by Donna Alam
My moans filling the air.
The feeling that builds is so intense I strive to close my legs, prevented by his reprimanding grunt. I can’t keep still, my orgasm rolling around inside me like balls of silvery mercury. Pushing up onto my elbows I look down at him, it seems impossible that I can feel more, yet the sight of his dishevelled chestnut coloured head bent between my legs—the sight of a bird’s wing moving as though in flight, yet inked to his shoulder and neck—pulls me closer, my orgasm rolling closer, inch by inch.
That Rory must sense this is both a blessing and a curse as his fingers begin to pump harder and he fastens his mouth over my clit.
I either black out or blank out, I’m not sure which, the only thing I’m aware of is that I’m coming hard, and that I’m noisy with it.
‘Ohgodohfuckoh . . . Rory!’
Fireworks—stars—cloud my vision as I collapse boneless against the bed. Over my heaving chest, Rory appears to be climbing my body, a moment later his face is level with mine.
‘Sweet.’ He kisses my forehead and twists to the nightstand to retrieve a condom, but whether sweet refers to his supposed gentleness or is in some way a reference to me, I don’t know. And I won’t be able to ask until I regain the power of speech again.
Condom in place, he rolls to face me, absently wiping the back of his hand against his glistening mouth. I’m suddenly struck by how obscenely beautiful he is; massive and manly and wickedly gorgeous, his mouth and chin glistening. It’s a fleeting thought, dispelled as he slides lower and I tense, anticipating the sting as he settles between my legs.
A sting that doesn’t come.
Collectively, our eyes roll closed as Rory glides forward, pushing himself deep inside. My mind switches gears, my body responding as his hips rock, his palms flattened against the mattress either side of my head. Our movements are slow and unhurried. To begin with, at least, until Rory notches this whole show up a gear. With solid thrusts and low grunts, he gives me it all, the room filling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, sharp breaths and moans. I curl my legs around his back as though to draw him closer, desperate for this not to end as those large hands slip under my body, holding me where he needs as he pounds me solidly.
‘You like that,’ he growls against the skin of my throat.
Oh, I do. Seriously, I do, but can only answer in a hoarse, ‘Yes!’
‘Nice is it?’ I can hear the amusement in his words.
‘Fuck nice,’ I pant.
‘Oh, I think I am.’
Smart words elude me from here on in as I’m coming harder than a freight train. His hands grab my ass tighter, pulling me into him, his rasping breath at my ear as he grinds hard into me.
And into me.
‘Oh, God—that’s, fuck!’ Rory’s movements become halting and jerking, before his whole body is suddenly rigid and tense . . . but for the one piece of his body pulsing inside my own. The sounds he makes as I instinctively tighten around him . . . I could listen to on a loop.
It seems as though dawn begins creeping across the room moments later, both our bodies limp from climax overload. I’m too tired to even begin to think about moving, though concede this is a pretty awesome way to start the day.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fin
I wake for the second time today, the sound of the shower narrowing my options to two choices as far as I can tell. Option one is a repeat of last time: leave before he returns, probably all dripping wet and gorgeous, pretending I don’t have intimate knowledge of this man.
Option two is to behave like a grown up: wait until he returns, all dripping wet and gorgeous. Be civil, though resist him, and tell him this can’t possibly happen again.
The second is the most sane option, though the first is more tempting. As it happens, I don’t get to choose. I’m drawing up a mental pro and con list as he walks back into the room. Not dripping wet, but slightly damp, though still gorgeous, and pulling his blue t-shirt over his chest.
‘Want to head into the village for breakfast? There’s a café there, yeah?’
The blue in his shirt brings out the darker tones in his eyes, I notice, as he unceremoniously plunks himself onto the mattress next to my thigh.
‘You lost your voice?’
‘What?’ My eyes snap back to his face and to the suggestion of a knowing smile lingering there.
‘Or maybe you’re not hungry. For food.’
