I—they had a bit of an accident.’
‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ Nat teases, her smile beaming from ear to ear. She sits in the old wingback chair looking, for all intents and purposes, like a father awaiting his errant daughter’s return. Though I suppose he wouldn’t necessarily be grinning, but what do I know. I’ve never had a father figure wait up for me. ‘I can’t wait for the opportunity to remind the pair of you about this,’ she crows. ‘How was your walk of shame? See anyone we know?’
Maybe I should be annoyed? Ashamed? I can’t find either sentiment, strangely.
‘Don’t gloat so loudly,’ groans Ivy. ‘You’re making my stomach ache.’
‘Hair of the dog that bit you. I keep saying that’s what you need.’
‘Only the dog didn’t just bite me, did it? It chomped, and then vomited me back up. I think it might’ve also infected me with rabies.’
‘Drama llama. You need to drink more often,’ replies Nat. ‘Build up resilience.’
‘I don’t want resilience. I’m supposed to know my limits. I’m a—a grown-up, for flips sakes.’
‘What sort of a grown-up can’t handle her drink?’ scoffs Nat.
‘Well, come in,’ Ivy says, stretching out one pale arm and waving it weakly.
I realise I have the door handle in my hand. I wasn’t expecting them to be awake—it’s still dark out. No sane person should be awake this early on a Sunday morning, but I suppose neither of this pair is strictly sane. God, I’m so tired. I feel like I haven’t slept a wink. As well as being screwed to the point of insensibility most of last night, while I’d lain awake waiting for Rory to fall asleep, I’d been sure of three things.
One: I’d be leaving before he woke to avoid the inevitable nature of a daylight meeting, having already established he’d be in the village for only a few days.
Two: That I’d be off the village streets before the kirk bells rang for the early Sunday service. There’s no way I was doing the walk of shame past anyone on their way to converse with the Almighty.
Three: I’d be tucked up in bed before Ivy woke, thus avoiding necessary explanation of my bare legs, along with the suspect staining on my four-hundred-dollar skirt. From then on in, I was expecting her to be too annoyed to speak to me for the rest of the day.
Instead, I’ve got the how-good-was-the-de-briefing debrief committee.
I can’t catch a break.
‘Is that actual . . . fuck-muck you have on the back of your skirt?’
I didn’t think it would be possible for Natasha to sound as gloaty as she does right now.
‘Eww,’ groans Ivy. ‘That’s so gross. You,’ she adds, pointing at Nat, ‘are so wrong. It’s not . . .’ The question hangs in the air, unfinished, her face a picture of disgust.
‘Of course it’s not,’ I reply, turning once the door is closed. I sat on a yoghurt carton? No, say nothing—nothing at all. I wasn’t myself last night, so I don’t need an excuse. The choice of seating is limited, so I perch my butt on the opposite end of the sofa to Ivy. Please forgive me for exposing the sofa’s upholstery to hook-up sperm. But better on my clothes than in, you know . . . ‘You’re looking all chipper this morning.’
Natasha gives a short shrug. ‘I never get a hangover. I can handle my drink. It’s true,’ she adds, taking in my eyebrow-less expression. They’re there, just hiding in my hairline. ‘The pair of you just assume I’m some kind of raging party animal. I’m not. And I don’t ever hook-up drunk. I might end up with a troll. Besides, drunk fucking is only half the fun.’
‘Oh.’ As far as replies go, this one is exceedingly lame. Last night might not have been a drunken one-night stand, but by some people’s standards, it was definitely shady.
‘Anyway, last night I was all about making sure my girlies had fun.’
‘Fun . . .’ Ivy groans, clutching the pillow to the sides of her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun before and I don’t think I want to ever again.’
‘What about that time you told me about, when that movie star, what’s his name again? You know, the one that’s always smashing paparazzi cameras?’
‘This is something I’ve never heard,’ I say, my gaze sliding along the sofa to Ivy’s panic stricken one. If it’s possible, she seems to turn a darker shade of green, maybe due to the rate she’s shaking her head. Her reactions are a great distraction, not to mention a bit of a balm. It’s good to hear about her questionable decisions instead of mine.
‘Come on, you must remember. How many men have you had drink tequila out of your—’ Ivy opens her mouth to interrupt right as Nat finishes her sentence with one less than delightful word—‘Snatch.’
‘What?’ This comes out wobbly and I think my eyes are probably hanging out of my head. ‘Why have I, your oldest friend, never heard this tale? And more to the point, how is it even possible? Something tantric? A craftily inserted glass while standing on your head?’
‘Nah, I’m only kidding,’ replies a laughing Natasha. ‘It was a shot glass propped in your cleavage wasn’t it?’
‘A party game,’ mumbles Ivy.
‘I rule,’ says a gleeful Natasha. ‘My girlies had so much fun! I got one drunk and flirty and sorted the other a shag with a hot stud!’ She holds out her hand for a high-five and as I barely slide my own against hers, I voice a sudden, yet ridiculous thought.
‘You didn’t pay him, did you?’ Please God, don’t let him be an escort. Please, please don’t let Rory be my birthday or cheer-up gift. Please, please, please let the nice wet man and my virginity taker be anything other than a sex worker on a busman’s holiday.
