by C. J. Duggan
His body’s reaction only excited me, encouraged me further, and just as I was about to slide my hand lower, something froze me from my actions. Ringer’s hand snaked out and caught my wrist in a vice-like grip. My stomach plummeted, and the horror on my face was well and truly illuminated as he flicked the bedside lamp on, showing him my flushed expression, the hunger in my eyes as I looked down at his mystified expression. His eyes were not bleary from sleep, but narrowed in dark questions, and his breaths were just as laboured as my own. I thought his stare would burn a hole straight through my skull: unblinking, alarmed and truly surprised. I was about to scurry away into the night, mortified, until something happened. His eyes dipped lower, to where my unbuttoned shirt plunged and parted, exposing my nakedness underneath, before flicking back up to me. He swallowed deeply, and his need betrayed him. In that moment I never felt more powerful; it was all I needed to make my next move. Either out the door to die of embarrassment, or make my move right here, right now with Ringer. I chose the latter.
Chapter Twenty-One
RINGER
I was dreaming, I had to be.
Miranda Henry, scantily clad, touching me in the dead of night would never happen in a million years, she had said so herself. Not even alcohol could be blamed. We had left the Commercial hours before and even then she walked a straight line, drove the car with ease. And yet there she was above me, looking like a blonde angel, an angel with the look of the devil in her eyes.
Fuck.
I should send her away; she would thank me in the morning, seeing as she hated me already. She was sure to despise me, and herself more, if this was going where I think it was going. And if this started, that would be it; if this were what she wanted, there would be no going back for me.
I had to ask if she was sure—maybe it was all that she needed to snap her out of this—but as my eyes dipped to her exposed breast from her slipped shirt, I knew I was a fucking goner. If it wasn’t then, it was most certainly when Miranda moved, pressing her hand on my chest to lie back down, and then slowly straddled me.
Holy shit!
I could feel the heat of her even with the blanket between us. A blanket that really had to go—even the thinness of the barrier was too much—as I needed to feel her against me. She needed it too as she sat back, shifting the blanket off me, exposing my bare top half and my tented boxers. The way she bit her lip made me want to explode right there and then, but, Jesus, I clamped the urge down. Her doe-like eyes lifted to mine as if asking a silent question as her hands rested on my abdomen; when I didn’t move she took that as a yes. That was the key to this. Don’t move; don’t let her stop. I clearly would never know or understand what went through Miranda Henry’s beautiful head, but all I knew was something drove her into my room, into my bed, and if it meant not saying a goddamn thing to make her stay, then I was completely and utterly at her mercy. She broke away from my eyes, running her delicate tongue over her bottom lip that was only a moment before punctured with teeth marks. She moved her hands to slide down my stomach, causing me to inhale for the torture of it on my sensitive skin. I bit the side of my mouth to force silence as I knew where she was headed and that is exactly where I wanted her to go. Her finger hooked into the elastic of my boxers and peeled them down, exposing me to her eyes, eyes that I almost didn’t recognise. I had seen the fire in Miranda’s eyes before; hell, it was that deep-seeded burning hatred she often looked at me with, but as her eyes met mine, it was a different kind of fire: a burning, powerful need I knew mirrored my own. She never tore away from my eyes, even when she took me in her hand and stroked me up and down in a slow, maddening rhythm. I closed my eyes, reeling from the sensation. She was turning me into a mad man, a man who wanted to beg and cave and do whatever she wanted, but still I was silent in fear of snapping her out of her femme-fatale state, and just as I repeated the vow of silence over and over in my head that I was crushing back into my pillow, the silence was obliterated as I felt her soft, hot mouth on me.
“Miranda,” I exhaled. I couldn’t help it. My eyes flung open to see the top of Miranda’s blonde head moving over me, my hands instinctively folded through the silken folds of her hair, my hands gently guiding her pace. When she looked up into my eyes, I was lost, completely and utterly lost to her, and she knew it too, as a wicked smiled teased her lips as she withdrew from me. She felt the violent rise and fall of my chest as she steadied herself by placing her palms on my chest, so as to manoeuvre herself above me. I let her take control, my hands fisting in the sheets by my side as she took me in her hand and guided me slowly into her mouth again. I groaned, clenching my jaw as my hips lifted involuntarily to guide her. Miranda’s breaths blew over my hot skin as she adjusted her pace, and technique.
Holy shit!
I had to think about something else, volcanoes erupting … no, trains travelling through tunnels … no, Demi More making clay pottery … hell, no!
She took me deeper and I was lost in the mad throws of torture and ecstasy combined.
“Miranda.” My voice was hoarse, my breathing hard. “You better stop.”
Miranda looked up at me with her half-hooded stare, then she moved, running her hot lips up my abs.
“Why?’” She smirked against my skin.
She bloody well knew why.
