by Abby Green
She shook her head. ‘I can’t stand any more.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘No, I mean literally. I can’t stand any more.’ And her feet began to slip out in front of her, a slow slither to the floor.
He scooped her straight up.
‘Oh, thanks. My legs just didn’t want to be upright any more.’
‘What do they want?’ He chuckled.
‘To be wrapped round you. Like this.’ She hooked them round his waist and felt her desire for him surge back stronger than before.
‘Mmm.’ He nodded. ‘Feels good to me.’
‘Does this feel good?’ She slid one hand down his chest, eager to feel his muscles respond.
His arms tightened. ‘Thought I told you to quit it.’
‘Afraid you can’t handle it?’
‘Sure am.’ His teeth flashed white and she knew he didn’t mean it. This guy could handle anything—especially her.
The bed was unmissable and in four paces he had her on it, following immediately. She opened her arms, her mouth, her legs. Ready for everything.
He groaned as he pressed close. ‘Condoms?’
She shook her head.
‘You don’t have any?’ He paused and she shook her head again. Then he grinned. ‘I do.’
Of course he did. She lay still beneath him as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, pulled a small square from inside that and then put it beside her.
‘Quite the Boy Scout.’
He met her snark with an unapologetic look. ‘Accidents are best avoided, don’t you think?’
She nodded. She knew he was right to be prepared—to protect both of them. And then, as he kissed her, she decided his experience was something to celebrate—because nobody had kissed her like this before. No one had known how to turn her on like this. She’d never known such raw lust, or had such an ache for physical fulfilment.
He worked his way down her body, peeling her panties from her, stoking the fire within with caresses and whispers and kisses. Her hands grappled with the fastening of his jeans—she could wait no longer. But he took over, rolling to his back, tearing the denim from his body and quickly sorting the condom. Then he was back, settling over her, and the level of her anticipation almost had her hyperventilating.
He held back for a second, humour twinkling in the dark desire. ‘Happy birthday, Bella.’
She closed her eyes. The first person to actually say it today. And now he was—oh! She gasped. Opened her eyes again—wide.
‘Birthday girls deserve big presents.’ He was watching her closely. ‘That OK?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She squealed as he moved closer and a smile stretched his mouth. Air rushed out from her lungs in jagged segments as her body adjusted to his—to the glorious delight of it.
And then, when she was able to revel in the feel of him, he moved, rolling her over, lifting her so she was sitting astride him while at the same time arching up into her so the connection wasn’t lost.
‘Let me see how beautiful you are, Bella.’
She looked down at him, marvelling that she was astride such magnificence. His chest tabled out before her and she spread her hands over it, leaning forward so she could slide up his length—and back down. Her eyes closed as she slowly hit his hilt again. And then again and again.
Shuddering, she opened her eyes to see him watching, with his head on the big pillows, appreciation apparent as he roved over her body, taking in her reaction. His hands spread wide, sliding up her thighs, lifting to cup her breasts and then take them in a ripe handful.
‘Beautiful Bella,’ he muttered, thumbs stroking. His heat fired her to go faster. And then he moved to match her.
‘Oh, God,’ she gasped. ‘You really are a tiger.’
He growled in response.
Her giggle was lost in another gasp as he moved more, encouraging her to take more. And the sensations grew—overwhelming everything. Until there was nothing left in her mind—no thought, no humour, recognition of nothing but this wild passion that was all-consuming. Tension seared through her, until it could tighten no more, making her body rigid as she was thrust to the brink of madness.
His arms encircled her as he surged up with more force and depth than ever, and his hands clenched, supporting her as her orgasm tore through her, taking her strength with it. But he held her hard, making her face the intensity of it, squeezing every last sensation from her until she screamed with the exquisite pleasure of it.
She collapsed forward onto him, his shout still reverberating in her ears. Every muscle quivered—hot and bubbling, seeming to sing and so sensitive she could hardly believe it. She’d never felt anything like it.
‘In about half an hour or so,’ he murmured as her lids lowered, ‘we’re going to do that again.’
‘And more,’ she mumbled. She had plans for him, oh, yes, she had plans … in about half an hour …
There was a strange buzzing sound. As if an oversized bumblebee had made its way in and was trapped inside. Her warm pillow jerked up. Startled, she rolled away, and he quickly slid from the bed. Blinking rapidly so her eyes adjusted, feeling cold, she watched as he found his jeans. He swore crudely as he struggled to find the right pocket in the dark. The screen cast a cold blue glow on his face. He studied it for a moment, then his fingers pressed buttons, fast, frantic.
He glanced up, distance reflected in his eyes. ‘What a nightmare.’
She wasn’t sure what he was referring to—the message, or the situation. After another minute or so the phone buzzed again. He read the message.
‘I have to go,’ he said, pushing more buttons.
It wasn’t light yet. Not even close. And this was summer in New Zealand when it got light near five a.m. Hell, he was running out in the middle of the night.
‘It’s so early.’
He had his jeans on and was still pressing buttons. ‘In New York, it’s nine a.m. and my client needs help right now.’
‘But it’s Saturday.’ He wouldn’t even look at her.
