My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Like I needed the clarification!’ I almost cry. He steps away from the door when I hold up my hand like a stop. ‘And . . . and inappropriate.’

  ‘But a useful skill to have, all the same.’

  ‘This conversation is inappropriate.’

  ‘You started it, Miranda.’ Why does it sound like he’s purring my name?

  ‘And now I’m ending it. This can’t happen again.’ I gesture back and forth between us like I’m part of a Taylor Swift tribute act.

  We are never, ever, ever having sex together.

  ‘And it’s James, by the way. Or Harry. Whichever you prefer.’ Great, go ahead and ignore me, though I’m sure my expression must betray my confusion as he adds, ‘James Harrison, at your unending service.’

  Oh. Well. The whole James/Harry thing makes sense now. Not that it changes anything.

  ‘I can’t have sex with you.’ Never, ever, ever.

  ‘Who said anything about sex?’ he says with a straight face, though his eyes glitter with unconcealed amusement

  ‘You did. Sexual service—unending.’

  ‘That sounds painful. But I’m game to try. As well as quick, I can also do slow, but then you know that already.’

  He’s deliberately trying to goad me, and what’s more, it’s working. And I’m hot—too hot. My cheeks are burning, and while I’d like to say they’re fiery with indignation, it would be a lie. It’s more like I’m burning with need for him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I pull on the hem of my shirt, then clear my throat. ‘Like I said, Friday was a one-off.’

  ‘A one-time thing?’ He takes a step closer, and I take one back.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘A one-time thing twice?’ Another step for him and another for me, almost as if he’s leading me in a dance.

  ‘Congratulations, so you can count.’

  ‘Yes, and I didn’t even have to use my fingers. But I could if you want me to,’ he taunts. I think I might spontaneously combust if he gets any closer. ‘You know what else I can do? See through your bluster. You’re scared.’ My thighs meet the edge of Olivia’s desk, and I realise I’ve nowhere else to go.

  ‘Scared of you?’ I aim for derision but end up sounding as though I’m asking a question. Am I scared? Yes, I probably am, more so of my reaction to him. I’m not going to say he’s the kind of man I could fall in love with because he’s not like any kind of man I’ve ever known. He’s just too different. Too handsome. Too rich. And altogether too much.

  ‘You’re scared of letting yourself like me. For more than my cock, that is.’

  And . . . I forgot one. He’s also much too full of himself.

  ‘You’re unbelievable. And you can wipe that smile off your face because that wasn’t a compliment.’

  ‘Not the way I heard it.’

  ‘Two minutes—two minutes and I’m walking down those stairs.’

  ‘Come on, Miranda. Cut me a little slack. I’ve driven all the way out to the wilds of Hoxton, and you won’t even have lunch with me.’

  ‘I’m not looking to get involved.’

  ‘With a sandwich?’

  ‘And if I was looking for a man,’ I add, ignoring his ridiculousness, ‘which I’m not. But you and I, we’re just too different.’

  ‘So you’re saying you only date men like you? Gorgeous and funny and with great taste in underwear because if that’s the case, I’m confused.’

  ‘You really are ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m ridiculously interested in you.’ I inhale sharply as his hands curl around my hips, his thumbs make a slow sweep of the bone there. I try very hard to resist the urge to melt against the desk suddenly supporting me. I tell myself it’s because he’s standing so close and because I can smell his aftershave—the one I’d marked as my favourite in his bathroom. And because his eyes are so blue, and his words so bloody tempting. The bottom line is I want him. Even though no good can come of this.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I shake my head, my response staccato. ‘I’m just. I’m just not interested in getting involved with anyone at this point.’

  He doesn’t speak, though a note of calculation seems to flicker in his gaze before it lowers very deliberately to my chest. I try very hard to ignore the tightening of my nipples, concentrating instead on how his lashes cast a shadow against his cheeks. When his gaze rises for the briefest of moments, I think, he’s going to kiss me.

