by Donna Alam
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 the 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.’
Chapter 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 against 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?’
‘Maybe,’ she replies with something more breath than a laugh. ‘What about you?’
‘You want to know if I’ve imagined . . .’ I trail my hands across her body, coming to rest them just short of her inner thighs. ‘If I’ve remembered, cock in hand? Heard your soft mewls and imagined your sweet pussy, relived the night again?’
Her breath hitches and she pushes into my hands, letting out a breathy, ‘Yes.’
‘No. Not a bit, titch.’
‘Liar,’ she says, laughing softly. At least until I slide my hand into the front of her pants.
‘If you’ve an objection to being bent over the table, you’d better show me where you prefer to fuck.’
Moments later our feet are crunching over the weed-choked gravel as we make our way to what was once, I know, a line of stables, that were remodelled some years ago into a row of holiday homes. I hang back a little to admire the view, the sight of her arse in those leggings doing fuck all to ease the strain in my jeans.
‘Four cottages.’ As we stop at the first door of the old stable block, now painted a weather worn red, she turns, raising her voice against the rising strength of the wind. ‘I’d say they’re a recent addition to the property.’ Turning back again, she stands on the tips of her toes, reaching to the top of the door frame.
‘I don’t care if it’s a fucking midden so long as I get inside you.’
‘What was that?’ She twists her head over her shoulder, the suggestion of a smile tweaking her lips.
‘I said let’s get you inside.’ Or words to that effect, I reply, as she produces a key.
The door creaks as it opens and we’re immediately in the front room where the possibilities seem suddenly endless. A sofa to bend her over. A coffee table where she won’t hurt her knees while she sits and sucks my cock. A small dining setting from which to eat her out. But it seems we’re not stopping as she takes my hand, pulling me down a short hallway. And into a bedroom.
The pale curtains are drawn and the bed is covered with an off white duvet that looks recently made. A half-full water glass stands on the bedside table, a phone charger plugged into the wall socket as a pair of pink socks lie abandoned on the floor. Like the rest of the place, the room is clean and lacks an air of abandonment.
‘Somebody’s been sleeping in this bed,’ I say, teasingly testing the suitability of the mattress, chucking myself down. I’m not sure why, but her relaxed air seems to dissipate. Her shoulders stiffen; she looks ready to bolt.
‘I—I suppose that was your attempt at a wolfish grin?’ she says, folding her arms, her feet planted wide. Which is better than turning on her toes.
‘See these?’ I flash her my best knicker dropping smirk, tapping my front teeth with my index finger. ‘All the better to eat you out with.’
‘I think you mean, all the bigger t—to—’ She stops with a jolt, possibly just realising what I’d actually said.
‘To eat you out with.’ I prop my weight on my elbows and pat the mattress by my hip. ‘So why don’t you be a good girl and hop on over here and sit on my face.’
‘C—cocky much?’ She blushes looking anywhere but at me, and for some reason I feel like I’ve been given a gift. More than just the girl in a tight t-shirt and bright blue wellies. Besides, this is no girl, but a woman. One with secrets and mysteries ripe for discovery. Does she know what she likes? Has she discovered it all yet?
‘And you love it.’ They all do secretly, in the bedroom, at least. I sit up when it becomes clear she’s not up for throwing herself at me. ‘Don’t be shy. Get over here.’
Her legs brush against the bottom of the mattress as she steps closer, almost as though she’s taken my words as a dare. ‘It’s just different in the dark,’ she murmurs, almost as though to herself. ‘Feels safer.’
‘Let not the light see my desires.’
‘You like the dark, too?’
‘I was quoting Shakespeare,’ I say, smiling at the idiocy in that. ‘Impressed yet?’ Her return smile has the look of relief as I take her hand, pulling her in between my splayed legs. ‘I don’t mind the dark. Though my desires may be shameful, I have no shame.’
‘Shameless,’ she repeats, raising her hands and feeding them into my hair. Her fingers are light on the nape of my neck, causing me to repress a shiver. ‘I’d like to experience that.’
My response is to push my hands under her t-shirt, shoving it upwards. Her breath hitches and her hands still in my hair for a beat before she lifts them, allowing me to peel the fabric the rest of the way. Dropping it to the floor, I place my hands against her tiny waist, sliding my thumbs up and down her soft skin.
‘Then you’re about to come on the right man. I’m imagining all kinds of shameless things right now. Bad, wicked things.’
‘I can’t help noticing where you address these . . . thoughts.’
My eyes flick upwards to her face. ‘To your tits? Aye, well, what can I say?’ My gaze returns to the area in question. ‘They’re partly the cause. You’ve got great tits, Fin.’ On the small side, though big enough to make me want to taste them. Wonder what colour her nipples are? It was hard to tell in the dark, which leaves me guessing right now. Sitting straighter, I try to peek down the front of a satin bra that’s almost the colour of her creamy skin, then I quickly glide my hands up her back, loosening the clasp.
Her breath stills.
�
�Fuck, yeah. Pink.’ Like a fool I sit staring when she drops her arms and the straps follow, falling from her wrists. My gaze is unmoving for a long, loaded beat, drawn to the shallow rise and fall of her breath.
‘You’re so fucking pretty.’ My hands cup the top of her ribcage, thumbs stretching to caress rosy nipples. She smells of something soft and feminine—some kind of floral scent? And her nipples are like ripe berries, the kind you long to pop into your mouth.
And I’m not known for my restraint.
My heart beats like a drum as I lean in and touch her with my tongue and lips, sucking the hard bud into my mouth as she lets out a gasp, pressing into me. Pulling back, I test my theory from that night that she likes things a little rough, and bite down none too gently.
Holy Christ; the best kind of reaction. Her back arches and her mouth opens in a silent plea, her nails digging into my shoulders, making me hiss a short curse.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers,
Fuck that. ‘Do it again,’ I say around her nipple, blowing the stiff peak. ‘As hard as you like.’ I have both of my hands full, doing what a man does, given the opportunity. Namely, lap suck and nibble while wishing he had two mouths.
‘Touch me.’
I still at her soft demand, her words sending a brush of anticipation dancing from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine. She doesn’t have to ask twice; I have my hand in her knickers before she takes her next breath.
Her skin is soft and slick as I run a finger between her lips.
‘Christ, you feel like silk. I want to lick every part of this. Lap you all up.’ The latter comes out as a growl, and as I slip my finger inside, she lets out the most glorious sound, somewhere between a moan and a breath; a taut, needful sound. ‘You like the sound of that. You’d like me to fuck you with my tongue, wouldn’t you?’
‘Rory,’ she gasps, her forehead coming to rest against mine. Her breath is sweet and warm against my face as she says, ‘As much as I love your dirty mouth, please stop talking and just fuck me.’
