by Alexa Riley
I finish up my drink and she follows my lead.
“I’ll give you the tour,” I say.
She holds out her hand and I take it.
MELISSA
THIS IS SO much harder than I thought.
My heart is pounding despite my easy smile, so worried I’m going to give the game away with some silly oversight. Like knowing the way his dog barks.
Knowing where his bathrooms are.
Knowing the names of his kids when he unavoidably points out their pictures on the mantelpiece. I ask about them as though I don’t know.
“Thomas and Matthew,” he says. “They live with their mother in Hampshire.”
“That must be hard.”
“Very,” he admits, and I see a flash of pain in his eyes. “But it’s for the best. They’re thriving. Happy.”
“They must love the dog,” I say, and that makes him smile.
“They do, yes. And he loves them.” He lifts one of the photos as though he’s looking at it new. “My ex-wife isn’t quite so fond of him.”
I don’t think it’s my place to ask about his divorce, so I don’t.
The pressure of acting ignorant is building up behind my eyes, but I don’t show it. I keep my questions light and vague, oohing and ahhing over the place as though I’m seeing it all for the first time.
“I love the smell of orchids,” I say, and a shiver zips up my spine as he angles one to my face for a sniff.
“My cleaner gets them,” he admits. “She’s excellent. They’re a nice touch.”
She’s excellent.
My smile feels ridiculously bright on my face, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I don’t know if I can really go through with this phase of my master plan, not now it feels so personal in here. Not now I feel so… overwhelmed.
As we step past the entertainment unit I’m forced to make my decision.
I make it in a heartbeat.
I spin so quickly towards his selection of CDs, my expression one of pure fake-shock as I pull out an album from the pile.
“Oh my God! You like Kings and Castles?!”
My fake-shock has nothing on the surprise on his face. “You know them?”
“Do I know them?! Hell yeah, they’re my all-time favourite band!”
I hate this even as I’m doing it. Hate the shock in his eyes. Hate the fact I feel so obliged to perform like a circus monkey to make him fall in love me.
“That’s extraordinary,” he says. “Hardly anyone knows they exist.”
“Crazy, right? I’m always saying it. I mean take Casual Observer, that song is my all-time favourite. How it doesn’t get more radio airplay I have no idea. Criminal, don’t you think?”
“Criminal, yes.” He stares right through me. “That’s my favourite too, actually.”
I put a hand on my heart. “Wow. What are the odds?”
“Slim,” he tells me, and he’s not kidding.
I rattle off my imaginary history with the band, how my dad loved them, how I knew the singer dedicated a song to his dying grandmother, how I think their first album is seriously underrated, and how terrible the first mainstream music journalist who tore them to shreds in his column was for destroying their chances before they’d really started.
He listens. He nods.
I tell him how I love the lyrics in Casual Observer. How deep they are. How well they capture the loneliness of being surrounded by people and yet feeling so utterly misunderstood. So alone.
He’s barely even nodding now. Just staring. His eyes piercing and raw.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I get a little carried away. I just love them so much.”
“That’s ok,” he replies. “I do, too.”
I slide the CD back in the collection and hold out my hand for the rest of the magical mystery tour.
He shows me his office, and the conservatory, and the dining room he barely uses. He tells me he has a bit of a gym set up downstairs, but doesn’t take me down there.
I comment on the little things, the innocuous things, being so careful and considered.
And fake.
I’ve never felt so fake in my entire life.
My heart is in my throat by the time the downstairs tour is finished, choked up with guilt and the crazy desire to tell him I’ve already been here. That I really do like Kings and Castles, but it’s because of him. Because I heard them here.
To tell him that I already know him.
But he’s no longer awkward or guarded, not like he was when I first pulled out that CD. He looks relaxed, even excited now the shock has left his beautiful face.
And I don’t want to risk it. I can’t risk it.
He takes my hand at the bottom of the stairs, and all thought of a confession zips out of my mind.
“Let me show you my collection,” he says.
ALEXANDER
KINGS AND CASTLES. They have a hardcore following, but to say it’s on the small side would be generous.
Barely anyone even knows they exist.
But Amy does.
I’m not sure this shit could get any more fucking weird if it tried.
I’m no bloody sap. I don’t believe in happy ever afters, or soulmates, or twin flames or any of that other mumbo jumbo shit they use to sell dating site memberships and Valentine’s Day cards.
I don’t believe in anything other than two people deciding they can tolerate each other enough to make it through life in the same building, with maybe a bit of mutual affection along the way.
And sex. I believe in sex.
My heart is racing ten to the fucking dozen. My throat feels dry as I lead this girl upstairs, and there’s a tickle in my gut driving me insane.
A tickle that daren’t hope. That would be insane to even fucking hope this crazy connection between us could mean something.
Yet she feels so fucking real. The soul in her eyes is so fucking real. The way she wants me feels too insanely right to be wrong.
I’m terrified how much I fucking want this.
I lead her straight through to the crystal room and flick on the light.