‘Pay him? You mean, like a prostitute?’ That sounds so much worse, I think, even as I nod my head. ‘What do you take me for? So I’m a pimp now? I thought I was just the lowly ho’.’
‘No one’s saying you’re a—you’re easy,’ I return quickly.
‘I’m easy under the right man, am I no?’ As far as questions go, this one is difficult to deconstruct on a night of little sleep and a morning of no caffeine. ‘If we’re truthful, we all are.’
‘You didn’t though, did you?’ I interrupt a little desperately. He was certainly hot enough to be on some high end escort’s books. And the more I think about the possibility, the more I feel ill.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she says, slipping her hand under her left butt cheek, sliding it out immediately, palm up. ‘Nope,’ she says, staring down at it. ‘I still can’t fart pound notes. Do I look made of money?’ she asks, her tone rising with incredulity. ‘How would I be able to afford his hourly rate? I took a pay cut to come here, you know.’
‘We know,’ says a placating Ivy as she struggles to sit while holding her hands to either side of her head. �
��And I appreciate it, but with the way things are going I’ll be able to pay you better really soon.’
‘And if I was buying anyone a shag with the brother of Adonis, it would’na be for either of you. I mean, we’re pals and all, but . . .’
‘Yeah, okay. Point taken.’ I’m not sure if I’m feeling embarrassed for being so ridiculous or for being chastised.
‘So . . .’ Nat says suddenly, gripping the arms of the chair as she stands. ‘I think I’ll pop the kettle on. Tea? Coffee? A dish of hot water to soak your poor vagina in?’
‘Coffee for me.’ I ignore the rest. ‘I’ll help,’ I begin to say when she holds out her hand.
‘Nope.’ Her tone is heavy with meaning. ‘Stay where you are.’
The air feels awkward with just Ivy and me, and I know I’m in for more of her reckless Fin lectures when she surprises me.
‘Sorry about yesterday.’
I shrug, not able to find a response. I’m stunned, quite frankly.
‘I don’t mean I’m sorry about what happened—to you, I mean, ‘cos I am. I could kill him myself.’
‘If he weren’t already dead?’
‘Yeah, that,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry about my behaviour last night.’
Still speechless, not to mention suspicious, I decide not to say anything at all. No comment is neither confirmation nor denial of any wrongdoing at all.
‘I realise this is your life and you know best what you need.’
W-O-W. Maybe I need my ears tested.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
‘Are you still drunk?’ This has to be why she’s saying these things.
‘She isn’t!’ Calls a voice from the kitchen. ‘She puked most of the booze back up.’
‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ Ivy mumbles. I’m not sure if she means drinking to excess or her reaction as she begins pulling on the tassels of the crocheted throw covering her legs. ‘We . . . we’ve spent most of the night talking, Nat and me. She’s a good listener. That’s not to say, you aren’t, too,’ she adds quickly. ‘But you’ve been neck deep in your own troubles.’
‘So, this isn’t all about me?’
Though she doesn’t look up from destroying the throw, her mouth pulls up to one side as she gives a quick shrug. Evasiveness seems to be her forte these days.
‘You can talk to me, you know.’ I reach out and cover her hand with my own. ‘And I’m going to be all right. I think last night I just went a bit mad.’
‘I will,’ she says, looking at me. ‘Soon. But just tell me one thing. Why did you stay with him?’
For a moment I think she means last night and Rory, but the look in her eyes sets me straight. ‘I—I wish I knew myself.’ I sigh and begin to chew the inside of my lip, cautious of any further reply.
‘It wasn’t for the money or lifestyle.’ This isn’t a question and I’m grateful for that, but I still shake my head.
‘Marriage,’ I whisper. ‘I was under the impression we were supposed to be in for the long haul. Love. Fidelity. All that stuff.’
‘You didn’t look at the statistics?’ she asks with a small smile.
‘I was tired of being one of those.’
‘I wish you’d have confided in me,’ Ivy replies, her voice stronger now. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through, and then yesterday morning—’
I squeeze her hand. ‘Let’s not rehash it, please. I’m still processing, I think, hence . . .’ I feel my expression twist. ‘Last night’s moment of debauchery.’ The moment of lust-filled madness, the evidence of which is printed in the bruising between my thighs and in the lingering sense of his hands against my skin.
‘You’re entitled to be nuts for a wee while.’
‘Hey! No nuts conversations or any of the good stuff until I’m in the room,’ yells a voice from the kitchen. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have seen his nuts at all, ‘cos you’d’ve headed to one of the rubbish pubs. Ones full of old men!’
‘Anyway ’ Ivy turns my hand, taking it between her own. ‘I don’t think you’re mental for going home with the hottie. You were just hurt.’ I open my mouth to deny—to tell her I was mainly numb, when she cuts me off. ‘I think last night was, in a way, you evening the score. And I think, even though we both know you’re not a one-night stand sort of woman, if there even is such a thing, what happened last night was probably inevitable. It was going to happen sometime. You were taking back control.’
Nope, I had very little control, more like. Especially when he held me against the hallway mirror, pounding me from behind.
