by Alam, Donna
‘It’s the uniform.’ Mel sighs. ‘They don’t call young men of his rank young and thrusting for nothing.’
‘I don’t even want to know,’ I answer in a droll tone.
‘Please don’t hold it against him, Nell,’ she pleads. ‘Also, please don’t let him hold it against you.’ She laughs smuttily.
Urgh. I’ve told her already; I’m off men for the foreseeable. Not that I’d classify her little brother as such. He’s just Ben. The boy that was a pain in my ass. Thankfully, it sounds like he’s now tormenting other girls. Maybe in other ways. But none of this is my problem, other than I need to give him a room to stay.
‘Your brother’s virtue, or lack thereof, is safe with me. I have neither the time nor the inclination. I’ve promised myself I’m going to be single for at least six months.’
‘I give your man-hab until the three-month mark.’ She snorts indelicately.
‘Man what?’
‘Man-hab. Like rehab but for men.’
‘And when can I expect Lieutenant Captain Monroe to arrive?’ I ask, ignoring the rest.
‘It’s Captain, actually. And about that—’
I’ve barely put my needles down—my attention span is about three minutes as far as this hobby goes—when the doorbell rings. I turn my head to the sound as Mel’s words poke at my attention.
‘—it was supposed to be next week. Friday next week, which is a whole ten days away.’
‘Mel . . .’
‘And then I got a phone call this morning, and well, it seems he arrived today.’
The bell rings again. ‘That’s him at the door, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t tell who’s at your door, can I? But, okay, yes. Probably.’
‘You . . . ’ I roll my lips inward lest any words escape that I might regret later. ‘Well played, bitch face.’ Oops! Slipped out anyway.
‘Even if I hadn’t given him your address, he could find you anyway.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He works in intelligence,’ she replies, as though talking to my twelve-year-old self.
‘Great. So you’ve sent me a spy lodger!’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s just Ben. You are such a worrywart.’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is sucker.’
‘Nope. It’s nice. I knew you wouldn’t make him go to a hotel.’
‘You owe me,’ I grumble.
‘And I intend to pay—in hugs and kisses and the best night out ever this Saturday. Talk soon!’
I throw my phone into the basket with my wool as I hiss out a curse, pulling my weary self up from the couch. With a sigh, I trudge out to the hall and pull open the front door. At the end of the garden there’s a man, which is no big surprise, but what is a surprise is the size of the man. At least six-foot, his large shoulders taper to a trim waist and a fine behind—I mean f-i-n-e. It’s the kind of ass that really fills out a pair of jeans.
This can’t be the skinny beanpole I knew—except his hair is a bit of a giveaway. It’s not exactly regulation short, but it is still very blond. Basically, it’s the blond hair that gives him away because the rest of him does not look the same. When did I see him last? He was maybe nineteen and though he’d filled out from the scrawny kid who’d flip his lid if you teased him about his Dungeon and Dragons predilection, he didn’t fill out a pair of jeans like that.
Because that is an ass only a blind girl wouldn’t notice.
Lord, this is Ben I’m talking about. Little Ben. Little Ben who grew up. And out. But still, I shouldn’t be staring at him like a pervert.
‘Ben?’ I call hesitantly, eventually finding my voice.
As he turns, his gaze meets mine, almost stunning me. I’d forgotten how blue his eyes were, but like the rest of him, they seem more. Maybe it’s the contrast of his deep tan or maybe it just is, but his gaze is fiercer, more intense. I take in the rest of him; the strong set of his jaw covered in a tawny stubble, the quirk in the corner of his full lips, and the paler lines that bracket his mouth, lines that suggest he smiles a lot. He looks . . . wow, like a man. A whole lot of man.
As he turns fully, the light in his gaze turns to something else—recognition, maybe—and his half smile is suddenly as wide and as sweet as a cut watermelon. His long legs eat up the path to my front door, then he’s in front of me, and I’m suddenly aware just how big he really is as he drops the large bag he’s holding in his left hand and slides the other through his hair.
Hel-lo, bicep!
