Floored

by Paton, Ainslie

  “You read that in a guide book.”

  He laughed and turned sideways again. “Yes I did. Do you like oysters?”

  Out of his mouth the word ‘oyster’ had the same impact as the word ‘buckle’. It sent a shudder of longing through her body. She was glad for her sunglasses, they gave her a measure of privacy under his examination.

  He laughed again. “I don’t think you’re thinking of oysters.”

  Goddamn.

  She was thinking of what she’d done to him in the car last night. Made him hiss with the effort of holding back; growl into her mouth with his eyes tight shut. He’d been burning up under her hands, sweat slicking his chest, all his sense on hot alert, all his reactions arrested, waiting for her next move, testing his own limits.

  He moved suddenly, leaning across the console, his hand shooting between her legs. He gripped her thigh and her knees parted for him. “Hard to tell what I’m going to enjoy eating more.” His hand slid up the seam of her cargo pants till his little finger grazed against her centre. She gasped and death gripped the steering wheel. He leaned across and spoke into her ear, his breath hot. “Oysters or you.”

  Just as suddenly he was back on his own side of the car and she could breathe again.

  “You’re going to cause an accident.” She tried to sound stern, because it was true. If he did something like that again, there was no guarantee she wouldn’t steer them straight into the scrub and red earth at the side of the road.

  “There won’t be anything accidental about it, Cait. How about I tell you what I want to do to you tonight?”

  “How about not? I’d like to get to the oyster capital in one piece.”

  He laughed. “Okay. I’ll behave. But so you know. I’m thinking about slowly stripping you out of a dress.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Inching that zipper down, bit by bit. Tasting the skin beneath it lick by lick. And when it’s all the way down—”

  “Stop. It.”

  “I’m going to pull it gently from your shoulders, and trap your arms by your sides so I can—”

  “Sean!”

  “Bite your neck and—”

  She jammed her finger on the volume control on the steering wheel and sent the sound soaring into the cabin, cutting whatever he was going to say off with a blast of trumpets and Jimmy Barnes singing Hold On I’m Coming. It was the most inappropriate song, but whole lot more effective than putting her fingers in her ears and singing, la, la, la, la, and way more likely to keep them on the bitumen.

  She still heard his roar of laugher over Barnesey’s raspy vocals and though she refused to glance at him, she knew what he’d look like. Smug, self-satisfied and totally ‘pull over at the side of the road, why wait for tonight’ fuckable. Without trying.

  When they pulled in to Ceduna it was early afternoon. They had a late lunch of fish and chips shared with some aggressive seagulls on Alexander’s Beach. The comfort food, the salt smell, the balmy air, the hunky male combined to deliver a peace of mind that washed over Caitlyn in a wave of calm and stillness. This was a different mood to anything they’d experienced yet. Nothing like the guarded fear that bled into wary interest, the hungry banter that fed growing attraction, or the all out sensual assault of the last two days. Sean seemed to sense it too, pulling her wordlessly into his arms and simply holding her while they watched a group of kids turn lopsided cartwheels and splash in and out of the shallows.

  There was a kind of acceptance in their silence. All the guessing was nearly over, all the waiting almost done. He’d been right to want to slow down. They were more than strangers crashing together now, more than an accident. He wasn’t her kidnapper, she wasn’t his hostage. The only issue was what that made them now. What it would make them to wake together in the morning.

  When the sun started playing tag with the horizon, painting vibrant colours across the sky, he hauled her to her feet.

  “You get your own room, but you know I want you with me tonight.” He was giving her an out, a Plan B she didn’t need.

  “We only need one room.”

  “And if it all goes to shit?”

  She rattled her pocket, car keys jingled. “I’ll floor it out of here so quick the locals will think you’re a serial killer.” And with no hire car service in town he’d be stuck till he organised another way to get to Perth.

