by Alam, Donna
‘If you have to ask . . .’ His fingers hook into the sides of my blue cotton knickers. ‘If you . . . ’ He slides them down my legs until they pool at my feet. ‘If you h-have to ask, you’re doing it—’
‘I’m doin’ it all right,’ he replies in a low growl. ‘Get your ass on the bed and spread those legs wide.’
I don’t so much comply as almost faint from desire, my bum falling to the bed. I have nothing left to say; nothing I could articulate as his palm centres on my chest, pressing my body flat across the bed.
His fingers tight on my thighs, I’m cleaved—split in two—as his tongue, honed to an arrow, to a sharp point, parts me. I cry out. I fist the covers. Melt against the bed.
‘That’s it, baby.’ His words vibrate deliciously. ‘Let me hear you.’
Oh. God. Oh, fuck. It’s been so long.
‘I know, baby. For me, too.’
I realise the words weren’t spoken solely in my head, and his reply? I don’t have time to process what that could mean as he kisses my clit. Kisses it. Makes out with it until I’m writhing beneath him and he’s feeding his hands under me, drawing my hips from the bed. He envelops my clit with his mouth, sucking and swirling, releasing and repeating until no more words and no more thoughts exist. Just blinding light and sensation from where his tongue meets my body.
The hum of his pleasure between my legs—it’s so much. Too much. I want him to stop, to never stop, but I can’t articulate any of that as I reach the sharp knife of climax, my body rising to meet it.
‘Oh, Dylan.’ I feed my hands into his hair; once I remember that I have hands, that is.
‘I need you inside me. I need you now.’ But he just licks me slowly in response, working me with the full flat of his tongue. ‘Stop, please. It’s too much.’
‘No, baby,’ his voice rumbles back. ‘You’re just out of practise.’
‘No, please. I need you.’ I push at his shoulders and grasp the collar of his shirt until, with one last kiss between my legs, he stands and begins to strip.
Shirt. Boots. Jeans. Thumbs hooked into the waist of his black boxer briefs.
‘Quit looking at me like that,’ he demands, though smiling, a flash of white teeth peeking through kiss-plumped lips.
I swallow, and my tongue flicks out to touch my own kiss-swollen mouth.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Aye, sure.’ But then his smile falls. ‘When this happens, there’s no going back. Not for me.’
The boxers come off, and while the sight of him naked in my darkened bedroom is distracting, I can’t move on from his words. He lays the length of his body along mine, his eyes shining in the darkness.
‘We’ve fucked this up big time.’ His fingers trail my cheek, my neck, his thumb dragging over my mouth before his lips cover mine. ‘Give me another chance, Ivy. Let me love you again.’
Chapter 41
Dylan
My heart beats wildly as I wait for her answer, my cock screaming for release. But the silence between us—it’s deafening. Frightening.
‘I hurt you; I know that. In so many ways. But if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please, let me do that.’
‘You can’t—want—just because of the baby.’ Her words are jerky, and she looks to be trying to sit straight. To escape. ‘I promise I won’t push you out—’
‘No, Edera.’ I push up on one elbow and stare her down. ‘I know we’re both to blame for fucking up our marriage. But this isn’t about the baby.’ Shit. It sort of is. ‘Look, the idea of being a father—being responsible for someone else—has given me a sudden sense of perspective. It makes me want to stop fucking about . . . dithering, you know?’ Her expression is as empty as a crappy script. ‘This—being the father to our child—has given me the balls to ask. Please, Ivy, say we can try again.’
I take her wrist between my fingers and bring her hand to my chest. ‘Feel that? If I had any more love in my heart, I think it’d burst.’
I’ll never be a writer. I only speak others’ words, but those things I just said? They’re original. And the truth. And got me her stunned expression. Got me her shy smile and the dip of her mouth to mine. Her kisses are bottomless. Endless. Warm, sweet, and wet. I’d let her kiss me forever without coming up for breath.
As she leans over me, I wrap her in my arms and pull her to straddle my waist. I put her there, but I don’t push. But maybe just tease as I slide my fingers between her legs. Coax. Pet. Slide. Tease inside. But I don’t do anything else. She has to take the next step.
