The Varlet and the Voyeur

by L.H. Cosway

  Maybe the why didn’t matter. Maybe I needed to learn to just enjoy myself, rather than always second-guessing everything. Maybe I had mad skillz outside the bedroom, too. Skills I wasn’t even aware I had.

  Hmm. . .

  I couldn’t wait until we landed.

  When we arrived in Sydney, I was exhausted and feeling about as sexy as day-old underwear. Which, as it happened, I was wearing. I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel, shower and change into fresh clothes. A car waited for us, which made me feel super fancy and important. Even though he was exhausted, too, Will insisted on hauling my luggage into the trunk.

  The hotel was a plush, five-star situation with lots of windows and exotic plants. Will booked us a suite, which felt like our own little home away from home. It had separate bedrooms, a large bathroom, a lounge area, and a small kitchen.

  I told him I wanted a shower, and I half expected him to join me. He didn’t. When I emerged, dressed and clean, I felt both better and worse. I found Will in the living area, his laptop open in front of him and a big frown on his profile.

  “Everything okay?” I asked as I approached. I caught sight of what appeared to be an email, one line catching my attention, I miss you so much. He closed the laptop before I had a chance to read more. Something in my chest tightened, but I told myself it was probably just from one of his family members. Surely, he was missed, living so far away and all.

  Will ran a hand through his hair, stress lines marring his forehead. “Fine. I’m going to shower. Do you mind ordering some room service? I was going to order for you, but—”

  “I never mind ordering room service.” I gave him a wide smile.

  He gave me one of his small smiles in return, but it was strained, then he disappeared inside the bathroom. I grabbed the menu, trying to decide what to order, my chest still tight. Will’s demeanor was definitely off.

  Was that email from his ex-girlfriend? The one from seven years ago? Was she trying to get him back? And could I ask him about it? I mean, that was my job, right? To be nosey? To ask.

  Man, we hadn’t even started having sex and already things felt complicated.

  I forced my attention back to the menu and decided I’d eat my anxiety away with a slice of Victoria sponge cake.

  So much for cutting out carbs.

  Fourteen

  @FirstFanRugby0101 to @WillthebrickhouseMoore: You should stay in Australia, we don’t want your perversions here! Or better yet, get eaten by a shark.

  WILL

  The first email arrived on Tuesday, a quick note, asking how I was coping with all the newspaper stories. It ended with, Missing you, Aideen.

  I’d ignored it. It had put me on edge for the rest of the week. But still, I ignored it.

  Stepping into the shower now, I reflected on my error. I should have sent that first email directly to Kean Gallagher and asked him to intervene immediately. Stupidly, given the benign nature of her initial email, I thought (hoped) she’d take the hint if I didn’t respond.

  The second message appeared yesterday, just before Josey and I left for the airport. I’d read it on the cab ride. It was much longer and had ended with, Missing you, Your Aideen. I hadn’t responded, but spent the entire flight with a hollow feeling in my stomach. I’d been fifty-fifty split on whether or not to send it to Kean and ask him to do something.

  I didn’t get a chance to decide. The third and fourth hit my inbox today—number three was already there when we touched down from our flight, and number four popped up just moments ago—leaving me with no choice but to forward all the correspondence to Kean. I would do so as soon as I finished my shower.

  He would not be happy, just as he hadn’t been happy when I’d broken off our deal months ago without telling him why.

  Frustration and impatience—with myself—hastened my movements in the shower.

  The Gallaghers were the last thing I wanted to be thinking about right now. Finally, finally we were here, Josey and I. I’d been counting down the days since I walked in on her in the shower, retrieving the memory and reliving it until the edges felt worn and frayed. At this point, I wasn’t certain if watching her touch herself had been as erotic as I imagined, or if my recollection was now more fantasy than reality.

  Toweling off and dressing quickly, I decided that after I sent Kean Gallagher Aideen’s emails, I would put them both from my mind. Or, I would do my best.