  Quickly on the heels of that thought comes another. I’m going to let him.

  But instead, he brings his mouth to the shell of my ear.

  ‘You’re the mistress of mixed messages.’ His voice is low and husky, and brimming with the unspoken. As I open my mouth to respond, to deny, I find a soft moan is the only sound I make—a reaction in response to the brush of the back of his knuckles against my hard nipple.

  ‘I like you, Miranda. And you like me. You need to let me in.’

  He begins to pull away, my own body following the movement in a motion that seems as natural as the tides, and just as hard to resist as I press my breast more fully into his hand.

  I’m not sure who is responsible for the next move—if he reaches for me or I him—but all I do know is our mouths meet. This kiss . . . it’s kind of perfect. Soft yet firm as his lips slide against mine. He moans softly when I stroke my tongue against his, the vibration of the sound doing something to me. Making my part of the kiss hungrier, harder as I press myself against him as our kiss turns to another kind. A kiss that’s a fight for possession. A kiss full of need and heat, where teeth clash and tongues tangle, our joint moans mingling in the air. It’s roaming hands and grasping fingers. It’s my butt perched against Olivia’s desk and my skirt being pushed up my legs. And it’s his finger pressing against the cotton of my underwear.

  ‘James,’ I whisper, arching my back.

  ‘Christ, I love it when you say my name.’

  ‘Harry.’ I draw the moniker out, and his next kiss is a smile pressed to my lips.

  ‘That’s James to you.’

  ‘Am I not your friend?’ Before he can answer, I suck on his lower lip, tasting it with my tongue.

  ‘I think we’re a little beyond that.’

  Something in my mind whispers what we could be, causing my body to stiffen in his hands. But somehow, James seems to anticipate the change as he hooks his hand under my knee, lifting it to his hip. In no time at all, his fingers are hooking under the cotton, two of those digits pressing deep inside me. It’s almost as though their thrust pushes a cry of relief from me, a cry that is swallowed by his kiss. And with this kiss . . . there’s no doubt who’s in charge as his thumb brushes the rise of my clit. My body reacts as though lashed by a live line, my back arching as I impale myself on his fingers, pushing them deeper.

  ‘You’re so sexy,’ his deep voice rasps. ‘You don’t know what you do to me.’

  ‘Tell me.’ My demand is all husk and silk, even to my own ears. ‘Tell me how much you want me.’

  ‘Enough to make me think of you this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The memory of you spread out under me to make me come too quickly.’ I feel more than see his smile as he presses his lips to my neck. ‘The mess I made of my stomach and hand.’

  The images created by his words make me clench, and I arch my back as I push into his hand. ‘I’d . . . I’d like to see that.’ I close my eyes and imagine, flashes of colour filling my head. White sheets. The golden hairs on his wrist. The purple vein in his forearm as he takes himself in his hand.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Yes. God, yes.’

  ‘You’re so beautiful, darling. I want to strip you down, spread you out, and take my time. Make you wild.’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’ Inside, his fingers curl, brushing that bundle of nerves that makes my toes curl and my insides pound, my climax almost tangible now. A low, appreciative rumble rises from the depths of his chest, his eyes avidly watching the space between my legs as the lewd sounds of our coup
ling fill the space between us.

  ‘I can’t think of a more beautiful reason for this day to exist than to feel you come around my fingers. Maybe you can think about just that because I believe my two minutes are up.’ His fingers slip wetly from between my legs. ‘Until next time, Miranda.’

  I can hardly process what’s happened as his lips brush the corner of my mouth and he pulls away, right as I’m about to—right before I—

  His fingers glisten with my arousal as he presses them to his lips, his other hand feeding into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out what looks like a business card. My fingers unfurl automatically as he presses it to my hand. He smiles the kind of smile that might ordinarily incite me to violence as he fastens the single button on his jacket

  But violence goes undelivered because I don’t think I could trust my legs to hold me, let alone coordinate my arms to swing, and all because I can’t move my gaze from the thick bulge of his arousal straining against his pants.