  He got them a deluxe room. Deluxe in that way hotels in small towns had of being pleasant but hardly luxurious. It had a queen bed, a spa bath and a balcony overlooking the foreshore and the jetty. When the business of getting into the room was done it was abruptly hideously awkward. The stale air was saturated with expectation and the bed was a giant symbol of what might go wrong. Caitlyn’s calm fizzed into nervous fidgeting. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to get two rooms. She moved about, opening the bar fridge, testing the lounge chair, looking in the bathroom, avoiding the bed. Finally she flung the balcony doors open and stepped out. He came out and stood behind her, hands either side of her hips on the railing. His chin resting on the top of her head. He said one word. “Don’t”. She knew he meant, don’t doubt, don’t worry, don’t over-think.

  She rested back on him. “How do you do that? How do you know what’s inside my head?”

  She felt his shrug. “It’s easy with you. It’s all over your face.”

  She gripped the railing. If it was that easy she was back to being unsafe with him.

  He kissed her neck. “I told you I was a good poker player.”

  She exhaled and let his body soothe hers. She was throwing off anxiety and he was guessing. If she relaxed she wouldn’t give him anything to be suspicious about.

  “I’m going for a run. Why don’t you have a soak in the tub?”

  “You’ll make a thoughtful husband one day.”

  He groaned. “I was going for dark, mysterious lover.”

  She turned in his arms. “You already got there.”

  “If I kiss you now, we won’t get out of this room.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “That would break the rules.”

  She laughed, the tables so turned. Sean wanting structure, while she’d abandoned any hope of putting conditions on him. Why did they need to leave the room? She lifted her head and kissed him. His response was gentle, but his eyes closed and his hold on her tightened. She cupped his chin, feeling the prickle of his stubble.

  He let her deepen a kiss, but his response was muted. “You don’t play fair.” He gave her a little shake. “Pushing my buttons will only get you into trouble.”

  She was already in so much trouble with this man, what was a little more in the scheme of things?

  It took him less than five minutes to show her. He swept his arm under her knees and lifted her, backing through the balcony door and throwing her on the bed. He kicked out of shoes and tore his t-shirt off while she tried to catch her breath. He was on her before she had a chance to get her own shirt over her head, pushing her back, lowering himself over her and kissing her with a heat that made white lights strobe under her closed eyelids, and her hips buck against him.

  Then he was gone, pushing away, laughing, going to his bag then the bathroom, leaving her flattened, staring at the ceiling, her teeth clamped against the sheer frustration of being denied. Again.

  He came out in his trackpants. He grinned at her like the master manipulator he was and sat on the edge of the bed to put his runners on.

  “I hate you.”

  He laughed, a rumble in his throat. If he spoke she knew his voice would have that husky, smoky, wrecked tone it got when he was turned on.

  “I really hate you.” He was too far away to touch without moving and she didn’t think she could move; he’d sapped the energy out of her, melted her bones so she was rag doll loose. He moved though. He dived across the bed and hauled her against his chest. “I hate you too. See you in the restaurant at seven.”

  She did soak in the bath, then dressed and cleared the room befo
re he got back. It seemed like the prudent thing to do if she wanted to eat again, and the thought of fresh oysters with salt and lemon, or done Kilpatrick was an incentive.

  She knew he’d entered the restaurant by the way the women at the next table got all giggly and she flushed with something like pride and the tittering stopped dead when he put his hand to her back, sliding his fingers under the strap of the dress, and his lips to the top of her head.

  “It has a zipper,” he said, delight in his voice. He leaned in for a kiss and suddenly it was all too much. The man, the mood, the way she felt brightened by his affection. He drew back and took her hand instead, threading their fingers together.

  “Don’t drive off without me, Caity. Whatever’s got you worried we can work it out.”

  But they couldn’t. The only way this would work out was badly. She pushed the momentary feeling of deep unease aside and squeezed his hand. She was greedy for the brilliant memory to come first.

  They had oysters and prawns, mango salsa, lobster and scallops. A crisp Adelaide wine, and a shared slice of cheesecake. When the meal was done they went into the bar next door to listen to the band. The place was packed. The band, with a young female lead singer was local and obviously well known. They were doing covers. She was channelling Aretha Franklin via Jessica Mauboy with The Temptations’ Sugar Pie Honey Bunch.

