by Alam, Donna
Because it’s been far too long.
His hand slipped under top, but it was so tightly fitted, it didn’t stay there. Instead, he pressed his mouth over the fabric, causing me to cry out at the press of his teeth against my nipple through both shirt and bra. My hips bucked up into him of their own accord as my whole body cried out to be filled.
So fucking sensitive. Do you think you could come like this? Just like this?
The truth at that moment? Yes. But I wasn’t telling him. He wanted to tease me. Make me tell him my secrets and beg for his dick. But as I rocked against him, I knew I could come like this—that I so close.
He kissed me hard, feeding me his tongue as he would his cock. His hand pushed underneath my back, lifting me while grasping my hair at the base of my head to expose my neck to his teeth. I have never been with someone who made me feel like he did. Made me crave the marks of his passion without fear of wearing them afterwards.
Come to New York tomorrow, Olivia. His deep command curled around my ear as he tightened his grip, the base of my skull pounding in time with the beat between my legs. ‘And I’ll let you come, right here, right now. Say you will.’
I don’t need you for that, I’d purred. His deep ripple of laughter rocked through me, adding just another level of torture, and another as he pulled my hands up over my head.
Pinned under him. Pinned by him. He watched me squirm like a thing in heat, all the while giving me only what he wanted to give. And oh, how I wanted it all. I wanted to feel him inside me, taste and tease him, ride him like a horse named Beckett. And I wanted it right there on that couch, not in New York. Not when we were married. I wanted it illicit and hard. My hair in his hands and his body over me.
Come to New York. Let me destroy your pretty little cunt.
Let me touch you, I whispered, my insides pulsing at the beautiful savagery painted by his words. ‘Let me see.’ His eyes turned to coal as his hand tightened on my wrist. It’s only fair I get to see what I’ll get in the deal. What I’m marrying.
His smile was a lesson in pure wickedness as he loosened his grip, and I’d crawled over him, all crumpled and coming apart at the seams, running my hands and my mouth all over his body in a fit of desperate need. My breathing ragged, I’d reached for the opening of his jeans when a sharp crack sounded through the space, making me jump three foot in the air.
Fuck! Under me, Beckett’s curse was chased by a groan as I looked down and realised I’d caught him in the crotch with my knee.
‘Hey, boss lady.’
I jump at the sound of Miranda’s voice, almost spilling my coffee. Of course I wasn’t going to pack up and fly off to New York just because Beckett said so. Not that I wasn’t tempted, especially after the interruption. We were so close. I could practically see the shape of him through his jeans.
‘What’s up?’
I shake my head. It’s Monday, Olivia. Get with the calendar.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, adjusting the scarf I’ve tied around my neck. Summer in London may not be a guaranteed thing, but of course, today of all days, the sun is cracking the paint on walls. I really couldn’t wear a turtleneck to cover the marks, not without drawing comment.
Damn Beckett and his sexy talk. Who would’ve thought under those expensive threads and that very proper demeanour was a sexual deviant just waiting for the opportunity to be unleashed? Well, me. I guessed. That first night in the car. And I gave him that opportunity—on a platter. Or couch, as the case may be.
And now he knows what kind of sex noises I make, not to mention my behaviour totally flies in the face of everything I’d been saying. But at least I kept my clothes on. though I’m kind of surprised they didn’t disintegrate in the heat of the moment, it really was for the best.
Because when I’d eventually calmed my beating heart and righted by clothing, I’d noticed the team of cleaners standing on the other side of the glass wall. There were at least six of them, all mouths agog. And one of them seemed to be missing a mop which was lying on the floor. I dread to think how long they might’ve been standing there, and how much more they might have seen.
Hey, but at least I didn’t burst into flames for my immorality, even if I go pink every time I think about it. And then I turn red because every time I think about it, I think about him, and end up I replaying the things he said.
Let me destroy you.
Let me destroy a very particular part of you.
A very particular, unmentionable part.