  18

  Miranda

  ACCIDENT

  /aksɪˈdɛnt(ə)l/

  Adjective

  happening by chance, unintentionally, or unexpectedly. Hell to the yes.

  Synonyms

  Fortuitous. Erm, not.

  Occurring by accident. Maybe my picture should be hyperlinked here

  Adventitious. What does that even mean?

  Fluky. I think I’ll stop there.

  I’ve never understood why some people insist on taking their phones to the bathroom. It always seemed so unsanitary. And I still think so. Yet here I sit, contemplating the definition of accidental while trying hard not to hyperventilate.

  After—James? Harry? James—left me lying against Olivia’s desk like a limp noodle earlier, I’d blinked, confused. My crumpled clothing, my pounding insides, the look on his face. Urgh. I can’t think of any of it. But quick on the heels of that came a crushing sense of embarrassment, shortly followed by rage. The bastard—the absolute provoking, annoying bastard! I’d silently seethed because I didn’t want to make the kind of noise that would bring Heather running into the room.

  As much as I’d wanted to stomp my way down the stairs, have a good scream, kick a couple of things, then maybe burn an effigy of James bloody Harrison, I couldn’t. Not with Heather the inquisitor in the office downstairs, positively vibrating with questions. So I’d done the only thing I could think of, which was creep down the staircase all the way to the ground floor, taking myself off for a brisk walk to burn off all the angry energy.

  And it worked. To a certain degree. I’d walked long enough and stompy enough for me to realise that I’d brought this upon myself. If I’d truly wanted him to stay away, I would’ve said so. And he would have because he’s the honourable type.

  Even when he’s behaving dishonourably, strangely.

  If I’d really meant what I said, I wouldn’t have whimpered from need as he caressed my breast, and I certainly wouldn’t have verbally sparred with him, building the heat between us until it became combustible. He says he’s interested in me, not just in fucking me. That he wants to get to know me—that he wants me to get to know him.

  But will he still feel the same when I tell him about this, I wonder as I sit on the lid of the toilet, staring down at the blue and white pee stick in my hand. I even went for the expensive brand, figuring I’d only need to do this once to prove that I’d eaten dodgy canapes and not gotten myself in the family way. Not that I’m the only one responsible. In fact, at this moment in time, I’m blaming him because I didn’t put those condoms on.

  So, expensive pee stick. No confusing lines for me. It seems pretty definitive as I stare down and read the accusation printed on the screen.

  Pregnant.

  Because after James had left me stompy and angry, I’d passed the pharmacy and decided to get a pregnancy test. And now I wish I’d just gone for that bloody sandwich instead.

  Carbs are easy to process.

  Being pregnant by someone you barely know is not so simple.

  19

  Miranda

  ‘I can’t believe it. Harry is hot neighbour dude?’ Heather pauses, a dainty teacup paused mid-air. ‘I feel a bit icky now that I know I’ve been perving over him.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Thankfully, by the time I’d returned to the office, Jorge was there, too. Crisis averted and interrogation postponed until the evening when I’d suggested and alternative to happy hour cocktails by way of an early dinner. My treat, of course, at a nearby gastro pub.

  This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have anesthetised. Her, I mean. My days of drinking might well be behind me for a while. Actually, the way I feel about alcohol in all forms right now is kind of like how the Wicked Witch of the West must’ve felt like looking at that bucket of water.

  But I digress, as we wash down our food—pie and mash for her, chicken soup for me—with beverages of the very dull kind.

  ‘Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve met him? It’s hard to objectify someone who’s been nice to you. Besides, he’s old enough to be my dad.’

  ‘He is not,’ I scoff.

  ‘He’s got to be pushing forty.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Surely, he’s not that old. Not that forty is old exactly, but it would put him nearer to the age of my dad than me.