  Sean took her hand. “Dance with me.”

  It wasn’t a request. “You dance?”

  “I have four sisters.” He eye-rolled. “I wasn’t allowed not to.”

  He did. Easy—with rhythm and grace, holding her gently, his smooth shaven cheek against hers. He hummed the song putting wings on her heart and glitter in her vision. When the singer launched into the sexy rhythms of What A Man, he danced dirty—with his knee between her thighs, with hands that slid and held and stroked, with sly stolen, sucking kisses. With slow, lingering, bold contact against hip and tailbone, stomach and breast that marked her as his and made her ache to have him closer still. The room dropped away, its stale beer smell dispersed, the disco lights faded, the other dancers were forgotten. There was only the beat and a pulsing, driving, grasping need to be in his arms.

  When he was ripped away, she staggered, held up by hands that weren’t his. Work-roughened hands she couldn’t shake off. Their owner said, “Leave the lady alone,” and his two mates pulled Sean further away.

  He shoved one of them off, dragged the other forward, roaring above the music. “Fuck off. She’s with me. Get your hands off her.”

  In seconds it was a fight, curses yelled, punches being thrown. Those rough hands pulled her further away, bodies getting between her and Sean. She called out to him, and his head came up, he dodged a fist and came for her. In the moment before he was crash tackled from behind she saw his face. Not Sean’s, Fetch’s. Blazing with hate, brimming with vengeance, fleet with cunning and control. He went down, there were too many on him, shouting and screaming. The music had stopped, the lights came on and the hands holding her lifted away.

  She turned on her saviour, her attacker. “He’s my boyfriend.” That foreign word was there in her mouth, ready to use.

  “He was molesting you. That’s not on here.” The man turned to walk away.

  She yelled after him, “You had no right.” She was wasting her breath. Sean was being walked out. There was blood on his white shirt. There was a uniformed cop standing at the door. She could go after him, but he hardly needed her help in this. There was nothing she could do but go back to their room and wait.

  27: Fallen

  Cait had fallen asleep on top of the covers in that black dress that showed more skin than she was comfortable with. Had she kept it on for him? Her self-consciousness, the way she unfurled like a blooming flower under his attention, it got to him. Something bad. It dug deep. Made him feel invincible. Made him feel vulnerable and edgy too. What if he got this wrong? It was far too good to screw up.

  Once she’d admitted she was relocating to Perth there was no way Sean could even think about trying to convince her to turn the trip into a holiday. There was not a chance he was separating from her yet.

  No wonder she was tired. It’d taken a good two hours to extract himself from the mess of the bar brawl because with no badge or ID, he’d had to rouse Stud to vouch for him. He owed the guy more than a few now.

  He considered not waking her. Stripping off, sliding in beside her and dozing till she woke. He considered kissing her awake as a prelude to doing everything mad, bad and dangerous he’d wanted to do for days. The knuckles of his right hand were raw and bruised, and he probably smelled like a brewery, he should shower before he did anything. She saved him the agony of indecision by opening her eyes.

  She blinked at him then sat upright, instantly alert. “You’re hurt.” Her hair was all tumbledown tousled, her cheeks red, her face otherwise pale. She was impossibly gorgeous.

  “Not mine.” He peeled the bloody shirt over his head. “I’m fine.”

  They stared at each other a moment, two, then she launched herself off the bed at him. “I was so scared.”

  He held her close, her face in the crook of his neck. “It’s all good. But no more close dancing in public till we get to Perth.” But there’d be dancing in private. He knew that from the way she pressed hard against him, from her hand on his face, from her lips on his neck.

  “I don’t need a dance floor. And no more dating.”

  He stroked her hair, marvelled at the feel of her, the way she clung to him. “You’re over me already?”

  She lifted her head, said plaintively in a voice that donkey kicked his guts. “I need you all over me.”

  He met her lips in a soft kiss. “I’m all kinds of grubby, baby. Let me clean up.”

  She drew back. “Undress me and I’ll come with you.”