I so suck at dirty talk. I hope he’s not expecting it. Despite my assertion, I only curse when the occasion calls for it. Like when I’m annoyed. Or around Beckett. So just when I’m with him mostly, I guess.
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Hmm?’ I turn to Mir once more. With her elbow planted on the desk, she balances her cheek in her hand. ‘You’re awfully spacey this morning.’
‘I just have a lot on my mind,’ I reply quickly, my words running together and making almost one word of the sentence.
‘It hasn’t got anything to do with the reason you’ve come to work dressed like one of the Pink Ladies, is it?’
‘What?’ I shake my head a little, her words not making sense, when she plucks at an invisible scarf around her own neck.
Damn.
‘A little like Risso from Grease. Wearing it for the same thing. No shade,’ she continues with an air of triviality, ‘but we all know what’s going on under that thing.’
‘It suits my outfit,’ I protest a little too hotly, looking down at my cropped pants and sleeveless blouse. ‘I was aiming for Roman Holiday. This is Alexander McQueen, you know.’
‘It’s well dodgy,’ sniggers Heather. ‘It’s like, twenty-eight degrees out there.’
‘The question is,’ Miranda says, turning to her cousin and making me a topic of conversation rather than a participant—remind me just who is the boss in here again? ‘The question is, who gave the boss-babe a hickey.’
‘No one gave me a hickey! And I’m pleased Jorge isn’t in the office right now, or he’d be making very serious noises about sexual harassment in the workplace.’
‘He’d love a little sexual harassment, if you ask me,’ Heather pipes up. ‘He could probably do with it.’
‘Enough of that.’ Pointing a finger at the young girl, I feel like a decrepit old killjoy and the morality police all rolled into one. ‘No one wants to be sexually harassed.’ Besides, that’s how you end up with an expensive lawsuit.
‘It’s true, though,’ Heather grumbles.
When I was growing up, we had a little terrier called Fred. The thing used to bark terribly and for no reason, and when Mom told him off, he’d slink back to his basket, but always with one last little bark or growl as he climbed in. That’s what Heather is like. She just has to have the last word.
‘He’d love a little bit of touchy-feely harassment. Especially if it was from you.’
‘Heather,’ I almost cry. ‘Can we just leave it? It’s not fair to Jorge, and quite frankly, I’m not comfortable having this conversation.’
‘All I’m trying to say is that we all know you were . . . doing whatever last night. And we all know what the scarf is for. Jorge, too. And because he has a crush on you, he’s taken a half day to deal with his little bit of heartbreak.’
I just don’t have the energy for this.
‘You really think that’s the case?’ Because I’d hate to have upset him. And for him to throw a bug in the system. Although this is Jorge we’re talking about and not me, I suppose.
‘Yes, that’s really the case. But sod him. Come on, who gave you the hickey? Was it that hot piece of manliness who was here last week? The venture capitalist?’
‘No comment.’ I wiggle my mouse, my laptop springing to life again.
‘That suit,’ she says with a dreamy sigh. ‘He was throwing out mega levels of BDE.’
I don’t want to ask. Really, I don’t. But I also don’t like feeling as if I�
�m missing out or behind.
‘Okay.’ I lean back in my chair. ‘I’ll bite. What does BDE stand for?’
‘Seriously?’ Mir replies.
‘Yes,’ I answer withering, then decide I must be hanging around with Beckett too much. And that’s not going to improve over the next six months.
‘Big. Dick. Energy,’ Heather answers in a deep bass, punctuating each word with a thrust of her hips.
‘And you were checking out his . . . package?’ I don’t think I like the sound of that, either as her boss or as his soon-to-be wife. Shoot me now. I don’t want to be the jealous type. I don’t even want to be his wife!
‘BDE isn’t about dick size,’ Miranda cuts in. ‘It’s more like an aura. A presence. A life force.’
‘It’s an attitude or the energy you give out,’ Heather argues. ‘And you don’t have to have a dick to have BDE, it’s totally non-gendered. You’ve got a BDE, boss-babe,’ she adds in a lighter tone. ‘But that aside, I bet really he does.’
