Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘I’m not wild. It’s just my hair.’ I’m sedate. Professional. Sensible. I’m also not particularly wee, or small, either.

  ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that,’ he says, leaning over to the nightstand and grabbing a condom.

  ‘Do you always carry so many in your wallet?’ His wallet is flipped open, a small stack of foil packages spilling from underneath.

  ‘These were in my overnight bag.’ He can’t seem to keep the smile off his face. It irritates me irrationally.

  ‘You must’ve been planning on getting a lot of sex this weekend.’

  ‘Oh, I was,’ he answers cryptically, tearing the packet open and flicking it to the floor. ‘The only shame is I can’t stay the full weekend.’

  ‘Places to go, people to do, huh?’

  ‘The only one I’m doing is you. I did, after all, follow you here yesterday.’

  I almost don’t catch what the suggestion intimates, fascinated by the casual way he holds himself while wondering if his condoms also have to be custom fit.

  ‘You followed me?’ I repeat, no longer struck dick-dumb.

  ‘Fin popped into the office for lunch. I overheard her telling Rory where you were staying.’

  ‘You said you came to visit your grandmother.’

  ‘I’m seeing her on the way to the airport. You can come if you like?’ He joins his forefinger and thumb and runs them down the condom’s snug fit to the base.

  ‘Ah, no. Thanks.’ Unviable as far as secret shags go.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’

  My eyes flick from his dick to his face. ‘Is this the part where you want me to beg you to put it in me?’

  His responding burst of laughter is startling.

  ‘Some other time maybe. I was just watching you watch my cock. It makes me all kinds of hard.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Then answer the question, Bea.’

  ‘When I saw your piercing . . .’ My words halt. Where am I going with this? How can I explain how irrationally hot this made me?

  ‘I was there. You looked so excited; I thought I’d somehow accidentally proposed.’

  I begin to laugh, but it doesn’t last long as he moves his body down the bed, sliding into me in one long thrust.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s it. Let me hear you. Let the whole hotel hear.’

  He isn’t gentle, and he isn’t sweet, but his actions bring more pleasure than pain as his hips snap and flex, his strong body undulating above me as he pushes up onto his palms.

  ‘Wider. Spread your legs.’ I loosen them from around his thighs and do just that, digging my heels into the mattress on either side of him. The position does something to me internally, simultaneously opening and tightening me at the same time. My insides flex and pulse so strongly, it’s as though I could pull him in. In his entirety.

  ‘Fuck, that’s the way,’ he rasps, picking up the pace.

  There isn’t a thought left inside my head, and my throat is hoarse as the blunt, rigid tip of his dick works my pussy like sweet agony. Grazed and stretched from yesterday, I spread myself wider still as this devil of a man pounds me again and again. He rasps how sweet I am. How he can feel every inch of me. How he can’t wait to feel me come.

  And I do just that. I detonate. Explode. Cease to exist beyond blinding light and pure roaring overload. Moments later, Kit reaches his own zenith with a guttural roar, grinding into me and sparking a wave of aftershocks so intense, my hips almost levitate from the mattress.

  My breathing evens out as Kit rolls away, landing flat on his back with one forearm across his face and covering his eyes. I take the opportunity to just look at him. Just look and appreciate the fuck out of him. The rise and fall of his broad chest, the long lines of his thighs, and the ladder of his abs. The delicious V that leads to the somewhat less monstrous monster lying across his thigh. Still dressed.

  ‘Stop perving.’ My heart jolts, and my denials are immediate. ‘Of course, you were. But it’s no more than I deserve after doing the same last night.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘How do you think we ended up fucking the second time? I watched you. Touched you. And you made these delicious sounds, rubbing up against me like a cat. And that was it,’ he adds so matter-of-factly, peeking out from under his arm. ‘I knew I needed to be inside you.’

  I don’t have an answer beyond a flutter in my chest. It’s something sweet and warm and entirely different to the absolute need I feel most of the time around him.

  I don’t analyse this reaction too much as Kit suddenly sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Stretching his arms out wide, he then tousles the hair on the back of his head. Muscles. So many muscles. Deltoids. Triceps. Obliques. Latissimus dorsi. If he’d been in my anatomy books at uni, I might’ve studied harder.