‘Wow.’ I’ve studied eight years to be a doctor. I can repair an exploded perineum with the precision of a Parisian tailor and can recall the Latin names for at least ninety medical terms. But right now, all my brain can find is wow? At least I’m keeping my tongue in my mouth. ‘Look at you!’ I find myself exclaiming a less that brilliant encore. ‘Little Ben . . . ’
And I swear, that smile? It takes on a sudden smug edge. And I almost don’t hear what he says, his words taking a beat to sink into my brain because all I can hear is a voice that is as deep and as resonant as the chime of Big Ben.
But I do hear unfortunately. Boy, do I hear.
‘Hello Nelly,’ he says. ‘It’s been a while.’
Chapter 3
BEN
‘Hello, Nelly. It’s been a while’
Fuck yes, it has. My body vibrates with the desire to fling my arms around her, to pick her up and swing her around, but something tells me restraint is in order. Firstly, I haven’t seen her for years, not really, because dreams don’t count. God, this girl—no, woman—featured nightly in my dreams from ages twelve through nineteen. Dreams that, strangely, started up again recently. The best kind of dreams, ones that have matured in depth and meaning. And by that, I mean dream Nell and I fuck a lot.
I feel a certain kind of satisfaction as she stares at me, though stare doesn’t really cover what she’s doing. She’s basically checking me out. Nell Ballantine checking me out, not rolling her eyes or screaming and running in the opposite direction.
Despite her reaction, my genuine happiness is masked by my childish taunt. She was Pen or Penny to my sister and Penelope to our parents. And Nelly when I wanted her attention. Which was always. And Smelly Nelly when I was feeling particularly vicious, though she never smelled less than delicious. And I would know given the years I spent trying to get close enough to catch a whiff of her shampoo. I loved the way she smelled and remembered the abject thrill of finding a tub of mandarin body butter she’d left in Melody’s bedroom. Let’s just say I’m surprised I didn’t wank myself to death with the stuff that weekend.
Maybe it isn’t the way she looks at me but rather the way she looks that makes it hard not to slip into old patterns because, Jesus fucking Christ, how does she look exactly the same? Tiny, like a naughty sprite, dark hair curling wildly around her face, and pale, milky skin.
As we stare at each other, I can’t help but be drawn back to my teenage years. Nell seemed to be at our house more than she was at her own because she and Melody were joined at the hip. And me? I was just the annoying little brother who was always in the way. I shake my head, not quite able to believe this is real.
‘If you’re going to stay with me, you can’t call me that again.’ I’d forgotten the lure of her soft American accent. Hearing it now, all stern and bossy, only serves to make my dick exceedingly happy.
‘What? Nelly?’ I respond, my words dripping with faux innocence. As she opens her mouth, I add, ‘Or do you mean Smelly Nelly?’
‘I mean it, Ben.’
Her tone—her puckered brow—it all brings back a deluge of memories. I’d made it my life’s mission to fuck with her. And then, when I got a little older, I realised the kind of fucking I craved was a different thing altogether. Noticing she’s still frowning at me, I can’t help but chuckle, accompanying it with another rueful shake of my head.
‘Nell, you are a sight for sore, tired eyes.’
So much for hiding how I feel.
Felt—how I felt.
Her expression softens, maybe at this particular iteration of her name. I’ve never used it before, at least out loud. Maybe no one has. I can’t help but let my gaze wander from her face to breasts that are more than a handful, and for a short girl, she has legs for fucking days. A waist I could mostly span with my two hands and—
‘When you’re done staring,’ she asserts, stepping back from the open door to allow me to pass through. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a grin I can’t suppress because, funnily enough, I’m not sorry at all. As I step over the threshold, I inhale a lungful of her intoxicating scent. ‘It’s like going back in time.’
‘It is a little tired looking.’ Her tone is flat as I watch her gaze move to the oak wainscoting before she closes the front door. Maybe the hallway could do with a lick of paint, but that’s not what I meant. Not at all.