  ‘Well, Olivia said Beckett is thirty-eight, and that he and Harry went to school together or something.’ It’s then I recall him saying the pair went to university together. I knew Harry was older, the same with Beckett; I just didn’t think either of them was that old.

  ‘And that would make him twice my age,’ Heather continues, unaware of my moral ageist dilemma. Should I feel bad for sleeping with a man of his age? I mean, it’s not like sex with me would give him a heart attack, not the condition he’s in. It’s more likely to give me a heart attack. Honestly, who cares if he’s forty. Fit at forty. Fuckable at forty! The man just oozes sexiness into the atmosphere. Pheromones into the ozone. He’s like catnip to me. When he’s near, I just want to sniff him and rub myself against him. Roll around with him like a dog in a park that finds a patch of nasty.

  I just kind of want him.

  But just because he’s older doesn’t mean he’ll be ready to be a dad.

  ‘And twice my age is old enough to be my dad.’

  ‘Well, if you want to get technical, he’s old enough to have fathered me.’ .

  ‘Yeah, and you’re having sex with him,’ she adds airily.

  ‘God.’ I put my head in my hands because that’s the least of it.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean it would be totally seedy if I was having sex with him. You’re older, so it just doesn’t seem that bad.’

  Older, yes, but not by that much. Almost twenty-three to his pushing forty?

  ‘But can you imagine having a dad who looks like him.’

  ‘You’d never be able to have friends around,’ I reply, propping my elbow on the table and my chin on my fist. ‘Especially not friends like mine.’

  ‘Skank,’ Heather mutters in reference to Tamara. She raises her teacup in a toast. ‘May all her itches be labia lobsters.’

  As I raise my latte glass, I find myself muttering an incredulous, ‘What?’

  ‘You know, crabs.’ It’s the least the bitch deserves. And if you ask me, Harry is the best kind of revenge.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’d be down for the idea of being my revenge screw.’

  ‘Ha. I’m sure he would. Sex is sex.’

  That’s not true. There are more kinds of sex than I care to explain to her, and I don’t mean in terms of what-goes-where. I’m talking about the type of angry sex that’s a fight between two winners. The slow and easy kind of sex where touches grow into moments and moments grow into toe-curling orgasms. There’s make up sex that’s often worth the initial fight, and there’s morning sex, the kind delicious enough to make you forget you’re supposed to be on your way to work. And then there’s casu
al sex of the one-night kind variety. The kind that’s supposed to mean nothing yet feels like the best kind of sex you’ve ever had, all rolled into one. And multiplied by one hundred.

  The kind of sex that has the potential to alter your world.

  In lots of ways.

  ‘I think it’s going to be a little more complicated than that.’ I frown down at my latte.

  ‘You must’ve nearly choked when he walked into the speed dating event.’

  ‘I think I was too drunk to be bothered at that point.’ I sigh and take a sip of my cooling coffee, pushing away the realisation that I was drunk while pregnant last week.

  Note to self: check out the implications of drunkenness in the early stages of pregnancy.

  Also, while you’re on that fact-finding mission, caffeine.

  And sneaky cigarettes. Not that, at this moment, I feel like I’ll ever crave these vices again.

  ‘Not my finest moment.’ And another worry to add to the heap. The heap that is currently in front of me because I think I’m still too stunned to process any of it.

  ‘No,’ she agrees, ‘but I get why you were and why you reacted the way you did.’ We’re back to the parable of the prick and the ring again. ‘I told you he was a snake, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, you did.’ What I don’t add is that she said so after the fact. Not that it would’ve made any difference. Love is blind, or so they say. If you ask me, I think love is just really, really dumb. Or else it makes people complete idiots.

  ‘So you got stuck in Harry’s dog door,’ she says with a smirk. ‘Totally sounds like a euphemism.’

  ‘Yep, this I know, too.’

  ‘And then you had sex.’

  I chew the inside of my lip and nod. ‘But not while I was stuck in the dog door.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve cleared that up for me,’ she adds with a snort. ‘But why wouldn’t you tell me?’