‘No. I am. I mean I’ve got to get back.’ I can’t move, not with any element of elegance or grace, because he’s blocking the way. Short of turning my back to him and rolling myself—and the sheet—out of the opposite side of the bed, I’m kinda stuck.
‘To your other job at the hair place?’
‘Yeah—wait. Just how do you know about that?’
‘I may be shameless but I’m not daft,’ he says, his expression now bland. ‘Did you really think I didn’t recognise you in the bar the other night?’
I can feel my mouth is open and close it with a snap. ‘I thought with my hair—’ My words come out in a rush because he sure didn’t recognise me without blue hair. ‘So you knew? All along?’ Though not exactly everything.
‘Yeah, but I was following your cues, titch. Playin’ along. You didn’t want to see me again, did you?’ As I shake my head, he says, ‘Well then.’ He adds a small shrug before trailing the back of his hand up my leg. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again, but don’t stress. I’ve no stalking plans.’
‘That wasn’t why.’
‘Whatever makes you comfortable. I’m an obliging sort of man.’ The innuendo in his words makes my cheeks burn. God, this is so awkward. ‘So, it’s a second job?’
‘What? Oh. Sort of. Not really. I’m just helping out.’
He nods as though understanding, though how can he, really? ‘And you’ve no time for breakfast?’ His large warm hand stills on my thigh. Absorbing the motion, I eventually remember to shake my head. ‘Lunch then.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, shaking it again.
‘Dinner? You’ve got to eat dinner,’ he says, giving me the full weight of his lazy grin, more parts sexy than indolent.
‘Look, this has been nice and all—’
‘Oh, the brush off,’ he says with a hard laugh. ‘At least you hung around this time, I suppose.’
‘No, it’s not like that,’ I begin.
‘No drama, hen,’ he says with a dismissive wave on his hand.
‘I think I panicked. It had been such a long time—’ I stop, teetering on the point of overshare.
‘I’m offering you a meal, not a trip down the altar, titch.’ His smile is wide and kind, and at the use of that God awful name, I feel my body relax. Strange. ‘Besides, it looks like I’ll be here all weekend.’
‘Really?’ How worrying, though I don’t think this is the reason my heart jolts.
‘I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be eating later, if you can join me, great. No strings. Just lots of eatin’,’ he adds roguishly.
‘I’ve really got to go. But—but I’ll see what I can do.’
He stands then, giving me the chance to do the same, wrapped in the sheet, which seems kind of silly, especially as I catch him smirk.
‘What?’ I turn my back to him, opening one of the drawers I’d put my clothes into earlier in the week.
‘You live here, then?’
I chance a guarded glance over my shoulder. ‘No, of course not. It’s just . . .’ I like my space. I like spending time without people asking me how I feel, like I’m constantly three seconds away from flipping out. ‘I lost track of time and missed the tide a couple times. I didn’t much want to cycle across to the village at one in the morning in the dark. So I just . . .’ I turn my gaze back to the drawer, slipping out underwear and a pair of jeans.
‘Prepared for all eventualities?’
‘Hardly. It’s just some spare jeans.’ I hold up the pair of black, shiny jeans recently pulled from the drawer.
‘A kitt
ed out bathroom and a really comfy bed.’ Behind me, I hear the springs squeal in protest at Rory’s thrown weight. ‘Really comfy.’
‘Have at it,’ I say, trying not to look at the big bronzed effigy of Michelangelo’s David spread enticingly against the pillows, hands folded beneath his head. ‘I—I need to shower,’ I mumble, leaving the room as his voice follows me.
‘If you want me to wash your back, gimme a yell.’
I emerge from the shower all pink, and not just from the cold water, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disconcerted to find him still in the room.
‘I thought you had work to begin. Oh—didn’t you want me to show you around?’
‘Nah. I’ll be fine. I’ll get there. Eventually.’
I slip on my rain boots, well, Ivy’s rain boots, or wellies, as she calls them, still conscious of his eyes. Are they . . .
‘Are you seriously looking down my shirt right now?’
‘Yep,’ he answers, completely unabashed. ‘And at your nipples yesterday as you stood out in the cold. Your legs and that lovely arse. I can go on if you like?’