And I didn’t want to do that. There was nothing romantic about this; whatever this was it wasn’t for romance or feelings. Christ, I didn’t know what it was, other than an absolute surprise, and don’t get me wrong, as far as surprises go this was at the top of my list, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better …
Miranda ran a slow trail of kisses and nips up across my chest, the folds of her hair whispering across my skin. She worked her way up to nip and kiss along my neck; my throat swallowing deep, she kissed my Adam’s apple. She pressed her lips together as if savouring the taste. She hovered above me, her hair curtaining us from the glow of the lamplight, but I could see the depths of her green-blue eyes. She neared my mouth, tantalisingly close, but not touching, our hot, shallow breaths the only connection. She watched me, really watched me with such intensity until the corner of her mouth lifted.
“Do you want to come in my mouth?”
Holy fucking hell.
She was like no girl in Onslow, and I am pretty certain there was no one like her in Ballan. The way her eyes challenged me, her wry taunting smile, she had completely taken me over, dominating from the first touch until I was a quivering mess who would do anything she wanted. This was foreign territory for me. I was usually the persuader, the one in charge, whispering the questions into the skin of a quivering girl, not the other way around. And although this would seem like every man’s dream scenario, something stirred within me, and in an instant, the smile formed on my lips. In one swift movement I rolled, flipping Miranda onto her back and wedging myself comfortably against her; her eyes were wide and her breathing shallow at the unexpected turn of power. I pulled apart her shirt sending a spray of pearl buttons onto the floor; a yelp of shock only made me harder as her wide eyes looked up at me. There she lay, naked and quivering under me; I ran my own tongue and lips over her, this time making a trail up to the crook of her neck, and whispered,
“Ladies first.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Miranda
My world was spinning.
Completely thrown off its axis the moment Ringer flipped me onto my back, the motion had snapped me out of control and it suddenly dawned on me. I had come here for release, but I had also come here to assert some kind of control. I had never felt more beautiful or desired the way Ringer reacted to my touch, to my mouth. He looked up at me like I was a Goddess, and although I knew it was all fuelled by the traitorous parts of his body, it was still what I needed beyond anything. To feel wanted, and, oh, how he wanted me. I could see it even now as he looked down on my naked body pinned under him, his hardness wedged against me, causing my breath to hitch. And yet, this was not how it was supp
osed to be, this took away my control, my power. I didn’t just want to be fucked, that could happen at any time; I could have gotten that from Tom Hilton in the back seat of a car. No, I had wanted it to be different, and I had wanted it to be with no one other than Ringer.
I was seriously fucked up.
My body quivered, not out of desire but out of a new sensation. Stone-cold reality. I had wanted to sleep with Ringer if he begged me, but not to be just one of his emotionless conquests. I was an idiot to think anything else. Bedding women was probably an extra-curricular activity for him, and here I was trying to be some kind of seductress when I hadn’t slept with anyone since my cheating ex-boyfriend. I was way out of my league, clearly. And as the reality slammed into me with such an overwhelming force, I pushed at Ringer’s chest with all of my strength.
“Get off me,” I managed through the tears that wanted to flow.
“Miranda?” Ringer’s brows lowered as he eventually moved at my insistent push. “Are you okay?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling my button-less shirt together to find some dignity.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here,” I said quietly, and standing on my jelly-like legs, I made a direct line to the door, moving to open it. I only managed to pull it back a little before I felt the press of Ringer’s body behind me; wrapping his arm around me he pushed the door closed, wedging me against it. His lips were on my temple as his hot breaths blew rapidly against my skin.
“Don’t go, not like this,” he whispered, his voice pleading. His hand splayed against my bare stomach, his skin on mine burning into me. I closed my eyes, turned on mostly by his rapid breathing and his mouth that rested on my shoulder. We stayed there frozen for the longest moment; I made no effort to move. Wrapped in Ringer’s hold, pressed against the door, an excitement twisted in the pit of my stomach. An excitement that spiked as I felt Ringer trace lazy circles with his thumb into my skin. I bit my lip, finding my traitorous body lean back into him. His hand slid slowly down my abdomen, farther and farther until he found the very place he knew would unravel me. He slid his clever, taunting fingers inside me. First one, and then another. A noise I didn’t quite recognise as my own escaped me, my head falling back as Ringer kissed my neck.
“Shhh … just go with it,” he whispered.
Go with it? There was no way in hell I was not going to go with it, my control was lost to him, but I couldn’t have cared less. Above all the psychological bullshit in my own mind, this was what I needed. This was what had me staring up at the ceiling in my darkened room, trying to solve the mysteries of the universe. Well, I had found them within Ringer’s touch, the light teeth grazes against my shoulder and the dirty words he whispered into my ear as he brought me towards the cliff I would willingly tumble over. My hands splayed against the wood panel of the door, clawing as I arched back against Ringer, unable to contain my silence I readied myself to fall, to fall with the fierce intense pleasure he had driven me to, and just as I was about to ...
Ringer took away his hand.
WHAT?
He turned me around, crushing his mouth against mine, slamming my back into the door. The kiss was deep, claiming, hungry. And just as a thrill spiked through me at what was to come next, he pulled away, pressing his forehead against mine, wincing as if in pain, breathless.
“Go.”
“W-what?”
“Go, before I fuck you against this door.”
Sounded like a plan.
I blinked in confusion, the pent-up frustration of being so close to the bone-melting pleasure I had so desperately wanted.