‘No such thing as Saturdays, not for me. I have to get back right away.’
But what about the wedding? Devastated, she envisaged the hours to come. But she wasn’t going to remind him. He’d probably had too much to drink to even remember. The idea of him being her date had only ever been a joke. Except her family knew. Everyone knew. She was on the train to humiliation central.
She drew her knees up. Face it, she was already there. Mortification spread over her skin and she was glad it was dark and her blush hidden. He could hardly wait to leave her. Silently, quickly, he found his top, pulling it over his head. His mind had already left the building.
Frowning at the screen, he spoke. ‘Give me your number.’
He was taking the control—not giving her his details, but trying to make her feel better. As if he’d ever call.
‘Bella.’ He spoke sharply. ‘Tell me your number.’
She recited it, with a cold heart and a determined mind.
He nodded, still pressing buttons. ‘I’ll call you.’
He made it sound sincere. But she knew for a fact he wouldn’t.
Thirteen hours and no sleep later, Bella watched Vita and Hamish walk around the beach wearing their cheesy flip-flops that left ‘Just Married’ imprinted in the sand. She really wished she had a hangover. That way she could blame the whole escapade on booze. Say she’d been blind drunk and shrug the thing off with the insouciance of an ingénue.
But while she was aching, the pain wasn’t in her head—it was deep inside her chest and she tried to tell herself it wasn’t really that bad. Fact was, she’d never had a one-night stand before. She’d had boyfriends that hadn’t lasted long—OK, so all three of her ex-boyfriends would fall into that category. But she’d never had a fling that lasted less than ten hours … And she’d gone and done it in front of her entire family—who thought she was a hopeless case already. What had she been thinking?
And there was Celia, hangin
g on the arm of Rex, flashing victorious glances her way at every opportunity. Thank goodness he hadn’t arrived until this morning and hadn’t been witness to last night too. And now everyone was thinking she couldn’t hang onto anyone—not the fabulously suitable accountancy star that was Rex or the laid-back, coolly casual sex god that was Owen. Thank heavens her father had spent the night talking business with his brothers—hopefully he wouldn’t have heard a thing about it.
She felt a prickle inside as she saw the sheer joy on her sister’s face. Maybe Owen had been right—she was a little jealous. But who wouldn’t want to be loved like that? And little sister Vita seemed to have it all—she’d been the one to embrace the family profession—as all four of their elder brothers had. Vita had been the one able to do everything the way the family wanted. Even down to marrying one of the partners in the firm. She’d worked really hard to get her degree and her charter. And to cap it off, she was nice. She deserved to be happy.
But Bella worked hard too. Damn hard. Didn’t she deserve to be happy? Didn’t she deserve some respect too?
She was jealous. How nice it would be to have someone look at her the way Hamish looked at Vita. To have the career and the lover. But she’d yet to get the job she wanted, and she couldn’t even have a one-night stand last the whole night.
As if Owen had really had to get up and go to work at three in the damn morning? On a Saturday. He’d probably programmed his phone to buzz then and the talk of the client in New York was just for believability. It was probably his standard modus operandi—enabling him to make that quick escape and avoid the awkward morning-after scene.
The morning after had been unbearably awkward for Bella. And it wasn’t just because of the questioning looks of the younger members of the family—the ones who’d been in the restaurant last night. She’d gone to Reception and asked which room ‘Owen’ was staying in—only to be told there was no Owen staying at all. And no Owen had checked out recently either. Then she’d asked to check her tab, bracing herself for a huge bill from the bar. But she found it had been paid in full, including the accommodation cost. She’d asked whose name was on the card—but apparently whoever it was had paid in cash.
It had been him—she was sure of it. What was he doing—paying for services rendered?
She stood, brushed the sand from the horrendous dress. She wasn’t going to sit around and be the object of mockery or pity any more—and certainly not her own self-pity either. It was time for action. Things were going to have to change.
CHAPTER FIVE
A LOT could happen in three weeks and a day. Life-changing decisions could be made and the resulting plans put into action. And it was too late for regrets now. Bella had finally pushed herself out of the nest—and it was time to see if she could fly. Thus far, she was succeeding barely on a day-by-day basis.
The minute she’d got back from that hellish weekend she’d moved out of her father’s home in Auckland and down to Wellington. Movies were made there. There were theatres. It was the arts hub. She’d found a tiny flat quite easily. Above another flat where a couple lived. It was in the shade of a hill and was a little damp, but it would do. She hadn’t wanted to flat-share. She was going independent—all the way.
Because she’d finally had the shove she needed. And it wasn’t ambition. It was one humiliation too many. If she ever saw Owen again she’d have to thank him. His was the boot that had got her moving. The smug sideways glances of Celia, the questions in her perfect sister’s eyes at the reception. Bella had explained that he’d had to leave for work. It had sounded lame even to her. When they’d asked what he did, where he worked, she’d only been able to parrot the vague answers that he’d given her.
She didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into him ever again. It would have been just her luck that he’d have come into the café where she’d worked in central Auckland.
