by JC Harroway
‘Son! Come and have a drink with me and your stepmum,’ he calls, making a grand gesture with his outstretched arms and booming voice, so Oliver is forced to stop to avoid a scene.
‘I’m sorry,’ Oliver whispers to me under his breath.
‘Bring your lady-friend,’ says Slay, winking my way, then laying twin kisses on my cheeks before either of us can utter one word of protest or make our excuses. Oliver’s stepmother number five, who looks a couple of years younger than us, barely looks up from her phone.
‘Sid,’ says Oliver in a clipped tone. ‘We were just leaving, actually. And this is Neve.’ The term ‘lady-friend’ clearly upset him more than it did me.
Slay’s stare hardens at the use of his real name, presumably the reason Oliver used it. He slouches back in his seat, spreads his tight leather-trouser-clad thighs. His shirt hangs open to the waist to reveal a waxed, tanned torso decorated with ink.
‘Leaving this early?’ he asks, raising a near-empty bottle of champagne, waggling it at a waiter to indicate he wants a replacement. ‘That’s not very rock and roll.’
I rest my hand on Oliver’s rigid back, stilling him from reacting to the puerile jibe.
‘Fabulous resort, isn’t it?’ Slay lights a cigarette and squints at me through the smoke.
He’s not exactly leering, but I grow conscious of the strappy nature of my dress and the fact I’m not wearing a bra. My body grows stiff, all the lovely feel-good hormones of the romantic day draining away.
‘So, did you guys meet here?’ asks Slay, with an oily smile.
I step closer to Oliver’s side, my hand gripping his shirt at the small of his back—non-verbal communication that I don’t need rescuing.
‘Neve is a very old friend.’ Oliver’s voice is aloof, tension pouring from his body.
My insides jolt at Oliver’s descriptor. I don’t really mind that he introduces me that way, but Slay’s clearly never heard of me. Not once in the past nine years has my name come up. To him I’m just another of his son’s temporary women. And, like Oliver’s current stepmother, one of a long list...
I know Oliver said he’s trying to protect me, but I can’t help the tiny stabs of insecurity that rain down on me. Perhaps he doesn’t trust that I can handle Slay’s celebrity. Perhaps he thinks I’d become star-struck after all. Hardly...
But it reminds me of my place in Oliver’s life these past nine years, and it’s not the place I want. The place I began to dream for.
Slay seems to relish the discomfort he’s causing. ‘Well, don’t keep her all to yourself,’ he says before taking a deep drag from his cigarette. ‘It’s rude not to share.’ Something like menace or challenge sneaks into Slay’s eyes as he toes out a spare stool in invitation. ‘Why don’t you both sit down?’
It sounds like a dare. The air around our small group seems to freeze. The smell of testosterone emanates from father and son, each locked into a stand-off that zaps the atmosphere with animosity.
What the hell...? I’ve had enough.
‘That’s really kind of you, Mr Coterill,’ I say, coming to my senses. ‘But I have a bit of a headache. Some other time, perhaps.’ I tug Oliver’s arm, trying to drag him away from the situation, which seems to have made him furious.
‘Of course. I look forward to it,’ Slay says, ignoring Oliver, his eyes on me in some sort of act of defiance.
We’re almost back to Oliver’s bungalow, my footsteps rapid to keep up with his longer strides and my hand crushed in his, before I risk conversation.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ I ask as he unlocks the door and strides inside.
He tosses the key card onto a nearby chair, flicks on the lamp and pours himself a whisky from the mini-bar. ‘Want one?’ he asks, ignoring my question.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, accepting the drink and watching him knock his back in a determined swallow. Why the hell is he so angry? I’m the one who was passive-aggressively insulted and ogled by Slay and reinstated to the friend zone by Oliver.
‘I told you he’s an asshole. I warned you he’d flirt with you—with his wife right there.... And he’s an addict—he’s not supposed to be drinking. Now do you see why I tried to keep you two apart? He’s hardly the most flattering of fathers.’ He yanks his shirt off, slings it onto the chair and strides to the bathroom.