‘Seems like you spent my entire childhood in pyjamas,’ I say, dropping my bag again while trying extra fucking hard to keep my eyes off her legs. Weekends seemed to consist entirely of sleepovers followed by lazy mornings of Melody and Nell eating cereal in their nightclothes or stretched out in front of the TV. I can’t recall what my sister wore, but I remember Nell’s pyjamas choices. Cute cartoon characters and super short shorts, it was as though she was constantly going through a growth spurt to explain why the cheeks of her arse were peeking out, and why the shirt was always tight enough to be able to tell the temperature of the house. Or maybe I was just a twelve-year-old pervert. Either way, this woman right here is the reason I have a type.
‘I worked last night,’ she says, gesturing me in through a door on the left. ‘I really ought to be in bed.’
‘Need any company?’ I can’t help but mutter as I pass.
‘What?’
‘Do you work for a good company?’
‘I’m a doctor.’ Her brows pull together in a cute frown. I know she’s a doctor. We might not have kept in touch, but I still follow her news through Mel. She’s someone who brings life into the world. Unlike me, who takes it out. I swallow the sudden acrid bitterness, the familiar metallic tang or gunfire that seems to follow me everywhere.
‘Oh yeah, I remember Melody saying so. That’s kind of like working in pyjamas, though, right?’ Suddenly, she looks offended. ‘Scrubs, I mean.’
‘Oh. Yes. I suppose so,’ she replies, gesturing for me to take a seat.
Fucking pyjamas. Great. I’ve basically just confirmed her lifelong suspicion of me being an idiot. But pyjamas . . . my eyes follow the smooth expanse of leg as I ponder how her taste in nightwear hasn’t changed. Instead of Pooh Bear or a Disney Princess, this morning’s pyjamas have Christmas puddings printed over her tits. As she flops into the corner of the sofa and stretches, I read the slogan underneath.
Keep your mitts off my puddings.
‘What’s funny?’ she asks, frowning again.
‘I was just making note of your instructions.’ I make a circle with my index finger in the vague directions of her delicious puddings, full and soft. God, I remember the year she got tits. They seemed to come in overnight. If that year of my life had a title, it’d be something like The Year of the Boner because it seemed to be permanent.
‘What instruct—’ Taking heed of my finger, Nell glances down, her frown morphing into a fierce blush. ‘Your damn sister,’ she mutters.
‘I guessed as much. You should see the T-shirt she got me last Christmas.’
‘Oh, it was a Harry Potter one, wasn’t it?’ she says, the quirk of her pink lips matching her blush.
‘I’m certain I never read the line, I’ll show you my wand if you flash me your snitch in any of the Harry Potter series.’
‘She had it custom printed, you know. On account of you being a massive Potter head when you were a kid.’
‘Ah, the delights of a spotty adolescence,’ I return, trying, though not very hard, to restrain my smile. I’m more than a little chuffed she remembers. ‘Sadly, there was nothing cool about me. At least until I got to uni when I was able to cultivate the suave personality you see today.’
‘I don’t remember you being funny.’ Her dark eyes narrow, though she’s still smiling, making me feel a little naked under her gaze. I’d like to get a little naked under her gaze. Fuck, would I.
‘This is a nice place.’ Clearing my throat more successfully than I can clear my head of those images, I take a seat in the Danish style armchair and let my gaze wander over the sun-filled room. White. So many shades of it. A pale sectional sofa and rugs over what appear to be original floorboards. The room is long, light, and airy, and the windows at both ends of the room are only dressed in the original shutters and the greenery from outside. Cape Cod by way of Hampstead Heath is how Mel had described it to me in an email.
‘It might be better for you to reserve judgement until you’ve seen the rest of the place.’ Nell folds one leg under her. ‘There’s pretty much this room and one bathroom that’s fit for use. The rest looks like a demolition site. I really have no idea why you’d want to stay here.’
‘Melody said you were remodelling,’ I say, ignoring her enquiry. True, there are other places I could go but nowhere where I wouldn’t be faced with a million good meaning questions—questions I’m not ready for. Besides, the longer I sit across from Nell, the more I think this might be the absolute best place for me. I need distracting from myself, and I think I’m looking at the most distracting distraction ever.
‘Were being the operative word in that assumption.’