  When I walked back into the living room, I spotted Josey on the floor in front of the coffee table. Her dark hair was long around her shoulders, still damp, and she had a textbook and a notebook on the table in front of her. She glanced up as I approached, giving me a smile.

  “Feel better?” she asked, twirling the pen she’d been writing with between her fingers.

  “Yes,” I responded, distracted, grabbing my computer from where I’d left it on the chair and setting it on my lap as I sat. Flipping it open, I typed in my password. Aideen’s email was still up on the screen. I sighed.

  “I ordered you a crazy breakfast.” Josey cleared her throat, her pen now tapping on her notebook. “Basically, one of everything.”

  “Thank you.” I clicked on the forward button and began typing my note to Kean.

  From: William Moore

  To: Kean Gallagher

  Subject: FW: Call me

  * * *

  Kean,

  I received this string of messages from Aideen, the first one is from Tuesday. I haven’t responded, but I thought you’d want to know. For the record, I never touched her or led her on in any way.

  Please ask Aideen to stop contacting me. I wish you both well, and—

  “Will.”

  —I hope you two are able to—

  “Will, I’m sorry to ask this, and I debated about not saying anything, but it’s my job, and I want to do a good job and do right by you no matter what. So, what are you doing?” Josey’s voice cut into my train of thought.

  I answered unthinkingly, “Sending an email.”

  “To who? Or whom? Whichever of those is grammatically correct.”

  “Kean Gallagher.”

  —work things out. I never wanted to—

  “Kean Gallagher?”

  “The Gallaghers.” Again, I answered on autopilot, distracted as I considered how best to say what I wanted to say to Kean.

  “The Gallaghers,” she repeated. “You mean, the couple you—you used to—to watch?”

  Something about the tone of Josey’s voice had me looking up. It sounded off, and when I gazed at her, she looked worried.

  No. Not worried.

  Concerned.

  Josey looked concerned for me.

  I gave her my full attention. “The wife, Aideen, she emailed me. I’m forwarding the messages to her husband and asking him to get her to stop.”

  A wrinkle appeared between Josey’s brows. “Why don’t you just email her?”

  I hesitated, leaning back in the chair and crossing my arms. “Her emails are . . .” I didn’t know how to describe them. They weren’t overtly irrational, but—I finally admitted to myself—they’d left me shaken nevertheless. “Her emails are disconcerting.”

  “How so?”

  Inspecting Josey, I wondered if I’d read too much into the messages. Maybe I was overreacting. Aideen hadn’t made any threats, but had rather used phrases like I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t talk to me, and I can’t stop thinking about you, and Please tell me you still think about me.

  I was worried about her. I’d been telling myself that, if her feelings had been hurt, it was her own fault. She was the one who’d crossed the line, ignored my boundaries. But, if she did harm to herself, it wouldn’t matter whose fault it had been. She needed help.

  Josey’s eyes grew wide. “Is everything okay?”

  “I think so.” I scratched my jaw. “Maybe not.”

  “Maybe not? Are you worried about her?”

  I nodded, but said nothing.

  “Do you”—Josey paus
ed, took a deep breath through her nose, gave me a smile that somehow looked brave, and started again— “Do you have feelings for her?”

  “What? No!” I closed my laptop and set it aside, lowering myself to the floor next to Josey and grabbing her hand. “No. No way. Not at all. The only person I—” I stopped myself with a snap of my jaw, closing my eyes and bringing her palm to my face.

  Crap.

  Fuck.

  “Josey.”

  “William.”

  I huffed a laugh, opening my eyes and finding hers on me, bright and guileless.

  “I don’t know her. But that was the entire point. I don’t want to know her, I never have.” I dropped our hands from my face and cradled her fingers in mine. Her hand was so small in comparison, soft and graceful.

  “But even though I don’t know her, or him, I don’t want anything bad to happen to either of them.”