As I straighten, I know I should have some kind of retort. Instead, I find I can’t make my mouth work.
‘Too honest?’ he asks, all faux innocence.
‘A little.’
‘There’s no such thing. I like what I see, so I like to look. Especially as I know what’s taunting me under those clothes.’
I look down at myself, knowing I really oughtn’t to ask, though find myself doing so. ‘Looking at what?’
‘One smokin’ hot body. Curves in all the right place. Thighs like pale silk.’
‘I—I have to go.’
His laughter follows me to the doorway of the cottage where I find myself turning as the handle moves out of my hand.
‘I should’ve locked it. Tied you to the bed so I could have my wicked way with you all weekend.’ He laughs at my expression, his eyes darkening as I speak.
‘Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.’
‘Oh, I have. Plenty.’
And just what am I supposed to do with that?
Rory bumps his hip against mine and I jump a little, startled. ‘The offer stands.’
‘I—I really,’ I say, rapidly shaking my head. ‘Really, really have to go.’
‘I meant food later,’ he says, laughing. ‘Or the other. I’m up for both.’ Then he curls his hand around the top of the door because he’s just that kind of tall. The sight of his muscles bunching and his tattoos shifting has my mouth dry.
‘Maybe. I don’t know. If I can, but only dinner, though.’
‘Sure.’ He answers with a slight shrug and a deep inhale. ‘That was . . .’ His eyes flick over me, heating each place they touch.
Earthshattering? Mind blowing? Vagina breaking? All those things and probably more. I’d expected this to be awkward; parting is such sweet sorrow and all. Not tears, exactly. Maybe a little regret with a spoonful of shame? What I hadn’t expected was the desire to do it all over again, right here against the door or the wall.
I should say something—agree or reply—but I can’t seem to find the words, my mind replaying snapshots of this thing. Of us. Of sex. Again.
‘Aye,’ he adds, his slow growing smile confirmation that he’s thinking the same thing. ‘It was definitely . . .’ His gaze flickers from mine, settling on my mouth. ‘Something else.’
My return smile is bashful, my vision now on Ivy’s bright blue boots.
‘I’d better go,’ I murmur, my gaze rising once more. ‘Time, tide and walks of shame wait for no woman, I suppose.’
‘Shame? I’ll be out there later, passing people and dishing out high-fives.’ And then he does something I’ve never seen done in real life, a sort of inhalation-teeth-kissing thing, as though I’m something tasty he’d gladly demolish, given half a chance. His eyes do one last sweep of appreciation over my body before physically rousing.
‘Did you say you rode over?’
‘I cycle, yeah.’
‘Let me grab my keys and I’ll drop you home.’
‘No,’ I say immediately, stopping his progress. ‘Really, it’s fine. It’s not even cold.’ My words are a brightly delivered lie, unsupported as I pull my jacket closed. ‘Besides, the ride over is the only exercise I get.’
He tilts his head to the side as though in study . . . of me. And then I realise what I’ve said.
‘A ride for exercise.’ Holy knicker melting tone. ‘Maybe I’ll have to work you over harder next time.’
Next time. I’d had no plans to see him after last time, viewing his reappearance in my life as fate’s strange gift. And now this one-time offer has doubled by some strange coincidence. Would it be safe to do him—I mean, see him—again?
I tell myself it’s the cold weather that’s stinging my cheeks and chest, reminding myself that this is dangerous territory.
‘Rory,’ I say sort of halting, because the man has determination written all over him. And isn’t he cold standing at the door in an open shirt? ‘I—I hadn’t counted on a second time.’
‘A fortunate happenstance.’ As though reading my thoughts he trails his hand from sternum to waist, sliding it into his jeans pocket. No fair. ‘Serendipitous, really.’
I swallow, then rub the back of my hand across my mouth in a less than ladylike manner before I speak. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘And happenstance programmed my number into your phone.’ Sliding his hand from his pocket he pulls out my iPhone, placing it into mine.
Determined. Definitely.