She shakes her head as though rousing herself from the direction our conversation might take. But Mel already told me about her recent split. I can’t believe she’d dated that lanky string of piss for all these years, but then again, who am I to give relationship advice? Besides, you can’t judge a relationship’s woes until you’ve slept—and fucked—in that bed.
‘I’ll get back to it eventually,’ she adds, faking a bright smile. ‘God knows why Mel thought you staying with me would be a good idea. I can’t offer you much more than bare floorboards and a lumpy bed.’
Along with something pretty to look at. Scratch that, pretty was ten years ago. Stunning would be a better description these days. My eyes wander over her dark wavy hair, the kind that I know will dry to a rich, shiny chestnut. From there, my gaze moves to the smattering of freckles across her elegant nose and high cheekbones. I become aware of the silence between us and her questioning gaze.
‘I’m grateful for it,’ I reply, my words unintentionally raspy. Grateful for both somewhere to lay my head and her presence here.
‘Your pickings must’ve been slim,’ she says. Her eyes wander over my chest, which is anything but slim these days, and the touch of her milk chocolate eyes elicits a reaction I’m familiar with. Hell, I might be christening September the month of the boner, too. Thankfully, these days I don’t need to linger in the hot tub or refuse to move from the shield of the couch for fear she’ll see the tell-tale evidence of my interest in her.
No, but you’d like to show her, whispers the little devil in my head.
And he’s right. I’d like to show her. Feel her lips on it. Experience it touching the back of her throat.
‘You’re sure you want to stay here?’
I nod but don’t speak. I’m not here due to a lack of choices. There are other places I could go. My parents, the barracks, friends—only I’m not sure I’m fit company. Staying with Nell was supposed to be easy—we knew each other as kids, but not now. Not really. Staying here seemed like the easy choice—a place where I don’t need to pretend. Because right now, I’m not sure who I am anymore.
‘I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer you,’ she says, filling the silence between us again.
‘I’m sure it’ll be a palace compared to some of the places I’ve been.’
‘Mel says you haven’t been home in months?’ I nod in response to her softly spoken question, not ready to speak. Not sure I�
�ll ever be ready. ‘Do you mind if I ask where you’ve been?’
‘Well, I could tell you, but . . .’ She leans forward a little in her seat, almost encouraging, as though understanding somehow this is hard for me. ‘But . . . it looks like I arrived at your bedtime. Some other time,’ I add with no conviction at all.
‘Okay, well, I suppose I’d better show you to your room before I collapse into mine,’ she says, unfolding her slim, toned legs. ‘I’m working nights for two more shifts, so I’m afraid you’ll pretty much on your own.’
I follow her out into the old-fashioned hall and up the long stairs, almost certain she knows I’m staring at her arse. It’s impossible not to because
It’s fucking gorgeous.
It’s practically in my face.
‘This is the bathroom,’ she says, pausing at a half-landing. As she turns her head over her shoulder, I notice her cheeks are flushed pink. Pushing to door open, she steps into the large space. I follow, taking in the claw-footed bathtub dominating a space that’s fit for an interiors magazine. The floor is tiled in a black and white geometric design, double basins set into a Victorian white washed era vanity, and a large mirror fixed to the wall.
‘The shower and toilet are that way,’ she says, lifting a languid arm to indicate a frosted glass door at the end of the room. ‘And the towels are kept in here.’ She turns quite suddenly, presumably to show me exactly where, but I’m so close behind her, all she succeeds in doing is bringing her body into close contact with mine. My arms instinctively wrap around her to prevent her from falling backwards, which results in her chest being crushed against mine. Her dark hair sways with the motion, the sudden burst of scent turning immediately to heat in my veins. I’m aware of every moment, every motion—the hot points of contact of her slender fingers against my biceps, the rise and fall of her chest against mine, her brown eyes reflecting surprise, their sudden flare then turning to something else. Dark and delicious.
‘Y-you might have noticed that most of the rooms don’t have doors.’ Is she talking? I can’t be sure even if I can’t stop staring at her mouth. Pink and full, a bottom lip that’s just begging for the press of my teeth. Fuck me, I have Nell in my arms, her lips in kissing distance, and my fingertips just a few inches from her arse. ‘W-we took them all down and sent them to be stripped.’