I follow, sipping my whisky to calm my nerves at the vision of his naked torso, tanned and tattooed, his jeans riding low on his narrow hips.
‘I told you I could look after myself. No need to go head-to-head with him. Don’t you trust me?’ I challenge, directing my disappointment away from the reminder that I’ll soon be back to my former role—an old friend. And it shouldn’t bother me, because I can’t allow myself to harbour my growing feelings. Oliver turns on the tap and splashes his face with cold water, one hand braced on the side of the sink.
I understand that Slay and Oliver aren’t close, but it seemed as if things would come to blows down there on the beach. If ever there was a way to land yourself in the news, it would be publicly decking a world-famous rock star. And why is he letting Slay get to him so badly?
‘Of course I trust you, although I don’t understand why you’re not running away from me and my fucked-up family as fast as you can,’ he says, drying his face with a towel. ‘But, if you’re staying...’ His voice ominously grows quiet. ‘I’ll defend and protect you any damn way I like.’
My pussy clenches at his commanding tone even as I say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How Slay behaves has no bearing on my feelings for you.’ I don’t want to add to his mood by addressing the fact that the father he seems embarrassed of looked at me as if he might be lining me up to be wife number seven. ‘And I’m tougher than I look.’
Am I tough enough? I should run, but only to protect my heart from a man who’s a commitment-phobe.
The real issue here is us—our unfinished business. The reminder I’m just one of a long list of women makes my skin crawl. I feel the need to mark him somehow. To be memorable. To stand out so he’ll never forget the madness of our holiday fling.
‘Fuck Slay,’ I say, venting my frustration that Oliver seems to be allowing his father issues to hold him back. I step closer, commanding his eye contact as I press my lips to the rim of my glass and take a slow swallow of whisky. ‘I won’t let whatever that was out there ruin today. Ruin us and the time we have left here. I want you. I’ve wanted you all day. I don’t give a shit about your father. This is between us and I’m exactly where I want to be.’ If I can’t have more of him than great sex, I’ll take it again and again as compensation. ‘So, if you’re so intent on looking after me, why don’t you do something about my current state?’
His face is tight with a frown. I hold out my glass to him and he takes it, knocking back the dregs then placing it on the vanity. His arm scoops around my waist, hauling me close so I’m pressed against all that yummy, pretty, naked chest.
‘Is that right?’ His eyes glitter, the romantic lover absent while his heart thunders against my sensitive breasts.
I trace the piercing in his left nipple with one index finger, rubbing over the barbell, making his abs contract and his hard cock jerk against my belly. Feminine power ignites in me, my limbs languid and my body temperature spiking.
‘Yes.’ I slide the finger down the ridge of his abdominal muscles, dipping inside his navel before unbuttoning the top button of his fly. My teeth trap my bottom lip as I look up from the trail of hair dipping into his waistband. I slide my fingertip to the head of his cock, feeling the tiny wet patch where he’s leaked on the fabric of his fly.
I lift his free hand from his hip and wedge it between my legs so he can feel the heat and moisture I’m generating. ‘I need what only you can give me.’ Can’t he see we’re all that matters? Can’t he feel how easy it would be to lose ourselves and block out the rest of the world, ju
st as we have all day at the wedding? Can’t he trust that there’s so much more to him than being his father’s son and the limitations he’s placed around his heart?
‘Neve,’ he warns, his tone still brittle. ‘Don’t goad me—I’m in no mood to go easy on you.’
I tilt my chin, pressing my open mouth to his collarbone, his neck and his stubble-covered jaw. ‘I want you as you are. You know me as well as I know you. You know what I need, what my body likes, and I trust you. You’d never hurt me.’ I slide my tongue over his parted lips, my hand stroking him through his jeans so I feel the jerks of his cock that let me know my words, my demands, excite him.
I gasp, laugh, groan as he snatches his hand from between my legs, cups my face and pushes me back against the tiles, kissing me and then dropping his mouth to my breast so he can tongue my nipple through my dress. I yank open the remaining buttons of his fly but, before I can get my hand on his erection, he bunches my dress around my waist and drops to his knees.