So now she worked at a café in central Wellington. The manager of that branch of the chain had jumped at the chance to hire someone already trained, and with so much experience she could step in as deputy manager any time he needed. And she’d started children’s party entertaining here too. She’d had a couple of recommendations from contacts in Auckland and today’s supreme effort had ensured a booking for her second party already. Several other parents had asked for her card at the end of it too. It wasn’t exactly glam work, but she was good at it.
But then there was the lecherous uncle. There was always one. The younger brother of the mother, or the cousin of the father, who fancied a woman in a fairy dress. He’d cornered her as she was packing up her gear.
‘Make my wish come true. Have dinner with me.’
As if she hadn’t heard that one before. Then he’d touched her, an attempt at playfulness. He’d run his fingers down her arm and they’d felt reptilian. She’d made a quick exit—smiling politely at the hosts. Once out the door she’d bolted, because she’d seen him coming down the hall after her. She’d been in such a hurry to get into the car and away she’d pulled hard on her dress as she’d sat and one of the cute capped sleeves had just ripped right off, meaning that side of the top was in imminent danger of slipping south too. Well, the dress had been slightly tight. She’d been eating a little more chocolate than usual these last three weeks. Like a couple of king-size cakes a day to get her through the move. Now she needed to top up on essential supplies. And so it was that she pulled into the supermarket car park—fully costumed up and half falling out of it.
Ordinarily she’d never stop and shop while in character, but this wasn’t an ordinary day. She was tired and ever so slightly depressed. She picked up a basket on her way in and ignored the looks from the other customers. Didn’t they often see fully grown women wearing silver fairy dresses and wings, an eyeload of make-up and an entire tube of glitter gel?
She’d blow her last fifteen dollars on some serious comfort food. She loaded in her favourite chocolate. The best ice cream—she could just afford the two-litre pack so long as she could find a five-dollar bottle of wine. In this, one of the posher supermarkets, she might be pushing her luck. As it was her luck was always limited.
She headed to the wine aisle and searched for the bright yellow ‘on special’ tags. She’d just selected one particularly dodgy-looking one when the voice in her ear startled her.
‘And you told me you didn’t want the fluffy princess part.’
Her fingers were around the wine, taking the weight, but at the sound of that smooth drawl they instinctively flexed.
The bottle smashed all over the floor—wine splattered everywhere, punctuated by large shards of green glass.
Oh, great. It would have to happen to her. Right this very second. She looked hard at the rapidly spreading red puddle on the floor so she wouldn’t have to face the stares of the gazillion other customers, especially not … Was it really him?
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.’
She couldn’t avoid it any longer. She looked up at—yes, it was him. Right there. Right in front of her. And utterly devastating.
‘Oh, no.’ The words were out before she thought better of it. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you lived in—’ She broke off. Actually she had no idea where he lived. She’d thought Auckland, but there was no real reason for her to have done so. They hadn’t really talked details much—not about anything that really mattered.
After a disturbingly stern appraisal, he bent, picked up the fragment of wine bottle and read the smeared label. It reminded her where they were and the mess she’d just made. She glanced down the aisle and saw a uniform-clad spotty teenager headed their way with a bucket and mop.
‘No, no, no and no again.’ Owen, if that indeed was his name, was shaking his head.
‘It’s for cooking. A casserole.’ Ultra defensive, she invented wildly.
He drew back up to full height and looked in her basket. Both brows flipped. ‘Some casserole.’
‘It is actually,’ she breezed,
determined to ignore the heat in her cheeks. ‘Pretty extraordinary.’
‘Ultra extraordinary,’ he said, still looking at her with a sharpness that was making her feel guilty somehow. It maddened her—he was the one who’d skipped out that crazy night. Don’t think about it. Do not think about it!
But suddenly it was all back in a rush—all she could see was him naked, her body remembering the warmth of his, the thrill. And all she could hear was his low laughter and how seductive it had been.
The heat in her cheeks went from merely hot to scorching. And he stood still and watched its progression—degree, by slow degree.
Then his gaze dropped, flared and only then did she remember the state of her dress. Quickly she tugged the low sagging neckline up and kept her fist curled round the material just below her shoulder.
His eyes seemed to stroke her skin. ‘Your sunburn has faded.’
It didn’t feel as if it had now—it felt more on fire than it had weeks ago when it had been almost raw.
‘I’m sorry about this.’ He gestured to the mess. ‘I’ll pay for it.’
And then she remembered how he’d left her.
‘No, thanks,’ she said briskly. ‘You don’t have to—’
He wasn’t listening. He’d turned, studying the shelves of wine. After a moment he picked one out and put it in her basket. ‘I think this one will serve you better.’
She caught a glimpse of a white tag—not a yellow ‘on special’ one—and winced. No way could she afford that bottle of wine. But she couldn’t put it back in front of him.
Then he took her basket off her. ‘Is that everything you need for your casserole?’ he asked blandly.
‘Oh, er, sure.’
He turned away from her and headed towards the checkout. She paused, staring after him, panic rising. More humiliation was imminent. She’d chopped up her credit card—not wanting to get into debt—so all she had was that fifteen dollars in her pocket. While she had the cheque from the birthday party she’d just done, it was Sunday and she couldn’t cash it.
And no way was she letting him pay her bill—not again.