  Could he do that without combusting first? It was the invitation of the century. He could try. He circled his hands to her back and felt for the zipper. She gasped when he found it. He eased it down, taking his time, watching the tide of desire rise in her eyes, and the lift of her breasts as the dress fell away. She stepped out of it. She was still wearing her heels. Her underwear was plain, peach coloured, a second skin. He chased a finger over the swelling cup of her bra down to the ribbon rosette between her breasts and over the other side, touching fabric not flesh.

  “You’re so beautiful, Caitlyn Mary Ann Murphy. You do me in.”

  “If you go this slowly I’m going to die before anything really good happens.”

  He laughed, leaned in to kiss her full lips. Slow was how he wanted it. Slow and deliberate with no room for anyone to think it didn’t matter in the morning. She pressed into him and he ran his hands over her shoulders pulling the straps of her bra away.

  There was no place he didn’t want to touch her or have her touch him. No thought he didn’t want to share with her, no emotion he was too proud to show her.

  She shuddered when he flicked the hooks on her bra open and let it fall down her arms to their feet. He followed its path, going to his knee, his hair grazing against her sternum, her belly; his hands stopping at her hips. Her fingers were in on his head, holding him, halting him. He’d hardly started. Her breath was coming in short, tight pants. She’d exhaust herself before the main game if she kept this up.

  He hooked his fingers into the elastic trim of her pants and slid them down her legs. She smelled sultry of oranges and musky desire. The best kind of dirty. He wrapped his hand around her ankle and she stepped out of her shoes one by one. Then he licked and kissed a trail back up her body: shin, knee, thigh, the hollow where her leg met her body. If he touched where he want to he’d lose his ambition, give way to haste, court regret: stomach, ribs, puckered nipple, shoulder, neck, jaw, hot, hot, wet mouth.

  He was overwhelmed; still half dressed and desperate for the electric feel of skin on skin. He pushed away from her abruptly, his own breath coming short and tight. He kicked off shoes and stripped off jeans, underwear
and socks. He caught her to him with a groan, half animal, all depraved longing. They weren’t going to make it to the shower first.

  She climbed his body, one knee coming to his hip. He caught her thigh and helped her wrap her leg around him. Exquisite heat. She brought her other leg up and he seated her against him. So wet. Too hard to hold on. Too soon. He turned and sat on the edge of the bed, brought her with him over his body as he lay back.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Cait.” His voice was cut to shreds, crushed with awe.

  “Amen,” she whispered, sitting, knees either side of his hips, easing along his length, making him bow off the bed and utter a curse that’d blow a church’s stained glass out.

  She arched back, her breasts thrust out for his hands, for his tongue. She was making soft noises of protest and pleasure, lost in the sense of them, her eyes shut, her mouth open.

  He pulled her down on his chest so he could slow her, taste her, hold her. Love her.

  Fuck.

  That’s why this had to be right. He was frigging well falling in love with her. With her hesitancy and bravery, her cool and her fire, her hide and her seek.

  He spoke on her lips, “Where do you want to be?”

  “With you,” was said soft, “now!” was said sharp.

  It was an answer that snapped his eyes open. With the last strings of his sanity he’d been thinking about the positioning of their bodies not the location of their hearts. They were safe and protected; her coil, his current clean test. They were primed for each other. Perfect. Fuck, he was a goner.

  Slow was an ache, a pressure, a widening, a softening. Slow was enveloping heat and silky moisture. Slow was the expression on her face as she sat above him—a revelation, a mystery uncovered, and her hands spread across his chest, fingers hard in his pecs—exaltation, a trilled cry. Slow was the tremble in her thighs, the flutter of her eyelashes, the arch of her back and the thrust of her hips. Slow had a pace, hesitant, steady, increasing, then rapidly shot all to hell.

  Sean chased the shock of release, down Cait’s spine, up her arms, with his hands on her hips, with his head thrown back and his toes curled to point. Closer, closer, an agony of swift rolling sensation; a hitch, a stall, a long held breath, and then the fall: spiralling, gasping, clutching, flashes of light and pinpricks of chill, open-mouthed kisses, and bodies shaking together, in peeled back tenderness and wonder.