My jaw drops, my brain scrambling to follow his logic. I get an overwhelming urge to bang my forehead against the car in frustration. I’m too shocked to comment, so I just gape at him.
He runs fraught fingers through his hair. “This whole celibacy thing is fucking with my brain. I’m sure I’m not thinking straight. At least you’ve got Booty Call Neil to take the edge off, huh?”
I don’t answer him. What could I say that wouldn’t expose too much truth about me? Because if I open my mouth, I’d probably yell that Neil is my poor man’s Keats. That he’s on my mind even while Neil is between my thighs. That I shouldn’t be around Keats, but I also can’t walk away from him. Not willingly.
Silence hangs thick in the air, and I suddenly become aware of the loud chirping of cicadas in the trees outside the sports car. The soft rustle of branches as the wind shakes them. The otherwise enveloping silence of our remote location.
“We should do it,” I suddenly hear.
Who said that? I think I just did.
I look at Keats who is giving me a sideways glance like I must have said it. His “fuck me” eyes are wide, expression frozen on his face.
This might be my only chance to cross him off my list. But he’s just said no to a goddess. I lower my eyes, suddenly feeling ridiculous for even suggesting anything. I wait for him to laugh at me. Or worse, stay quiet and make things more awkward than they already are.
“This is crazy,” he finally says, voice on the breathy side. The interest I detect in it makes me look up. “Don’t joke about this, Hay-gen. I haven’t had sex in seven months.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, and see something in its depths that quickens my own breath. “It seems wasteful to be at a make-out spot and not make out,” I manage to quip.
Keats studies me for a beat, smile broadening as a sceptical brow rises. “You mean it?”
I reach into the front seat for my handbag and grab a foil packet from the side pocket. I rest the condom between us, then lean towards him.
He crosses the distance between our mouths before I complete a nod. The contact with his lips goes straight to my belly. And all of a sudden we are all hands and lips as we bridge the gap between us. There’s enough space in the confined interior of the car to lie side by side but I want to get closer.
I somehow straddle his lap, kneeing him in the stomach and thighs in my haste. Once in place, Keats cups my butt, guiding me to grind against him. I have to duck my head to stop myself from hitting the low roof. The position has my breasts hovering inches above his face. He eyes them, lids hooded, his lips parted in anticipation.
For leverage, I brace myself against the side of the vehicle. It’s not the most comfortable place for two tall people to get busy—but I am not going to say anything that might break this spell.
“Hay-gen,” Keats groans out, thrusting his hips to rub against me more intimately.
“Call me Jess.”
A corner of his mouth quirks. “Yes, ma’am.”
I kiss his smile, running my lips along his jaw, down his neck. He smells so good I could bury my nose there, which I do while I plant soft kisses on his collar bone. Keats reaches up behind me and unzips my dress, grabbing its high neckline and peeling it down till my see-through lace bra is exposed. I clock his appreciative gaze on my nipples as his fingers trace the outline of my bra before he slides his hands beneath the fabric to cup my full breasts. He gently squeezes them together.
Oh, God. My eyes roll back, as a wave of sensation courses through me. He slips a breast out of my bra cup and lifts his head. He suckles me and I gasp, so close to coming just from his wet mouth on my nipple. I’ve never loved my big breasts more than now.
Mouth sucking me hard, Keats runs his fingers down my side till they reach my pantyhose. He tries to claw them down but, in this position, they won’t go lower than my upper thighs. With a growl muffled now by my other breast, he moves his hands to the apex between my legs, pulling at my stockings there, till I hear a rip. A second later, his fingers push aside my underwear, and then he’s touching me intimately through the wide hole he created on my nylons. His fingers slide easily against me and I shift so that he can slip them in.
My hands shake as I reach for his belt buckle and zip. It’s too damn tight to look down and see him. But the velvety skin is unmistakable as I wrap my fingers around him. Keats groans against my breasts. By feel, I roll on the condom, then go up on my knees as far as the low ceiling would allow, dying to have him deep inside me. Our eyes meet. He nods, and I lower myself around him in one slick slide.