‘Fuck, I can’t get enough of you,’ he says, his forehead pressed to my stomach, breath panting between my legs. ‘I should never have touched you, but it’s too late. You’re addictive.’ His audible, prolonged inhale ends on a groan as he buries his face against my mound and laves my clit through the lace of my panties. ‘I wanted to kill him for looking at you that way,’ he says about Slay.
My heart surges at the return of that possessiveness that weakens my knees. I spread my thighs to accommodate his broad shoulders and grip his hair in my hands, twisting the strands with enough force to tilt his eyes—which are impassioned and stormy—up to mine.
‘I wanted you to touch me. So badly. Only you can give me what I need, what my body craves. I’m yours.’ For now.
He seems to need my admission, his stare burning through me. ‘Fuck yes, you are.’ He groans, sliding the crotch of my underwear aside so he can put his mouth on me in that way I’ve come to expect—hot, greedy, carnal. I throw one leg over his shoulder, digging my heel into his back as his tongue spears me, his big hands filled with the cheeks of my arse, and I cry out, my head thumping the wall behind.
His tongue lashes my clit, alternating with deep plunges inside. I grip his hair and ride his face, desperate now for the orgasms he can deliver. Desperate to come for him and desperate for more. For it all. Because this isn’t going away. This need isn’t diminishing. And if I glut myself now, take all I can have of him, perhaps I’ll be able to live off the memories when it ends.
I’m skirting the cusp of my climax when he slides his fingers inside me, two, three, stretching me. Plunging. I cry out in despair when his fingers leave me and I glare down at him, about to demand he put them back when I feel him probe my rear with his moisture-slicked fingers.
I stare into his fierce eyes, and a gasp rips from my throat at the foreign, thrilling contact. He watches my reaction, his mouth quirking a fraction, his groan of praise weakening my knees. Because I’m his, whether I like it or not. Whether he thinks he deserves me or not. And I trust him with my body, my pleasure, my life.
He’s shown me what I’m capable of, shown me how well he knows me. And I want this, want him all the ways I can have him until my time is up.
But I also want to undo him. To take him on this roller coaster of need right alongside me. ‘Oliver,’ I say, gripping his face while he eats at me. ‘That feels so good, but I want your cock in me.’
He pulls his mouth from me, his fingers still working in my crease, massaging, gliding over my sensitive rear, waking up nerve endings I didn’t know I possessed.
‘Say it again,’ he grinds out, his voice breaking. ‘Say you’re mine and I’ll give you my cock. I’ll make you come.’
‘I’m yours,’ I say, the words heavier every time I speak them. But I can’t focus on the future, not when I want to burn in every present moment with him.
He rises to his feet, shucking his jeans and boxers and kicking them away, then he stands naked before me, his fist wrapped around his glorious penis, sliding and tugging his long length. Taunting me. I whimper at the sight. Slide my dress from my shoulders where it pools at my feet.
‘Leave the thong on,’ he commands, and I’m past caring that I’m half-in half-out of my underwear. I grip his hips and pull him close. ‘I’m yours,’ I whisper against his lips, which smell of my own arousal. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ I ask, before sliding my mouth to his nipple and gently tugging on the piercing with my teeth.
He grunts, his fingers digging into my hips as he spins me around so I’m in front of him, facing the sink, and his cock glides between my arse cheeks, the wet tip nudging the small of my back.
Our reflections stare back at us. Him a tall, bronzed god and me flushed pink with lust and longing. And something else. Something too terrifying to name, because it mustn’t be true. I mustn’t let it be.
‘Bend over,’ he says.
I obey, bracing my hands on the edge of the vanity, my focus on breathing, an act which should be automatic but feels precarious. He leans over my back, his scruff scraping at my neck and the juncture of my shoulder as his hands cup my breasts.
His thumbs rub my nipples and I cry his name. ‘There’s a condom in my wash bag there,’ he says, sucking on my skin and sliding one hand back to my slick clit. ‘Get it.’
I fumble in my haste, and when I locate the foil square I feel the nip of his teeth against my skin, as if he’s reached his limit.