  ‘Right—’

  But before he can finish, I take this as my cue. One-night stands have to end at some point. Better it be at my instigation, I suppose.

  ‘I should let you go. You’ll need to pack.’ It’ll take him a while to make space for all those condoms, for a start.

  Kit twists to face me, all strong eyebrows and dissatisfaction.

  ‘Fuck that noise. Come on, woman. It’s time to shower.’

  Chapter Twenty

  KIT

  I’ve had some fun fucks in my time. Some intense nights that completely blew my mind. Yet somehow, it feels like it was all building up to this.

  A night like never before. Not because it was particularly kinky, but it was just . . . perfect.

  Fuck. That’s a bit intense. Maybe I’m still on a sex high? And I still didn’t find out her name—her real name.

  Oh well, there’s always next time. And I mean that because I’m nowhere near done.

  For now, she’ll just remain my honey bee. Because God knows, I feel like I’ve been stung. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, though —quite the opposite, really. A piece of her has wedged its way under my skin. It’ll take time for it to work its way out as nature takes its course.

  I’d left her Saturday morning by walking her back to her own room. In contrast to the chaos we’d left in my suite—bedding everywhere but the bed; the littering of condom wrappers which she insisted on disposing before we left, no need to be boastful, apparently; towels scattered over furniture, and the water pooling on the bathroom floor after some wet almost-sex—her room seemed unwelcoming.

  Not that I hadn’t wanted to push her through the door and begin all over again. But I must be sensible about this if I was ever going to get her out of my head.

  Weekend bag in hand, I’d kissed her just once—but properly, of course—and as I’d pulled away, she’d wrapped her fingers in my lapels and pulled me in for another, much more inappropriate kiss.

  I find myself hardening at the memory. Her soft, willing mouth under mine as I’d whispered I wanted to see her again. I’d taken the small smile curled into her mouth as an agreement, pulling away and kissing her forehead.

  At least I now have her number, and she has mine. Of course, I’d had to explain how I had her number. She seemed pleased to hear I hadn’t breathed a word of my plans to anyone by basically suggesting to Rory that her telephone number might help me to arrange Fin’s upcoming birthday gift. That her birthday isn’t for months didn’t seem strange to him, but then that’s Rory.

  He’s not known for his deep thinking.

  It’s strange how someone can absolutely know you, and also not.

  Same goes for Bea. I know we’ve been acquainted such a short while, and while it’s thrilling that I can know her so well in the fucking sense, it’s annoying that I can’t seem to make headway in other aspects.

  I know where she lives by default. I know she’s a doctor but not where she works. Though it’s safe to assume she’s employed at St Thomas by proximity to where she lives. I know she’s a natural blonde, and I know she has a thing for piercings. Prince Alberts, especially. I know she likes a l
ittle pain with her pleasure. Bonus. And that she’s more open-minded than she thinks.

  And as well as now knowing her phone number, I also know her phone rang late last night.

  Jon cell, the display read.

  Right there and then, I contemplated answering and advising Jon cell that she was sleeping.

  Worn out the fuck out. Literally.

  Non-compos mentis by way of my cock.

  It’s probably just as well that as I’d reached for her phone on the nightstand, my fingers had fumbled sleepily and dropped it on the floor.

  The call rang out.

  Whether it was divine intervention or a missed opportunity to find out exactly who he was, I’m not sure.

  But I want to know exactly who he is to her. And why he was calling.

  There was mention of a Jon at dinner before she’d confided they were over. Not that this stops the niggling feeling that I’m missing something.

  Niggling and irritant. Like a bee sting.

  Instead of waking her, I’d stared at her sleeping form a while, trying to decide if she were the unfaithful kind. Was the split a lie? I’d decided not, though in the absence of concrete answers, I’d kissed her, and she immediately roused to my touch. Arching her back, she’d rubbed against me, opening her legs around my thigh. She’d rode.

  The woman is almost addicting.