I make to step from the doorway and into the cool morning air when he grabs a handful of my jacket, pulling my back against his chest.
‘You’ll think about it,’ he says, his warm lips grazing my cheek, so I nod, knowing no good can come from opening my mouth right now. ‘In the meantime, don’t have too much fun without me, aye?’
I stumble from the small step dazzled by the feel of his warm chest, his brazenness or the weight in his words. Who can tell?
My feet crunch against the gravel and I don’t hear the door close, which probably means he’s still watching my ass. I try not to give him the satisfaction of my giggle, especially as it comes from a little left of terrified.
As I pedal across the causeway, I decide the fact that we haven’t exchanged stories beyond the basics, and that I’ve been more than vague about my reasons for being in the village, should give me a little peace. He might know to find me at the house or the salon, but not that I live above it. I’m happy to keep it that way.
Rousing myself, I give a brief shake of my head. No doubt he’ll be on his way soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rory
I arrive back at the salon very wobbly legged, this time not just from cycling. Parking Ivy’s ancient turquoise bike against the shed door, I quickly jog up the back stairs to change my shoes. I also need to run the straightening iron through my hair and put on a little makeup, but both of those things I can do downstairs on the salon floor. One of the perks of the industry I suppose, though I can’t very well work the desk with nothing more than the wind in my cheeks. I notice my bangs are growing out pretty rapidly as I slick a little moisturiser over my face and make a mental note to ask Ivy to fit me in for a cut when she has time. This time I’ll actually be able to pay, if she’ll let me.
Ballet flats, a black shirt, and I’m ready for the reception desk, so enter the salon to be greeted by Nat’s complaints.
‘If I’d’ve known there was a uniform, I might’ve had second thoughts.’
‘Away with your complaining,’ returns Ivy. ‘It’s the same as you wore in the last place.’
‘Aye, but now I’m treatments manager, not just staff.’
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, rounding the corner. Ivy is tying on a tiny apron, mostly ignoring Nat’s contempt.
‘How come she’s no’ wearing the thing?’ Pointing a finger in my direction, Nat then runs it a
round the neck of her new tunic; black with a mandarin collar, she looks like a staff member of a five-star spa.
‘She’s not an employee. Besides, business casual works for the front desk. It’s professional,’ Ivy says as Nat begins to speak again. ‘Like your new uniform. And before you ask, no, you can’t wear it with your hot pants.’
‘It’s too fucking long for a kick off.’ Nat narrows her gaze. ‘And was that some kind of dig at my dress sense?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ I interject calmly. ‘If we had legs like you, we’d all dress like Jessica Rabbit.’ In a strip club.
‘I think I’d prefer to be compared to Jessica Jaynes.’
‘Who?’
‘If you have to ask, it’s no good me explaining,’ Nat replies with a huff.
‘Busty Babes,’ pipes up June from one of the salon stations. ‘I think that was one of her films.’ She twists a head full of old-fashioned hair-rollers over her shoulder, attempting to catch Nat’s eye. ‘Was I right?’
‘Seriously, June, it’s a bit creepy that you’re familiar with my porn collection.’
‘Is that what those files are?’ June asks, scandalised. ‘You dirty wee besom. I’ll remind you, you’re no too big for a skelped arse!’
‘Give over, Nan. I know fine well you’ve seen them as many times as I have.’
I make my way over to the reception counter before either of the pair notice my pink cheeks, having recently being at the receiving end of a skelped ass myself. Who’d have thought that would be something I’d enjoy? The pair continue to verbally duke it out, unconcerned about the presence of others. In their family they don’t believe in hiding crazy. Nope, they pour it a cuppa and tell it to pull up a chair.
The mail dropping onto the mat catches my attention, though I try hard to ignore the mailman waving from the other side of the glass door. The lecherous old toad.
‘He was definitely one of your mum’s less discerning choices,’ says Ivy, sidling up to me at the reception desk. I don’t look up though I nod.
‘Thomas Dawdon. He gave me the heebie-jeebies while he and mom were dating.’