He sheathes himself quickly and then his stare meets mine in the mirror. We’re both panting hard with anticipation and, just like our first time together, I marvel at his stamina, because I’m achy, needy, empty and ready to beg, to end this torture of wanting.
‘Oliver...’ I spread my legs in invitation, tilting my hips back. ‘I want to be yours, to be bad for you.’
His eyes are so dark, so hooded, I can’t make out the blue any longer.
‘Even if I ruin you?’ he asks, his fingers still strumming between my legs.
‘Yes.’ I don’t hesitate. But he could never ruin me.
His nostrils flare and his jaw bunches as he seems to wrestle with my declaration. He looks down, strokes my back as if with reverence, and then slides my thong from between the cheeks of my arse. He positions himself at my slick entrance and then grips my shoulder in one hand, surging forward on a single, delicious thrust that has me rising up onto tiptoes to accommodate him.
His thrusts knock me forward. I lock my arms and push back, each slap of his thighs against mine thrilling and, oh, so debauched. He releases my hip, his fingers coming between my legs from the front to collect some of the moisture coating me, and then he returns those wicked fingers to my rear.
‘Do you like this? Is this what you want?’ he asks.
‘Oliver, yes...’ I mewl, my back arching as he strokes with increased pressure over my pucker.
‘Rub your clit,’ he barks, his face almost unrecognisable with the violence of his arousal.
I do his bidding with a helpless yelp, my fingers sliding around the base of his thrusting cock and then rubbing over my engorged, needy clit.
We lock eyes in the mirror, so many unspoken words passing between us in silent communication. I rub hard, so close to climaxing now I’m full of him.
‘I trust you,’ I say, because I want to give him all of me, but I can’t trust myself that I won’t fall so hard, so deep, that I’ll never be the same.
At my words his fingers dig into my shoulder, his thrusts deeper, and he presses a fingertip into my rear.
I’m tossed into an orgasm so profound, I’m vaguely aware of screaming his name and of his own shout of unrestrained pleasure before the world seems to go black, my five fingers clinging to the edge of the vanity being my only grip on sanity.
Oliver leaves my body, tugging me into his arms and sliding us to the bathroom tiles. His kisses pepper my face, my closed eye
lids, his gusting breath telling me he too is still reeling. He holds me tight, his arms possessive around my waist.
‘You’re mine,’ he whispers against my temple. ‘Mine.’
CHAPTER TEN
Oliver
I SWIM TOWARDS the back of the boat behind Neve after a day spent snorkelling and sailing, just the two of us. But I’m still distracted by what happened with Slay. I’d wanted to gouge out his eyes when he looked at Neve as if she was just another potential notch on his guitar. And when he disrespected her with that snide dig at me about sharing... I saw red, and for the first time in my life I’d wanted to hit my own father. To punch his million-dollar veneered teeth down his throat. And I might have, if Neve hadn’t defused the situation.
But that would have shown her exactly what I’m trying to conceal. Proved how much alike Slay and I really are in some areas. And I’m not ready to have her despise me the way I despised myself for many years. How could I have allowed Slay to burrow so deep under my skin last night?
It’s Neve. I’ve fallen for her so easily, and it’s as if Slay has deliberately come here to remind me of my every failing. I’m so buggered. I knew it the minute I opened my eyes after our first night together, and the fact was again cemented last night when Slay uttered the word share and I realised how much I had to lose.
Neve clambers aboard and then leans over to take my snorkel mask and flippers. We haven’t discussed it since the conversation in the bathroom last night. We showered and lay naked and entwined beneath the cool sheets all night. I couldn’t sleep, which meant I watched her sleep, marvelling at how perfect she is and how blind I’ve been all this time. But Slay’s presence, his little pissing contest last night in front of Neve, brought all my fears screaming to the forefront of my mind.
I don’t deserve her. All these years I’ve avoided relationships in order to protect myself from the pain and humiliation I felt at nineteen. I messed up following my split with Jane, crossing a line with Slay’s then-wife number three, proving how much like him I am. And I’ll likely mess up again if I try to have something real and committed with Neve.