Ivy’s all about the connection. The build-up. Come fuck me glances and sighs. And right now, her eyes are closed, and she’s strung tight . . . even as she rocks against my hand.
So I change tack.
‘You want me.’ My words hit the air in a demand. A growl.
She bites her lip and offers me a libidinous sigh that sounds like, ‘Yesss.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’
‘The bubble to burst,’ she whispers. ‘To wake.’
‘Ivy,’ I grate out, aiming for a warning tone. ‘Look at me. Do I not look real?’
‘You look like a wet dream.’ She sighs, her body collapsing, and her wet pussy grinding against my happy trail.
This girl. I hiss out a laugh.
‘You can do better than that.’ My thighs are shaking with restraint; my hands clasp her hips so tight, I’m afraid she might bruise.
‘I can’t,’ she whispers, tears dripping from her lids. ‘I’m afraid.’
‘Then tell me you’ll be mine.’
‘Yes, please.’ Her answer is instant; her tone weak with need.
I lift her, lift her onto my cock, because every square inch of my skin is hot, tight, and tingling with need. We both cry out from the intensity and from relief. Our hands seeking the others’, our fingers entwining as she rocks into me, her thighs spread wide.
‘Is this okay?’ I rasp, my eyes and fingers not able to touch enough of her. She is seriously the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
‘So deep,’ she pants. I take that as an affirmation as, with a tilt of my hips, her expression morphs from happy to delirious. As her mouth falls open in a gasp of obscene pleasure, the orange streetlamp outside highlights the lust in the amber of her eyes.
I pull myself up onto one elbow then one flat palm, reaching around behind her and tangling my fist in her hair.
‘Tell me,’ I rasp, pulling the strands at the base of her skull. ‘Tell me what I need to hear.’
‘Oh, God.’ She cries out her litany, her insides pulsing greedily, but I tighten my grip because that’s not quite what I want.
‘Don’t make me ask again.’ My cock jerks inside her, joy and pleasure surging through my veins as she gives in to her release. Gives it to me.
‘All of me, Dylan. All of me belongs to you.’
My heart beats in time to the throbbing of my cock as, finally, I come.
Chapter 42
Ivy
‘Hey, beautiful.’
I wake to the sight of Dylan Duffy, billboard perfect but for the darkened scruff gracing his cheek and his thoroughly fucked hair. Leaning on one elbow, he stares down at me and his startling green eyes sparkle as a lazy half-smile graces his face.
‘Lord have mercy, there’s a gorgeous man in my bed.’
‘Gorgeous, huh?’ He smiles, flashing me those almost perfect teeth. In my bed, he’s a little less flawless than on the big screen but so much more real.
So much more mine.
‘Please,’ I scoff. ‘No one likes a Bobby big balls, you know.’
‘A what?’ he half laughs, half asks.
‘A Bobby big balls? Someone who has to blow their own trumpet because—’
He laughs louder now. ‘Like you wouldn’t blow my trumpet given half a chance.’ His tone is as playful as his gaze. ‘And now you’re imagining it, aren’t you, babe?’
‘I so am not!’ I protest, sw
atting his chest with the back of my hand. ‘This isn’t much of a disguise, you know.’ My hand dips, rubbing the nearly black scruff across his jaw. ‘You really could do with a shave.’
‘You’re gonna need to get used to it. It’s for a project,’ he answers cryptically. ‘And you didn’t seem to mind last night.’ He trails a finger between my breasts, down over our baby bump, and farther still to between my legs. Heat prickles against my cheeks as he leans down and kisses my belly. ‘Morning, Not-Vlad. Cover your ears, little fella.’ Then he straightens a touch, whispering above me, ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure I could’ve fucked you at the front door without protest.’
‘Maybe I was trying to get used to the world seeing my bum.’
Dylan sighs, his brow furrowing. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d like to get on the right side of your family when the time comes.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just, when you decide to tell them. I’d like it to be for the right reasons, Edera. Not because the world’s watching us fucking.’
‘Maybe they won’t hear about it?’