‘Really does what?’
‘Have a mega dong.’
‘Don’t expect me to answer that because I don’t know,’ I add in a quick save. Strictly speaking, that’s true. He might’ve used a prosthetic, and that might’ve been an eggplant I was riding yesterday afternoon. But I don’t think so.
‘Hmm. What do you reckon, Heather?’
‘I reckon mega dong is the name of your favourite vibrator.’
‘That’s enough. Settle down. I’ve got a whole heap of work to do before my flight.’
So I might not have jumped when he clicked his fingers. I am, however, flying out the following day. Alone. And as I received my ticket by courier earlier, I know I’m going business class. Which sweetens the slightly bitter pill, making it grapefruit bitter rather than anything gross and medicinal.
‘I hope your mum gets well soon,’ Heather adds sincerely.
I nod and fix a sad expression on my face. Don’t think about the free champagne. And yes, it’s all for effect. There’s nothing wrong with my mom as far as I know. I’m just covering my ass and telling lies.
Just think of the money that will be in your account by the end of the week, I tell myself. And try not to think of his very obvious BD.
Marrying for money. Lots of women marry for money. Men too, I reason with myself as I stare at the darkened ceiling of my bedroom. My suitcase stands packed at the end of my bed, my clothes laid out for my early morning, but still I can’t sleep. Instead, the shadows from the trees in the garden dance like wraiths against the ceiling while I do what I do best; overthinking.
The world is full of women being bankrolled by their spouses for all different reasons. I won’t be the first, but rather, I’ll be joining their ranks. What I can’t seem to get my head around is why does getting married for sex sound so much seedier? Maybe I’m looking at this wrong. Maybe I should think of it as a perk. Especially after yesterday.
So many conflicting thoughts and feelings.
I agreed to have sex with him and tell myself it’s because I have no choice—that I’ll do whatever it takes to save my business. To save face. But in the dark, quiet moments, I can admit the truth to myself. And when I think about the deal I’ve made with the devil, my skin starts to tingle and my core starts to ache. I want him so badly no matter how many protestations I make.
Everyone has a price. My price? It’s complicated.
I’m cranky and tired as I get to Gatwick at an unearthly hour the next morning, but perk right up again as I’m ushered into the business class cabin, allocated my lovely seat-cum-bed pod and handed my first glass of champagne. There really is nothing to complain about when travelling in style. And it’s odd that I can manage to sleep while hurtling through the sky at eight hundred miles an hour, but I can’t travel in a lift without feeling sick.
I’ve packed for three weeks, but as we’ll only be there three days, I’ve probably overdone things. But Beckett didn’t happen to mention what kinds of functions, if any, I’ll be expected to attend apart from our courthouse wedding, for which I’ve packed a summer dress. Something old?
After a mostly sleepless night, I’ve come to a few conclusions. Decisions, I suppose. Ways to deal.
Number 1: I’ve decided to think of this next six months as a part-time job that I’ve taken on in order to help my business. Which isn’t a bad analogy as far as these things go. I’ll gain some much-needed business acumen from Beckett while adding a little extra money to my pocket. I’ll be to Beckett what Heather is to me. Sort of. And I’ve chosen to focus on the plus points and let the rest take care of itself.
My business will benefit.
I’ll make it a roaring success. The only kind of revenge I’m interested in.
I’ll be able to eat proper food.
I’ll grow.
I’ve already accepted that Beckett is going to be a pain in my ass. It’s not as though I’m not expecting that. Your time isn’t as important as mine. Sacrifices will have to be made. What a prick.
But if luxury travel is the kind of sacrifice I’ll be forced to endure, then I think I’ll be able to cope for six months without killing him.
Number 2: I’ve decided on the separation of sex and our marriage, a little like the separation of church and state. I’ve agreed, by signing his paperwork, that I’ll submit to his will on the point of consummating this thing, but that’s all I’ll give. After that? Who knows. Maybe we’ll hump like bunnies, or maybe once will be enough for us both. Don’t laugh.