Nobody has ever seen my collection, nobody that would give a shit about it anyway. Barely anyone finds these wonders of the natural world as beautiful as I find them.
But Amy does.
Her eyes widen as I input the cabinet code, she gasps as the light hits the gemstones and makes them sparkle in all their glory.
“My God,” she whispers. “This is insanely awesome.”
I stare at her as she surveys my collection open-mouthed, and I’ve misjudged her by thinking of her as a new-age hippy type. Of course I have.
Nothing about this girl any longer surprises me.
“You have poudretteite! I’ve wanted to see one in the flesh for years! I read about it when I was a kid, how they found it in Mont St. Hilaire!” Her fingers dither in the air. “And musgravite! From the Musgrave Ranges in Australia! This is crazy!”
Yes. Yes it is.
I listen to her in awe. Her knowledge of rare gemstones is incredible, better even than some of the hardcore collectors I go up against in auctions, those trigger happy types who take the listing details as gospel and care nothing for the actual stones themselves.
“You can touch them,” I tell her, and she gasps.
“I couldn’t!”
I take out the musgravite and place it in her hand, and her fingers are trembling.
I’m taken aback to find that mine are too.
“I had no idea you were so…” I begin, and I struggle to find the words without sounding like a condescending cunt.
She giggles. “Serious? It’s alright. I have a couple of cheap stones in a little velvet bag. It hardly reeks of sophistication.”
I feel like an asshole, but she looks at me like I’m the greatest man alive.
“You amaze me,” I tell her, and she takes a breath.
“You amaze me, too,” she whispers, and then she giggles some more. “I can
’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this.”
Neither can I.
I can hardly breathe. Hardly think. Hardly fucking speak as I watch that girl hold the musgravite up to the light.
She puts it back so gently on its display stand, and her fingers drift down to the empty space where the fire opal once rested.
“It was one of your favourites,” she says as she runs a finger over the plinth.
“I have a new favourite,” I tell her, and take the quartz from my pocket. I place it on the plinth and even though it looks so thoroughly out of place amongst the others, I love it more than any of them.
Her cheeks flush pink. “You need a new display card.”
“You can write me one,” I tell her, and dig around on the shelf for a piece of card. I present her with a fountain pen and wait for her to fill in the details, but she hovers. Dithers.
“My handwriting will be messy,” she says. “You should really print one.”
But I don’t want a printed one. I want her to pen it by hand.
I tell her so.
“Your handwriting will be neater,” she protests, but I shake my head.
“Please, Amy.”
Her fingers are still shaking as she writes out the description. It’s hardly what I was expecting. No weight, or mining location. No crazy new age properties.
Instead there is a simple description.
Angel Hair Quartz. From me to you, Alexander, with love.
With love.
She seems embarrassed as soon as she’s written it, placing it front of the empty plinth with a shrug.
I can’t stop myself as my hand reaches for hers, can’t fight the urge as I pull her into my arms.
She comes so willingly, and I feel her heart beating through my shirt.
“Stay tonight,” I whisper.
Her eyes are unsure. “But I, I didn’t… I didn’t come here for that… that isn’t why I came here…”
Another asshole move. I feel like a dick as I squeeze her shoulders. “Fuck, Amy. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… That isn’t why I invited you.” I press my forehead to hers. “I’d pay, of course, I don’t expect this to be…”
She shakes her head, her forehead brushing mine. “That’s not what I mean. It’s not the money… I just didn’t want you to think I was… angling…”
And I don’t want her to think I was angling either. I press my lips to hers.
“We’re dancing a merry dance. Getting our wires all tangled up,” I tell her.
She nods. “Let’s start over?”
“Please.”
She smiles a beautiful smile and breathes out a sigh. “I’d love to stay. Please. If you’ll have me, and it’s not about the money…”
“What is it about?” I ask her, and my voice sounds strangely uncertain.
“You know what it’s about,” she whispers, and her eyes stare right into my soul. “This is… crazy… I’ve never felt like this…”
I’d tell her I was feeling it too if she’d let me, but her mouth presses to mine and finds me desperate.
She tastes of everything I ever wanted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MELISSA
I WISH the want I feel in his kisses was all for me and not for the crazy illusion I’ve spun, but I can’t stop.
I can’t stop this.
He smells of hard work and spicy tomato soup.
He tastes like every dream I ever had.
It’s weird undressing him from tattered denim. It’s weird to feel the ridges of his chest under a plain black t-shirt.
He tugs my top over my head and unbuttons my jeans, and I step out of them as we leave the crystal room. The thick carpet on his landing is so familiar under my toes.
He kisses me again as he opens his bedroom door, and I have to pull away to comment on how beautiful it is in here.
He shushes me with his mouth, and his hands are on my face, in my hair, all over me.
My bra falls away, and my knickers slip down my thighs as I fumble with his belt.
Skin on skin as he lifts me into his arms, and my legs wrap him tight as he kicks off his jeans and boxers on the way to his bed.
It’s bliss as he lowers me onto the sheets I made up so nicely this morning. It’s a dream to be here with him.