Worst-case scenario, I could warn Mac not to watch and hope the press doesn’t find out who I am. I sigh because I don’t want to think about it this morning. I don’t want to think about it any morning.
‘I’ve heard your brother has a mean right hook.’
‘And my dad has a gun. No pressure or anything.’ I laugh at his horrified expression. ‘But I’ll tell them—’
‘A gun!’ I laugh again. ‘Why would you mention that?’
‘Don’t worry. My mum won’t let him kill you; not the father of her grandchild. But maybe maim? Maybe I’ll protect you,’ I reply with a playful pout. ‘If you make it worth my while.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ His lips hover over mine, his soft breath tantalising my skin. ‘And just how would I do that?’
‘Well . . .’ I tiptoe my fingers down the middle of his chest. ‘You know that trumpet you were talking about?’
His eyes cloud with desire, and he breathes my name right at the same moment . . . I hear my mother calling the same.
‘Fuck!’ In a panic, I push at Dylan’s chest; only I push so hard he falls out of my tiny bed. His arse hits the floor with a loud thunk and a low curse.
What happens next is an issue all of my own making because, ordinarily, she wouldn’t enter my bedroom without knocking once at least, so I don’t know which of us is more surprised . . . shocked . . . desperate to turn back the clock as the door burst open and she dashes in.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ She covers her eyes and quickly turns away. ‘I thought you’d fallen. Oh, sweet baby Jesus! Mac, get out!’ She slams the door in my brother’s startled face.
‘Mum, what are you doing here?’
Feet planted wide, she pushes her back against the bedroom door as my brother begins hammering on the wood, quickly squeezing her eyes closed with a squeak. Because it seems at that exact moment, Dylan had decided to stand—very naked and semi-hard—to slip his jeans back on.
‘We thought we’d surprise you, not the other way around!’
‘This isn’t what it looks like,’ I protest.
‘No, not at all,’ Dylan agrees as my brother begins hammering the door with his fist, causing it to jump in its frame. He slides his hand out of his pocket, pulling out a necklace or a chain, his fingers fumbling with the clasp. It takes me a moment to realise what’s hanging from there, my mind flashing back to the last day I saw it.
The day we fucked in LA. It was hanging from a chain then, too. A chain around my neck.
Exactly one second before the door bursts open, Dylan grabs my left hand, sliding my wedding ring back where it belongs as he whispers, ‘I don’t want to be shot.’
‘What the feck is going on in here?’ my dad roars, my lovely ape of a brother beating his chest just behind. Okay, not really. ‘You!’ He points one blunt finger at Dylan. ‘Why have you got your hand on my daughter’s erse?’
I twist my wrist and lift my hand while whispering a weak, ‘Surprise.’
Epilogue
Ivy
Six Months Later
‘Cheer up, triple D,’ Nat says with a laugh, knowing full well that Dylan hates the moniker. Dylan Dickalicous Duffy. Yes, it’s odd that she calls him that to his face, but she really has no shame and, as she points out, she’s seen the proof. Thankfully, the pair get along these days, and by that, I mean she teases him mercilessly. And he puts up with it.
‘I mean it’s not like those photographers will never penetrate your fortress of solitude. Likely, they’ll have to hang around and pap people as they arrive. You know, all your celeb pals as they drive across the moat.’
‘We don’t have a moat,’ I scoff, adjusting my hold on the bundle in my arms.
‘No, but you live in a mother fluffin’ castle. How cool is that?’
Yes, we do live in a castle, but to be fair, it’s smaller than some of the houses we looked at, and in our defence, we needed something specific. Something private. Claish Castle is a fifteenth-century castle built from beautiful Scottish stone. So we don’t have a moat, but we do have salmon fishing in the nearby loch. And grouse in the woodlands. The spot is so bloody beautiful and looks like something out of an enchanted forest with mullion windows and turrets and everything! While I’m not sure it’s a fortress of solitude, it’s definitely a fortress of seclusion. A fortress fit to raise our family, away from the press and prying eyes.
‘Here, let me take him.’ Dylan slides his hand under the blue swaddling, bringing the bundle to his chest. ‘Hey, buddy. Did you enjoy your lunch with Mommy?’ He shoots me a wink and a sly smile. ‘Is it my turn yet?’