“Are you serious?” An incredulous anger was rising in my chest.
Ringer looked down at me, his expression grave. “You don’t want this.”
It was like he had lit a fuse inside me as my eyes darkened. I pushed him. “Who are you to tell me what I want?”
“Miranda.” He sighed.
“Save it!” I said, wrapping my top fiercely around me. “You’re right, I don’t want this; if anything, you have saved me from insanity.”
Ringer’s expression darkened. “You already hate me enough, by morning you would hate me and yourself even more if we continued.” He looked … pained. What?
I paused in the door I had violently yanked open, looking back with eyes that I prayed would not well up just yet.
“Then why did you stop me?”
And when he had no answer, other than just a poignant stare, I walked through the door and slammed it behind me as hard as I could.
He was right. I did hate him. But more importantly, I hated myself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
RINGER
What had begun as a dream had ended in a nightmare.
With no sleep and a raging hard on that not even a cold shower could fix, I was set for the longest, most torturous day of my life: a five a.m. start for the official handover with a bright and breezy Steve for the day.
“So how did you go last night?”
I spat out a mouthful of O.J at the breakfast table, heading into a raging coughing fit that earned me a quizzical brow lift from Penny Henry. It was a pretty simple question. Still, barroom brawling, and an-almost blow job from your daughter didn’t make for friendly light-hearted chit-chat.
“Yeah, it was pretty uneventful,” I rasped.
“Ah, I see, so did you get the courtesy bus then?” Steve leant his elbows on the table, eagerly awaiting my answer.
No we stole your best mate’s Land Cruiser and drove home under the influence.
Yeah, I was definitely trustworthy enough to be left alone with your livelihood, possessions and daughter. I shifted in my seat thinking about how I would be, stranded there with her for two long weeks.
“Yep, got back just fine.” I suddenly found the remnants of the bottom of my O.J glass fascinating.
Penny Henry pushed out her chair from the table, gathering the empty breakfast plates. “I better start packing if you insist we leave tonight,” she said, offering a weak smile, as if she wasn’t looking forward to the task ahead.
I took the moment of man time to ask Steve an important question; lowering my voice I leant forward.
“Hey, Steve, about Miranda’s car.”
Steve winced, his head snapping around to where his wife disappeared down the hall. He motioned for me to be quiet and mimed towards the kitchen door. As I had suspected, Penny knew nothing about the car sabotage. I followed a nervous-looking Steve out onto the porch, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Just don’t go mentioning that around here, okay?”
“Sorry, I just think that maybe you should fix it before you head. I know you want her to stay but maybe it should be because she wants to,” I tried to reason.
Steve looked as if he was a million miles away. “I know I can’t make her stay, and she won’t, and I have accepted that. I know it seems selfish to expect her to be here, especially when we’re essentially the ones abandoning her. I guess I just had a bit of a manic moment seeing her here again after so long. It’s brought a lot of things back that I haven’t had to think about in a long while.”
I wanted to ask what things, but my silence seemed to encourage him to continue.
“You probably wonder why a farmer’s daughter is driving around in a busted-up old car anyway.”
It had crossed my mind.
“She used to have a nice car, a sporty little red Lancer when she turned eighteen. It was her birthday present from us.” Steve smiled at the memory. “Thinking back I think it was probably not the greatest decision. Ya see, when you have a wife and kids, you want to make them happy, you want to give them the things you never had, and living in a household full of girls who can twist you around their finger,” he snorted, “what bloody chance does a man have?”
I smiled past the cigarette I had placed in between my lips. “Not a chance.”
“Exactly. And besides wanting to give them all you can, you also want to protect them.”
He broke off, his eyes darkening and going to another place, a haunted place by the look of his lined face. “Four years ago, when Miranda was home and going through that delinquent phase teenagers go through—where everything is boring and parents are the enemy—we tried to lay off a bit on the discipline, thinking that all our rules were actually pushing her away. On the one night we decided to loosen the reigns, it was the one night all our lives would be turned upside down.”
The accident.
I had known no more than just the very mention of what Jenny at the pub was about to tell me, but when Steve started speaking through the last night of Miranda leaving the Commercial with her friend, Mel, and driving home drunk and flipping the car, it made my blood run cold.
I hadn’t even questioned why she was driving Bluey’s car last night, or why she parked it on the outskirts and walked into Moira Station instead of driving it. I was such an idiot. I didn’t think to believe that Miranda would be sneaking around in her twenties keeping secrets from her parents, but now I could tell the wounds were still pretty raw.
I had wondered about the tension between her and her parents, about what drove her to the shearers’ hut in the first place. It was because even after all this time, all these years, her parents obviously had an inability to let go. Who could blame them?
“You’re a good man, Steve, and I know I have only been here for five minutes, but I know you’re a great father.”
“What kind of father sabotages his daughter’s car?”
“One that cares. Besides, I don’t think too much sabotaging needed to happen to that bucket of rust,” I said.
“You never stop worrying about them, Ringer, no matter how old they get. Her mother and I just can’t see where she’s going, ya know? She seems so lost; I mean, what is she going to do now she’s back in Oz?”