  I’m not interested in cheaters. An odd stance for someone who’s most recent connection was with a married couple, I suppose, but it’s mine, all the same. Life is complex enough. There’s no need to flay yourself on thorns.

  Unless that’s your thing, but self-flagellation does nothing for me.

  I do regret dropping her phone last night; especially after the way she glanced at it and frowned this morning, slipping it into her purse without another word.

  Anger flares irrationally in my chest. If they’ve split up, maybe he wants her back? I regret dropping the phone because, of course, he’d want her back. Why wouldn’t he? And he’ll call again. And if I’d spoken to him, maybe I could’ve put him off that notion by telling him she’d moved the fuck on. With me.

  Only she hasn’t agreed to this

  The thought twists my insides. She’s the one person I can see bending my rules for. The one person who could be worth changing the way I live. Why is it she can’t be straight with me?

  ‘Where are you?’ My brother’s voice sounds down the line amidst the clamour and clatter of construction in the background.

  ‘Weren’t you ever taught how to answer the phone properly?’

  ‘Stop pissing about, Kit.’ There’s a squeal of a door with unhealthy hinges before the background noises drop out.

  ‘Not particularly hard.’ My phone had one missed call from him last time I checked, and that was Monday. ‘I had some . . . personal business to attend to. Where are you, anyway?’ We have a hotel in Mayfair due to open next week, though I hope he’s not there, given the noise. We should be past fit-out now. Which leaves—

  ‘I’m at home. They’re fitting a new kitchen.’

  ‘Okay. Tearing out the kitchen you’ve never used because . . .?’

  ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. Fuck, it’s taking forever. At this rate, she’ll never move in.’

  ‘But in the meantime, you’ll just live at her place.’ Because he can’t leave the woman alone.

  ‘Stop changing the subject, fucker. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘The nature of personal business means none of yours.’

  ‘And the nature of hotel opening next week means—’

  ‘I went to see Meg.’ The phone falls silent. ‘I thought it was time.’

  ‘Aye,’ he answers quietly. I wouldn’t have ordinarily mentioned our grandmother but for throwing him off the personal part of that statement. I haven’t been back in a while. ‘How was it?’

  ‘The conversation wasn’t up to much.’

  ‘That’d be on account of her being dead and all.’

  ‘There is that.’ I inhale a painful breath. Our grandmother was a force of nature. We’re both still coming to terms with her death—that some will greater than her own actually exists. She raised us after our mother died and after our sperm donor wanted nothing to do with us. Or as Meg referred to him, that lanky string o’ piss. ‘I’m on my way back to the airport now.’ I’d gotten a limo to drive me out to the west coast where Meg’s buried in the village where she’d been born.

  And then married a rich hotelier twenty years her senior before proceeding to rut him into the ground.

  That was her story, at any rate. That she loved him went unsaid but shone in her grey gaze anyway.

  ‘So what did you want?’

  ‘Did you manage to get a hold of Bea?’

  My smile is unrestrained. ‘Yeah, I did.’ Mission attained and exceeded because I did so much more than get a hold of her. I bent her. Pulled her. Fucked her. Lost myself in her for a while.

  Of course, I hadn’t managed to get past her protective shell.

  ‘Aye, good. Fin says she’s not seen her much lately.’

  ‘They live in the same flat, don’t they?’ This I know for a fact, but it doesn’t do to seem too knowledgeable. Rory can be like a scent hound. Very occasionally.

  ‘She hasn’t been around.’

  ‘Maybe she’s met someone,’ I respond, testing the waters.

  ‘Nah, she’s got a boyfriend, and she’s married to her job.’

  My heart sinks because this raises the question that if they’re through, why hasn’t she appeared to tell anyone she’s single now? Maybe it’s time to call her bluff.

  ‘Listen, I was thinking about what you said the other night. About doing dinner more often.’

  ‘Why, Christopher!’ Fuck it. I hate it when he uses my name like that. ‘Are you suggesting we double date?’

  ‘Kiss my hairy ball bag, Rory.’

  ‘That’s more your thing than mine. But I’m sure you know a man who can.’

  ‘You’re a dick.’