“Oh, God, Jess.”
“Keats.” My hips move to repeat the action, impatient for the glorious sensation of him sliding into me again and again.
“We’ve gotta slow down. I am way too…” he says through gritted teeth.
I ignore him, rocking against him till he throws back his head, body tense, mouth parted. So sexy. I’m close, too. Just watching the effect I have on him has me wound so tight. I’m almost there, the tight coil of pleasure ready to break, but I need to know Keats is with me. That he’s thinking of me, that he’s aware of me when his body is shaking with pleasure in the next few thrusts.
“Look at me,” I rasp out.
Keats’ eyes flicker open, wide with surprise. I hold his gaze, the connection erotic as our bodies meld again and again below. His gaze turns molten as he begins to groan out my name like the syllable gives him pleasure. His hands grab my butt, sliding under till his fingertips tease where our bodies are joined. I buck against him and he gives my arse a tap.
I take that as my cue to rock against him. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Egged on by Keats strangled sounds of ecstasy. And then I’m crying out, shattering, contracting and screaming his name as Keats finds his own release.
I slump on top of him, a ball of nerves, arms and legs like jelly.
“That was…” Keats begins. Breathless, our hearts thud against each other where our chests are pressed together.
I nod against his neck.
“Jess, you’re—” But before he can finish his sentence, his mobile phone suddenly rings, buzzing against my right breast. He groans in annoyance. “Shit. Sorry.” He shifts in the confined space to reach the phone in his jacket pocket. “I better check who it is, in case it’s Mom.”
I disentangle myself from him but stay on his lap, his free hand on my hip, reassuring me I’m not too heavy for him. I better not be—my legs are straining to prop me up as much as possible to minimise the weight he has to endure.
Keats sees the image on his screen at the same time I do. It’s Isabella. His thumb hesitates over the red phone icon. My breath hitches, and a smile begins to tickle my mouth.
But Keats presses the green phone icon, and my heart drops with my stomach.
“Hey,” he says, the hand on my hip going to his ear so he can concentrate on whatever she’s saying.
I resist the urge to hit him in the chest. I have no right to act like a jealous girlfriend. Tonight was supposed to be about friendship and convenience. I can’t change the rules on him now just because he’s made my toes curl. I can walk away though. So, I quickly do up the zip of my dress, and climb out of the back of the coupe into the balmy spring night. I barely resist the urge to slam the back door on his ankles. How can he take her call after what we’ve just done? He’s still wearing the damn condom!
I look left, then right. I’d only intended to walk over to the driver’s side of the vehicle. But now, I’m seriously contemplating walking down the mountain.
Keats follows me out of the vehicle a minute later while I’m still deciding what to do. His pants are zipped up, shirt tucked like he hadn’t just got lucky in his car. “Hey, Hay-gen,” he calls out to me, “we need to go. Isabella’s got a little emergency. I’ll drive.”
***
Isabella is sitting on the top step of her converted flat at Woolloongabba, and she runs down as soon as she sees us pull up in the shared driveway.
&nb
sp; “Keats! Thank you!” she says, rushing up to him as he gets out of the vehicle. She doesn’t look as relieved to see me when I exit from the passenger side. Her frozen expression smacks of bemusement—as far as she knows, Keats is dating Sofie. “Jess. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I’m giving her a ride home,” Keats explains vaguely before I can say anything. Just as well because I had no idea how to answer that question. The ride here had been awkwardly silent. “Now, where’s that little critter?”
“In the walk-in closet.” Isabella lets him go ahead of her, following behind him while she bites her thumb. “I didn’t get a good look but it might be a giant rat. I’m so worried it’s in there eating my wedding dress right now.”
I follow behind both of them, up the stairs to the tiny one-bedroom. Isabella started renting it just a couple of weeks ago so that she and Byron have somewhere to live privately as a married couple. Past the rudimentary kitchen, Keats stops in the doorway of the bedroom.
“Got a bat or something?” he asks her.
“Ew. Don’t kill it. Can’t you just chase it away or something?”