Nat’s expression is classic, causing me to chuckle as I tell her, ‘That face would sour milk.’
‘Can we not . . . talk about—’ She halts, affecting a full-body shiver. ‘I’m away to drown that almost incestuous image in champagne.’
Dylan has been well and truly removed from the realms of Nat’s wank bank or so she says. Whether this is in relation to his official title as my husband or the fact that he’s recently shaved his beard and had a decent haircut, thanks to yours truly, is unclear. But the wild and woolly look he’d been sporting since he turned up last summer had been for an upcoming movie of his. The historical romance set in Scotland has meant he’s been around almost constantly since. And lucky for me, he’s spent the last few months wearing a kilt. What I do know is this time together cocooned in our little bubble of family and friends has been a godsend. Our perfect second chance, and the absolute antidote to the start of our marriage. Where I made him a secret.
As Nat begins to walk away, I place my hand on her forearm. ‘Wait. Where’s June?’
‘She’s probably got Sam taking her for a turn around the gardens.’
Nat slides Dylan a grateful look over her shoulder, one he refuses to acknowledge again as his gaze remains completely absorbed by the fat little fist gripped tightly around his finger. Maybe this is where Dylan’s removal from her list stems. It’s hard to objectify someone who’s taken on the role of a surrogate big brother because Sam is the day nurse Dylan hired to look after June when he sprung her from the rehabilitation place. Yes, sprung. Like a prison inmate. After a stroke, a couple of cracked ribs from the CPR effort, a case of respiratory arrest, and a subsequent infection, June was sent to a place full of geriatrics to recuperate. With the purple streak in her bangs, her love of the smutty, and her general lust for life, it quickly became clear she was never going to benefit from being there. Rather than progressing, her health seemed to deteriorate. So in stepped Dylan, without a word to any of us, arranging all the medical help she would need to live once more in her own home. He’s also footing the bill. Help, which includes Sam, the very cute and very male day nurse she’s currently smitten with. Having Sam has also meant Nat has been able to take on the running of the salon, which has been a great help. I still pop in from time to time, but my best clients—N
at, Fin, and June—all come to the castle for their cut, colour, and of course, baby squeezes.
Sensing Dylan’s lack of interest in any notion of thanks, Nat shrugs resignedly, turning her attention to me.
‘She’s probably got him wheeling her about like the bloody Queen Mother again. Making him pick flowers from the garden, just so she can steal a wee squeeze of his bum.’
‘Well, it is a very nice bottom,’ I agree, earning me a tolerant though unimpressed look from my husband. ‘And a valid exercise for her motor skills, I should think.’
Dylan mumbles something about potential sexual harassment cases, which we ignore.
‘That face and an arse like that.’ She shakes her head, making that noise. You know the one; cake eating appreciation. Or as she’d call it, the sound you make when he first slips his fingers in. ‘That man bun could really have its fu—fluffing way with me.’
‘Good save,’ says Dylan, patting her on the shoulder. ‘More money for your pocket. Cutz, we’d better go join the throng.’
Eurgh. People. Parents. Hangers on. Famous folk. I think I’d take a few years of hermitage in a fortress of solitude over joining this throng. But it’s not every day your first-born is christened. In your own church, no less. As in, the church within your own castle’s grounds.
I’m probably being unfair. My parents are great. Mostly. They like Dylan. At least, they do now. The morning Dylan gave me my wedding ring back, I came clean to them about everything. Again, mostly clean. And only once they’d allowed me enough privacy to dress. With Dylan by my side, I explained how we’d married the year before. I told them of how I was ashamed to tell them for fear they’d think less of me. I didn’t go into specifics but said I’d left Dylan for pretty much the same reasons as I hadn’t told them. Because of some childish sense of being good and doing the right thing. Pathetic really.
Mac was most hurt, and this still weighs heavily on me. I’d like to be able to make it up to him, but I’m not sure how. We’re trying, and he did agree to be godfather to our son, even though his relationship with Dylan is strained. He’s read the articles regarding my Dylan’s slutty slice of fame, and I know he finds it hard to reconcile a portion of the blame to me.