  ‘Why, ‘cause bro jobs don’t do it for me? I think it’s the idea of the brush of stubble against my ball bag that puts me off.’

  ‘You’re a bawbag,’ I counter. ‘Just forget I said anything.’ My words are expelled though gritted teeth. I’m really not in the mood for verbal sparring right now.

  ‘Absolutely not. I’ve got you on loudspeaker, and I’m texting this to Fin as we speak. This Friday good for you?’

  ‘I never said I was bringing anyone.’

  ‘No, but you are seeing someone. Call it twin-tuition.’

  I sigh. Heavily. ‘You sound like a cartoon budgie. You been watching kid’s TV again?’

  ‘Ah, you can scoff, but I know,’ he responds in an all-knowing and supercilious tone. And he absolutely isn’t serious. Taking the piss is our default mode.

  ‘Had your hand on your crystal balls, have you?’

  ‘I just know when someone special is polishing my brother’s set. Personal business, my arse crack,’ he adds, laughing. ‘I take it this fella you’re seeing is Scottish?’

  Why? Because I’m in Scotland? I suppose I could tell him I am here to fuck Bea—not that he’d believe me—and he’d still tell Fin. I sense that might be unwelcome. At this stage, at least.

  ‘Have I ever told you how you make fratricide so appealing?’

  ‘Heaps of times,’ he replies as quick as a flash. Because it’s true. ‘It’s about time you met someone. Just bring the fucker into the fold. It would’ve made Meg so happy to see us both settled.’

  I don’t have an answer. None. Meg was the one person who loved us both unconditionally, and that’s not likely to happen for me ever again. I swallow the sudden knot in my throat, not sure why this conversation would make me feel like this today. I don’t have an answer, but I do have some thoughts. Somewhat devious thoughts regarding the woman who has my attention right now.

  ‘You should invite Bea along.’

  ‘To a double date? She’d feel li
ke a spare prick at a wedding, dining with two loved up couples.’

  ‘What about her boyfriend?’ I ask as blandly as I can, the knot in my throat suddenly calcifying. ‘Ask her to invite him. Tell her we’re both bringing along someone, and she should, too.’

  ‘See, I knew it! I knew you were seeing someone, ya’ bastard!’

  ‘Stay focused, Rory. I know you’ve got the attention span of a Border Collie, but try.’

  ‘What? Dinner. On it. A table for four for Friday.’

  ‘Inviting Bea,’ I add an air of long suffering.

  ‘Nah, her boyfriend lives in Dubai or something. He’s never around.’ After a beat, he adds, ‘Oh, hang on. Twin-tuition seems to be extending to Fin. She’s just suggested the same thing. Apparently, Bea’s boyfriend might be in town.’

  Could this be the reason she hasn’t told anyone she’s single?

  Fuck.

  What if she’s not?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  BEA

  Maybe I should have a word with HR because there must be some correlation between orgasms and productivity. Smiles, too. Can I just take this opportunity to say this weekend rocked!

  After Kit had left to visit his “grandmother”, whatever that meant, I’d spent most of Saturday lying across the bed and resting my newly formed aches and bruising while binge watching trite movies and surviving on the room service menu.

  It was like the holiday I didn’t know I needed. And this week, I’ve been all sorts of superwoman-esque. Totally on my game. I’ve barely thought of he-who-shall-not-be-named, and conversely, I’ve thought about Kit almost constantly.

  I suppose I should be worried, but I’m not.

  On Wednesday, I actually spent my morning off at home. No more stalking the hospital for me! I’m feeling refreshed and thinking with a much clearer head. After some stellar head, maybe? Anyway, I know it’s time to come clean to Fin and family about him.

  The asshole him, not the fabulous head him.

  I’m meeting Fin for lunch, so I’ll tell her then. Selectively, at least.

  As my ouma used to say, if it’s raining cereal, you must scoop.

  I go for an early run, shower, and then head to meet Fin on her lunch hour in a little café near her office. As I arrive, she’s folding the newspaper as the waiter delivers two coffees and a plate stacked with what looks like a couple of crispy Croque Monsieurs.