  “You know”—I felt her gaze on me while mine memorized the elegant shape of her fingertips—“if their marriage splits up, it’s not your fault.”

  I winced, but said, “I know.”

  “But you would still feel responsible.” It wasn’t a question. I peered at her as she continued, “From what you’ve said, how you’ve described things, you were very, very clear about your boundaries. And when they—when she—didn’t respect your boundaries, you told them both about your concerns. You are not to blame for their marriage’s continuation, or its end, or anyone’s hurt feelings.”

  I lifted my chin, searching her gorgeous blue eyes. “Because I was clear about my expectations and rules?” Just like Josey was clear about her expectations and rules for this trip.

  Suddenly, my throat was too dry, too tight.

  Josey smiled warmly. “Exactly. You communicated the rules, and what she feels—whether real or imagined—is completely out of your control.”

  She sounded entirely reasonable, and the sentiment echoed what I’d been telling myself since I ended my arrangement with the Gallaghers.

  But even so, something about Josey’s words filled me with dread.

  Room service interrupted our conversation on the floor. I finished up and sent the emails to Kean while Josey arranged the plates on the table. She was right, she’d ordered me a crazy breakfast.

  Bacon and eggs, sourdough toast with mashed avocado, biscuits, sausage gravy, and cheesy grits—which I hadn’t had since the last time I was in Oklahoma—with a side of pancakes.

  She grinned at me from her spot on the other side of the table and her bowl of granola, yogurt, and berries. Oh yeah, and a slice of cake.

  “Is that all you’re having?” I lifted my chin to her food.

  She shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You haven’t decided?”

  “I might steal some of yours.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “That’s why I ordered you one of everything.”

  “You can have anything you want.” The words arrived sounding rough, with an edge of meaning I hadn’t consciously intended to say out loud, so I gestured to the food in front of me and then pointed to her cake, clearing my throat before speaking again, “Just as long as you share your cake.”

  “What? No. This is my cake.” She shook her head and then dug into her modest breakfast.

  I stared at her, trying to figure out if she was serious.

  She looked serious.

  She sounded serious.

  So I asked, “Are you serious?”

  Josey gave me a once-over. “Yes.”

  She took another bite of her granola, another drink of her coffee, and then pulled the cake closer to her side of the table. I allowed our earlier conversation—and all the perplexing dread associated with it—fade from my mind in the face of her silliness. Actually, I pushed it away. I didn’t want to feel dread with Josey. I didn’t want to worry. We were here, together, to enjoy each other. The Gallaghers and everything else weren’t invited.

  Studying the woman across from me—her lips twisted, like she was determined not to smile—I ignored the rest of the food in front of me and reached for the cake.

  She picked it up from the table, holding it up and away. “Back off, Moore. The cake is mine.”

  I playfully narrowed my gaze. “I want cake.”

  She shrugged. “So? I wanted to get laid on a plane. You win some, you lose some.”

  I met her stare, though mine was stunned. And then I laughed. More correctly, I busted out laughing.

  Josey giggled a little, placing the cake back on the table. Inspired, I reached for it again. Again, she held it away, but this time she stood as she did so. Defiance glinted in her eyes.

  “This is not your cake.”

  “I want it,” I demanded as I stood, not giving a single fuck about the cake.

  She backed away from the table. “Too bad.”

  I stalked after her. “Give me a bite.”

  “No.”

  “One taste.”

  Her eyes brightened as did her grin as she skipped away toward my bedroom, shoveling a forkful of cake into her mouth and moaning, “Oh, it’s soooo good.”

  “Josey,” I lowered my voice, making her name sound like a warning.

  Another bite, another moan. She was in her bedroom now.

  “Best cake ever!”

  I broke into a run and she squealed, darting around the bed for the bathroom. But she wasn’t able to close the door fast enough and I caught her around the waist.

  “Put me down!” More squeals and giggles, the cake now held at an arm’s length in front of her.