Number 3: And perhaps the most important decision of all. I’ve decided that, because he brings out the worst in me again and again, I’m going to try a little reverse psychology. From now on, I’m going to turn my murderous frown upside down and kill him with kindness. With polite enquiries and soothing words. With smiles and shit. I’m just not going to let him get under my skin anymore.
And he’ll hate it.
I might be resigned to my fate, but I’m not going down without a fight.
Or maybe I’m not going down until he’s gone down first.
Yes, totally like that.
With a small yet smug kind of smile, I settle into my flight. I’ll watch a few movies, drink a few more glasses of champagne, and maybe take a nap before we’re due to touch down.
Chapter 18
OLIVIA
I suffer the usual pains after landing. Immigration queues. Bags lifted from the conveyor belts at the baggage claim, leaving passengers to play hide and seek with their belongings. You’ve got to love JFK. The hustle, the bustle, the rude people.
Just like London.
What I’m unprepared for is the sight of a familiar steely gaze as I push out of the baggage hall.
Damn. I thought he’d send a driver. I haven’t yet prepared my game face.
‘I was considering sending a search party,’ he begins in a tone dripping with boredom. It’s the kind of tone that makes me want to slap the back of his head.
‘I wish you would have. It might have saved me from arguing with an unpleasant Indian lady who insisted my case was hers.’
‘I see you won,’ he answers, moving adroitly to one side before taking my suitcase out of my hand. Manners maketh the man-devil and all that. He leans down to kiss my cheek, his lips landing on my neck just below my ear. His breath is a puff of warm air that makes me shiver. I somehow expect him to put his hands on me to turn me to face him as he kisses me properly. But whatever drove him to react to me like he did inside of his office seems to have been turned off as he straightens and begins striding towards the exit.
‘Either that or I’ll be getting married in a sari.’ I jog a couple of steps in order to keep up with him.
‘This is why you should never travel with anything but carry-on luggage.’ I note he ignores my remark, his body language unchanged as he chooses not to react.
‘Spoken just like a man.’
‘A man left waiting far too long.’
Outside, the arrival of Beckett’s
car is timed to perfection as if the universe wouldn’t dare to offer him anything less. My bags are stowed in the trunk, passenger doors close with a satisfying clunk, and I find the air a cool respite to the summer heat. And then we’re on our way into the city.
‘How’s your trip so far?’ Check me out, being all civil and polite and stuff.
‘Busy. Fruitful. Warm.’
‘That’s good.’
‘How was your flight?’ Check him and his pleasantries out. Time to turn up the niceness.
‘Ah-mazing,’ I reply, all wide smiles.
‘Really?’
I giggle. ‘Raleigh? Like the city?’ Because, seriously. That’s what it sounded like he just said.
‘What’s going on?’ He shoots me a sideways glance.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re . . . happy. It’s unusual.’
‘If you knew me, you’d know it’s only unusual around you.’ My retort is biting, which is exactly how his body reacts, stiffening as though I had my teeth around his wrist. It’s a flickering response, usual service resumed almost immediately.
‘I’m not sure how I feel about this version of you,’ he murmurs, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
‘Well, you’d better get used to it,’ I sort of sing, fixing a smile back onto my face. Because I’m going to win this happiness thing. I’m going to kill him with kindness, even if I die doing it myself. ‘I’m happy. Just happy.’
‘If you don’t mind, I have a few messages to catch up on.’ While unfailingly polite, his reply is not without a coating of ice. And as for caring, it would be a shame if I did because he does it anyway.
‘Oh, sure.’ Unsure of the success in our exchange, I turn my head to the passenger window to watch the city crawl by. The last time I visited New York, I was a kid, and it had been a family trip. We visited some distant relatives upstate, and I think we came to see some show off Broadway. The one distinct memory I have is standing on the sidewalk, one of my small hands in a grow-ups while my other was flat to my ear, reacting to the street noise. Vibrant and frenetic might be cool when you’re old enough to appreciate it, but when you’re knee high to those around you, it’s not so much fun.