‘And the stakes weren’t high—you weren’t going to be hurt.’
I really don’t know what to say. It’s obvious her and Dr. Natasha, MD, as in mental donut, have been setting my life to rights while I’d spent the night being screwed senseless. And it seems they’re now both now singing from the same hymn sheet, albeit not exactly in harmony.
Revenge seems to be this weekend’s buzz word; first Rory and now Ivy. But I’m not so blinded by anger to think a one-night stand will solve everything. It was just a moment of madness following a moment of clarity, because I now refuse to bear the responsibility for Marcus’ death. The man left me poor in more than one way. Poor of wealth, heart and spirit. He deserves none of my guilt; he betrayed me first.
And often, it seems.
‘You’re not, are you?’ Ivy’s voice brings me back with a snap.
‘Not what?’
‘Hurt?’ her gaze begins scanning my features—my arms and legs.
‘No more than she asked for, I’ll bet,’ says Natasha, returning from the kitchen, balancing a laden tea tray. ‘Here,’ she says, placing it on the coffee table. ‘Weak tea and a plain biscuit for the lame and lazy.’ She hands Ivy a steaming mug and one plain cookie, the pair exchanging an odd kind of look. I don’t ponder this for very long as Natasha hands me a cup of what looks like pale green water.
‘What is it?’ I ask, narrowing my eyes at the contents of the cup.
‘Green tea. It’s good for you,’ she says, nodding encouragingly. ‘Ivy’s cupboards are full of the stuff.’
‘And?’ Because there has to be a punchline.
‘It’s full of antioxidants, which as we all should know, combats the effects of free radicals, are good for your body, and karmically counterbalance the act of hook-up sex.’
‘Good to know,’ I say, hiding a smile behind the fragrantly steaming mug.
‘And after all that protein last night, I thought you might need some sugars to balance it all out,’ she continues, uncovering a small plate.
‘Protein?’ I ask, realising she’s handed me a sandwich. I peel the corner of the bread. Peanut butter and jelly.
‘No! Just no,’ interrupts Ivy, making a kind of karate chop with her hand. ‘Don’t even go there. I’m still feeling very fragile and I can smell it from here. Take it away, for God’s sakes!’
‘After I sat with you all night, brushing the puke dripped hair from your eyes, you won’t even let me have this moment of vicarious fun?’
‘Vicarious?’ I repeat laughingly.
‘Aye. I’ve got an English GCSE, you know. It means when you can’nae have any of your own,’ she answers pointedly.
‘God, just don’t tease her with foodstuffs.’ Ivy sighs, dunking the last half of her plain biscuit into her mug. The room is quiet, for about three seconds, before Natasha speaks again.
‘How was the snow storm?’
‘Did it snow last night?’ Ivy looks up from her drink, her gaze sliding to the window and back again. Neither Nat nor I answer. ‘For goodness sakes, it’s nearly spring.’
‘It was, er, a good lay,’ I reply quietly, trying not to smile.
‘Was it soft and gentle or in like a squall?’
‘Really?’ I deadpan.
‘What? I could’ve asked if it was a big dump.’
I shake my head. ‘It was good, okay?’ My voice breaks on the last word.
‘How many inches?’
‘Ah, good Christ,’ groans Ivy. ‘Cut it out. I’m hungover not deaf!’ She hunches her shoulders over her mug, grumbling something about delicate constitutions and trying to rest in a room full of whore’s drawers.
So, out of the corner of my mouth I whisper. ‘The higher end of your scale.’
‘Really!’ Ivy huffs, an exclamation, not a request for confirmation.
‘Excuse me, but women in that entire place were eye banging him. It was like an eye-bang-gangbang, so yeah, really,’ Nat answers. ‘I want to know.’
‘That’s it,’ Ivy grumbles. ‘I’m away to my bed.’
Neither of us speaks as she shuffles from the room, though Nat returns quickly to her questions as the bedroom door clicks closed.
‘So was it a night of hot, angry sex? Has he got more tattoos than those on his arms?’ She pulls her legs up onto the chair, eagerly crossing them.
‘Not angry.’ It was a lot of things, but not that.
‘Oh. That’s a shame,’ she says, her brows pulling into a frown. ‘Angry sex can sometimes be . . .’ I’m expecting her to say something crass when she surprises me. ‘Cathartic.’
‘No, but it was good.’
‘I bet it was,’ she answers, her tone more to type. ‘Will you see him again?’
‘No, he’s a tourist, I think.’ I take a sip from my drink to prevent me from adding anything.
‘Probably sensible. Best not to get attached.’ I offer a noncommittal shrug. ‘Just remember the boinking,’ she says, sniggering. ‘You’ll always have that.’
Chapter Sixteen
Fin
‘Sweetheart.’
Later Sunday evening, Soraya calls.
‘Raya, how’ve you been?’
‘I’m fabulous, darling, having spent the last two days with my mother in Tehran.’ Her tone conveys what her words don’t. Born in Singapore and raised in Dubai, Soraya is the only child of a very wealthy Iranian woman, who in turn, is the widow of a very wealthy Iranian man. I gather they both consider themselves fortunate in this regard.