“Fine. Got a broom?”
She extracts a long-handled brush from a narrow cabinet near the stove.
“Okay, you two might want to wait in the living room in case it runs out this way,” Keats says and if I wasn’t quietly furious about the fact he took his ex’s call while I was still half-dressed, I would’ve found his rodent-fighting bravery a turn on.
Isabella and I move to the tiny TV room, watching the bedroom doorway from a safe distance away.
“You look nice, Jess,” Isabella says, making small talk even though the look of worry on her face is still there.
I’ve put my hair in a ponytail and ditched the crushed fascinator in the car. “Thanks. Melbourne Cup Day.”
Isabella cranes her neck to peek through her bedroom door like that would help her see around the corner to the walk-in closet. “I hope the rat hasn’t ruined my dress. Though, that would give me a great excuse to buy one that zips up.”
I turn to her, surprised. She still looks svelte to me.
“Doesn’t it fit?”
“Barely. It’s tight, and the wedding just happens to fall at the wrong time of the month when I’m usually all bloated before my period.” She releases a clearing breath, shakes her head and forces a brave smile on her face. “Anyway, Penny told me Miz Peggy emailed her. Your dress should be ready to pick up tomorrow from the alteration place. Sofie’s will be another week.”
I’d sent the email earlier tonight.
“Talk about cutting it fine,” she comments. “We’re eleven days away from the wedding.”
“Well, Sofie’s dress is going from a Size 24 to a Size 10. That’s a big job. Literally.”
Isabella nods with a slightly confused look on her face at about the same time I remember that I’m not supposed to know Sofie’s size.
Suddenly, a squeal and a screech—both not human—is followed by the sound of the broom handle hitting walls. There’s a loud thud, then, “Ouch. Fuck. I can’t believe you bit me, you little shit,” before Keats runs out the bedroom chasing a scared-looking brush tail possum out of Isabella’s flat.
Chapter 27
This wasn’t supposed to happen. The plan was to cross Keats off my To Do list. Not form an obsession stronger than the one I have with carbs and alcohol.
It’s been two days since Mt Coot-Tha, and it seems our tussle in the passenger seat of his Audi has given Keats some clarity. He seems to have become more determined than ever to get Isabella back now that I’ve reset his clock. I, in turn, have turned even more tragic than ever, losing sleep while I ponder how we could’ve shared what we did on Tuesday night if he truly wanted to be with Isabella.
I tell myself that I’m making sure Keats doesn’t succeed in spoiling Isabella’s wedding. But my bigger fear is he’d figure out how to make her marry him instead. And I need to be around to ensure that doesn’t happen. Of course, it’s hard to keep watch on Keats when I haven’t clapped eyes on him in two days. We’ve had no contact—no calls, emails, texts, not even Facebook. Whether it’s because he’s avoiding me now that I’ve shared my messed up upbringing or he’s too busy plotting the downfall of his brother’s happily ever after, I’m not sure. But that’s why I’m here at the QUT pool early to find out. I may have lied to Isabella and told her that Keats wanted her to come fifteen minutes later than what they’d originally agreed on.
I look up at the sound of footsteps on the tile floor. Keats has waltzed in, gear bag slung over his shoulder, ten minutes late. The sight of him hits me like a body blow, knocking the air out of my lungs. His steps falter when our eyes meet but he resumes walking my way. Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to look at him, smile casual, like the sight of him isn’t making my whole body ache with want.
“Hey,” he greets, a bland smile on his face. He sets his gear bag down but stays standing. His shoulders are stiff, and he shifts from one foot to the other. “How you doing?”
“I’m okay.” This isn’t awkward at all. Not. This is the most we’ve said to each other since before Isabella’s phone call on Tuesday night. Does he regret sleeping with me? I thought he liked it. “You?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Good.”
“We haven’t really talked since…”
“Yeah, I’ve been busy. Nine days till the wedding, so I’ve had to—” He stops talking suddenly and I realise, before I even see her, that Isabella has arrived. I should’ve given myself half an hour to talk to Keats, considering he’s always late, and Isabella’s usually early.