  Her feet were off the floor and I reached for the plate with my longer reach, snatching it from her hand.

  “Will!” she protested, wiggling in my arms half-heartedly while laughing.

  “I like cake,” I nuzzled her skin, placing a wet, biting kiss where her neck met her shoulder and placing her knees on the bed.

  Encouraging her to face me, I continued to kiss and lick and bite her neck, until the cake was forgotten. At some point, I must’ve placed it on the nightstand, my hands coming to her waist to hold her against me.

  “You know what I like?” she whispered in my ear, biting the bottom of my earlobe. A shock wave shot down my neck, stopping my breath.

  “What?” My words were more growl than voice.

  Her hand came to my mine, dragging it from her waist and lowering it to the skirt covering her bottom. “Doggy style.”

  Fire ignited at the base of my spine. A shudder racked my body as her backside filled my grip.

  She leaned a little away, giving me a small, meaningful smile, completely free of vulnerability or doubt, and then turned until her bottom was against my groin. Josey recaptured my hands, bringing one under her shirt until it cupped her breast and the other under her skirt and into the waistband of her underwear.

  “Touch me, Will.”

  “Josey—”

  “You seem frustrated. I don’t want you to be frustrated.” Her words were breathy, distracted, like she was speaking her thoughts out loud. “Use me. Use my body to make yourself feel good. I want you to.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yesss.”

  Both her breath and mine hitched as my fingers slipped into her, and found her wet. Unable to stop myself, I delved lower, deeper. She was slick and hot, and I felt her sex clench around my exploring finger.

  “Fuck,” I said again, my forehead hitting the back of her neck. I’d never been this mindless before, this lost to a moment. Except last week. Except walking into her bathroom.

  Her back arched and she pressed her generous breast into my hand, clenching her inner walls again as I slid my finger out. “Pinch the nipple, hard. And then pull.”

  “Pinch it?”

  “Do it,” she demanded.

  Swallowing my uncertainty, I did as she instructed.

  “Harder.” An edge of frustration entered her voice and she covered my hand between her thighs with her own, urging me to add another finger to my invasion and touc
h her deeper.

  I breathed out, my lungs on fire now, my dick pressing insistently against her backside.

  “What do you want, Will?” she asked, taking over at her breast and instructing my hand how to best pluck her nipple.

  I groaned. I knew what I wanted. I could see it in my mind’s eye. But I didn’t know how to form the words.

  “Tell me.” Her voice pitched higher as I found a rhythm she seemed to like, my fingers now soaked with her.

  Again, she tightened her muscles around my index and middle finger, eliciting another instinctual groan from me.

  “Do you want me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then say it,” she turned her head towards mine, as though to capture my mouth. I sucked in a breath, greedy for a taste of her. Instead, she brushed a teasing kiss against my cheek.

  When she leaned away, the words spilled out of me, “I want you.”

  Josey gave me a saucy grin, reaching for my hands and pulling them away from her body. A protest died on my lips as she pulled her shirt over her head and our eyes met in the mirror mounted against the wall above the headboard. She then unzipped her skirt and shimmied out of it, pulling her underwear off at the same time.

  Holding my reflected gaze, she bent forward, now on all fours, and spread her legs. “Take me.”

  Take me.

  I devoured her with my eyes, the curve of her back, the line of her arms, the indent of her waist, the twin, generous orbs of her backside.

  “Do what you want,” she said, spreading her legs wider. Then, in a quieter voice she added, “I want you, too.”

  Do what you want . . .

  Pulling my eyes from hers, and acting on complete instinct, I bent and bit the curve of her spine, stroking my hand over her ass. She made a soft, hissing noise, arching like a cat. My hands were now moving without me telling them to do so, sliding up her thighs to her hips, my knuckles tracing the soft skin between her legs.

  She made a short whimpering sound, but I was too focused to think about what that meant, too busy doing what I wanted.