His mouth sends me crazy as he kisses my neck. The ridge of his cock rubs against my needy clit and makes me squirm.
I’m desperate as I grip his ass, already way past the point of no return as he thrusts his hips and spears me in one and I cry out, tell him how amazing he is, how amazing it feels.
I’m prepared for his fingers when they land on my throat. I’m prepared for the darkness in his eyes as they bore into mine.
But this time he doesn’t take my air. His grip is firm but not restrictive, and I breathe freely, quick gasps of air against his lips.
“Do it…” I whisper.
But he doesn’t.
I cry out as he changes position. He rolls me onto my side and presses himself to my back, his legs hooking mine as his cock slides in from behind and I cry out all over again. His breath is hot on my neck as he wraps an arm around to take me in a chokehold.
The pressure is divine. The heat gives me perfect shudders.
And here, wrapped up so tight in his grip, my chin pressed tight to the crook of his elbow, I find peace.
His free hand finds my clit and he starts fucking me. I’m panting like crazy as his thrusts match the rhythm of his fingers.
“You never did tell me what really turns you on,” he whispers.
“This,” I groan.
He asks me again as he rolls my clit between his fingers.
“You,” I hiss. “Fuck, Alexander, It’s you I want. You’re the only thing I want.”
I don’t think I’d be getting away with such vague answers if he wasn’t already close to the edge.
He holds back until my body trembles for him, controls his urges until I’m already crying his name, and then he joins me there, cursing through gritted teeth as he fills me up.
I’m still panting as he pulls away, my arms are reaching for him as he stalks across to his dressing room and grabs one of his sex toy cases.
“You’re going to tell me what turns you on,” he says as he plugs in the massager. “You’re going to tell me everything.”
Everything.
Sudden paranoia burns at my face. I look away, head down. The buzz against my throbbing clit makes me groan, but I’m rocking for him, easing my hips up to take more.
“What turns you on, Amy?” His tone is so dark, so dirty.
“You,” I whisper, and he flicks up the speed on the massager.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “I like… I like it when you’re rough… I like it when you’re in my ass…” I cry out as he sucks his finger and pushes it right in there.
“What else?”
“I love… I love it when you choke me… I love how it feels…”
“How does it feel?”
I can’t stop the smile. “Like I can’t take it… and then like I can… I float… and it’s amazing… it’s beautiful to see the stars… to see you…”
“And you’re not scared?”
I shake my head. “No…”
I’m going to come so hard. I feel it from my clit to my toes.
“What else?”
I’m sweating. I can taste it on my lips.
“Amy, what else turns you on? What do you think about when you’re alone?”
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to say this. I’m already in way too deep.
I murmur that he’s everything. That I want everything he wants. He pushes another finger in my ass and I’m on fire.
I can’t hold back the words. Can’t hold back the thoughts I’ve had in bed at night.
The thoughts about that divorce paperwork.
The thoughts about the filthy things he likes.
I can’t hold back the thoughts about him and Dean.
/> “I want to see you…” I whisper. “Oh God…”
“See me what?”
He moves so quickly. Pinning himself on top with his cock poised against my open lips.
He’s so hard. I can taste the wetness on his tip.
“See me do what, Amy?”
He pushes into my mouth until I gag, and then he pulls right out again.
My clit sparks like fucking crazy.
His balls are heavy on my forehead. He smells incredible.
His voice is raspy. “I have very few hard limits. You just have to fucking tell me.”
And I do.
My confession is nothing but a whisper choked in the air.
“I want… I want to see you… with another man.”
He comes in my mouth with the words still hanging in the air.
He comes with a grunt that sounds feral, spurting to the back of my throat without warning as I gag on my own orgasm.
I’m a mess. Wriggling and squirming and gurgling his name as my legs thrash the bed.
And when I’m done I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My breath feels like fire in my chest.
He unplugs the massager without a word, and my endorphins shrivel away.
Fuck. I’ve fucked this up.
I tell him I shouldn’t have said that. That it’s no big deal, just a crazy fantasy.
I tell him it’s stupid. That my stupid mouth was running away with me.
But when he talks, he talks right over me.
“How the hell did you know?”
ALEXANDER
MY QUESTION LEAVES HER OPEN-MOUTHED. Her eyes wide and fluttery. “How did I know what?”
My heart is pounding hard, my breaths ragged from the spontaneous eruption of my fucking balls.
She rises to sitting. “What? What do I know?”
My gut is in fucking knots, as though I’ve been exposed raw. Guilty pleasures are so fucking guilty.
I spit it out. “How the hell did you know I want men?”
“You do?!” Her cheeks flush pink. “I, um… I didn’t…” If she’s a liar, she’s a fucking good one. She looks mortified. “Shit, Alexander! You asked and I answered. It’s just a stupid fantasy. I didn’t think you’d… I wasn’t even going to say anything…”
And she wouldn’t have.
It took a fucking bodywand on high speed and two thick fingers in her asshole to unravel her enough to confess.