“Hey. You’re early for a change,” she tells him with a distant but friendly smile.
He narrows his eyes at her, rightfully confused. As far as he knows, he was late.
“You’d better get started,” I suggest before they clarify meeting times.
Isabella slips off her summer dress, and has her swimming cap and goggles on in seconds. “I’m ready.”
Today is their last exercise session in the pool before her hens’ night tomorrow. Byron’s bucks’ night is on at the same time. But as usual, you don’t see the groom doing last minute cardio to tone up—not that Byron needs it. Instead, Keats’ younger brother is still in Gatton, sitting his end of semester exams which won’t finish till just before his wedding day next week.
Isabella pushes off the shallow end of the pool before Keats is even in the water. He quickens his steps, and slides in. Gliding through the water, he catches up to her in no time. When he is swimming right alongside her, Keats slows right down till his stroke rate matches hers. It’s companionable. I’m madly jealous.
A few metres later, Isabella clings to the side of the pool.
Keats stops swimming and treads water. From where I’m sitting, I have a clear view of his trim body. He’s wearing much less now than when we did it on Tuesday. If I’d known I was only ever going to get one chance to sleep with him, I would’ve insisted on a bed so that I could’ve seen him completely naked. But who am I kidding? There was no way I was going to put it off and risk missing my chance.
“Are you all right, sweet—Isabella?”
Isabella nods, body language tense. He almost called her “sweetheart” again. He hadn’t accidentally called her that in weeks. Great. He’s so not over her and we all seem to realise it at the same time.
“I was just letting you through. Go ahead, don’t let me slow you down.”
“Okay.”
I almost feel sorry for Keats as he swims away. Almost. Mainly, I want to kick him in the balls while he’s down. He deserves the rejection for being a plotting jackass. And how can he walk away from our sports car tryst with such ease? It’s like he’s put his blinkers on and set his sights solely on his ex-girlfriend.
Isabella flashes me a yikes face before resuming her half-drowning stroke. By the time she touches the wall at the deep end, Keats has been sitting and waiting on the star
ting block for almost a minute, feet dangling in the water.
“About damn time,” he drawls in his Oklahoma accent, the thickness of which sounds warning bells to me that he’s about to go into major flirt mode.
He pulls himself up and stands on the block in the Set position which is sexy as hell with his long, toned body primed to spring into the water.
“Race you?”
Isabella scoffs, smile easy. She seems relaxed around him again. As far as I know, he hasn’t come on to her at all after saving her clothes from a pissed off possum. Maybe he’s lulled her into a false sense of security. Damn. He even has me wondering what he’s up to now.
“All right.” He straightens up and steps off the block in the cannonball position, sending a tsunami of water over Isabella and into the surrounding pool drain.
Isabella squeals, then laughing, splashes Keats when he resurfaces. The water hits him squarely across the face. He retaliates immediately, genuinely laughing and happy as he uses his long arm to scoop water onto her. Isabella clings onto a rung of the stairs on the side of the pool, freeing her other hand to splash him back.
When her grip slips, Keats reaches her side in a flash, wrapping an arm around her waist and propping her up against him. With her so close, his mouth reaches hers in a heartbeat, and then he’s kissing her on the lips like he needs her to breathe. Cold fingers claw at me and rip out my heart. I wait for Isabella to push away from his lip lock, but she just stays there in his arms, rigid, as seconds begin to feel like hours.
A crash and a clatter end the moment for all of us, and belatedly I realise my tablet has slipped from my fingers to the damp, tiled floor.
Isabella tears her mouth away from her ex-boyfriend. “Keats! I…That did not just happen.” She struggles out of his embrace, pushing him hard on the shoulder before half-swimming, half-propelling herself back to the side stairs. Without looking back, she climbs out of the pool. “Jess, let’s go.”
“Isabella! Hold up!” Keats pulls himself out of the water with one push of his arms. He catches up to her as she’s pulling a towel out of her gear bag. He touches her arm but she shrugs it off. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
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