by Donna Alam
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ Nothing worth repeating, anyway. And I’m not thinking about last night. Because if I don’t think about it, I don’t have to deal with it. I can think of the now, the fact that he stayed, that he looks so lovely. Sleep ruffled and sexy.
‘How terrifically mendacious,’ he drawls, assurance returning to his tone. Extending his arms outwards, he stretches, causing the muscles in his chest and lats to flex and contract.
‘M—mendacious?’ I squeak, my voice unnaturally high. ‘Where’d you dig that beauty up, some archaic dictionary? Who uses words like that?’
‘I do,’ he says as though completely obvious. ‘You just watched my lips form the word.’ He arches a brow, eyes alight. ‘And you like my mouth, don’t you?’ I hope it’s a rhetorical question. I just about love his mouth, his biteable bottom lip, his lickable bow. ‘I’m still waiting for an answer.’
‘Fishing for compliments, more like.’
‘Always,’ he says with an incline of his head. ‘But I’d still like to know what you’re thinking.’
‘Your ego doesn’t need any help.’
‘I’m not sure whether to be insulted or gratified that you think so highly of me.’ He frowns, though runs his knuckles against his lips in an attempt to hide a smile. ‘I’m going to go with wounded. Wounded. And still waiting.’
‘Yes, all right, I like your mouth,’ I murmur resignedly, adding a small sigh and a roll of my eyes. But I don’t just like his mouth—that ridiculous touch of softness on an otherwise angular face—I’m a sucker for his freckles, too.
His lips brush against my cheek. ‘But where, I wonder, do you like my mouth?’
‘You’re really bad!’ I squeak, swatting him with my hand. The squeak turns into a tremulous sort of moan as he pulls me against him, rolling us and somehow seating me high against his hips. With our hands entwined, he flexes his fingers and surges against me.
‘Good bad or bad, bad? I can be either, it’s up to you.’ His eyes smoulder as he brings my hand to his mouth, sucking the tips of my fingers before swiftly pulling me down against his chest. ‘Shall I tell you what else I like about your mouth?’ he whispers, ‘I like where it kisses me. I like its whispered words.’ Closing his eyes, he smiles secretly before feigning a breathy tone. ‘I especially love hearing it say, Fuck me Kai, please.’ I sag against him, fighting a lustful moan as he tucks his head into mine. ‘And I like my mouth full of you. Candy-flavoured mouth, sweet tasting cun—’
Despite the instant bloom of heat between my thighs, I place my finger in the middle of his pillowy lips and raise a brow. ‘Feral,’ I whisper.
‘Just how you like me.’ Laughing, he pushes me upright, eyes gleaming with delight. ‘Now, why the frown?’
Seems he’s familiar with the art of distraction, too. And there’s no point playing it cool, not that I’ve managed it so far. I’m pretty sure I have matching pairs in the red cheeks department to support this fact.
‘You have . . . regrets.’ His eyes become almost guarded, voice tentative.
‘I hadn’t quite got that far in my thinking. My thoughts were more . . .’—carnal— ‘abstract. I was thinking about your hair.’ His expression is unconvinced as I blunder on. ‘I mean, just look at you, lying in my bed like the star of my very best wet dream, and here I am with hair like a chook’s bum.’ I run a hand through my knotted locks, not thinking about being spanked. I’m not. And thinking about not thinking about it so doesn’t count.
‘Wet dream?’ His face relaxes into a sly smile. ‘This I’ve got to hear more about, but in plain English, please. What the hell’s a chook?’
‘Dreams aren’t real and are entirely private. And a chook is a chicken, and yes I did say my head looks like the rear end of a fowl. Meanwhile, you look like . . .’ I wave my hand above his chest. ‘ . . . a playgirl centrefold!’
I really need to learn to self-edit before release.
Pulling me down against him, his chest rumbles against my own.
‘If only you could see yourself, all sleep warmed and sexy. I don’t think you’ve ever looked so beautiful. Except maybe last night, bent over and bound. Flushed pink . . . and red . . . and wearing those ridiculous socks.’
Heat blooms through my insides despite images of wicked witch socks filtering through my head. Unfortunately, the cogs in my brain jump from socks to spankings and the confusion that brings.
‘Relax,’ he breathes, pulling me closer. ‘Are you going to tell me how you really feel or do we have to dance around this some more?
‘Confused,’ I mumble against his chest.
‘Good confused, or get out of my bed you freak, confused?’
‘Like anyone would kick you out of bed.’ I bury further into him, avoiding his eyes.
‘You’d be surprised, husbands can be quite compelling,’ he murmurs almost as though he’s talking to himself.
‘Al-righty! Over-sharing—I think I’ll go make coffee!’ I wince as my bottom chaffs on the edge of the mattress, but don’t get far as his hands grasp my waist, pulling me backwards against him.
‘Don’t go. I need to know.’
I can’t keep pretending last night didn’t happen, as much as I might like to. I take a deep breath, turn and truly look at him.
‘I’m pretty much still processing,’ I say quietly. ‘But essentially okay.’
‘You fell asleep in my arms. I guess you mustn’t think me as kinky as all fuck.’
‘My sphere of reference for kinky is leaving on the lights,’ I mumble as his fingers lift my chin.
‘Don’t be glib, Kate. Thank you for trusting me.’
‘I didn’t realise I had a choice.’ My eyes glide from his as the sheet rustles. He sits, pulling me back against his chest.
‘Of course you did,’ he answers, twirling a lock of my hair. ‘I’ll agree there was an element of . . . subterfuge to begin with, but if you hadn’t enjoyed, I wouldn’t have gone so far.’ My head moves with his chest as he exhales. ‘You made all the right noises. Didn’t say khallas.’
My mind returns to last night. I didn’t ask him to stop, not really, or say . . . whatever I was supposed to. I felt debased, used. Yet I cried tears of bliss along with those of disgrace. There’s no denying, or understanding, in that for me right now.
He pulls us down against the mattress and we lay together, face to face, each trying to divine the others thoughts.
‘What’s khallas?’ I eventually whisper.
‘Stop. Enough. Didn’t you know?’ His fingers tighten on mine as I shake my head. ‘Look, I’ll admit I didn’t handle the situation well. I was very angry and a little drunk. But last night was so much more than I expected. Exquisitely so. It became more about your reactions, more sensual than any punishment.’
‘You wanted to punish me?’ I whisper, horrified at his admission.
‘I want to do lots of things to you, but yes, chastisement motivated me. Initially. Partially. I was making a point.’ He kisses my hand, the ghost of a smile lurking in his mouth. ‘Do you know you’ve gone an exquisite shade of pink?’
‘I know you do that on purpose, say things to make me blush.’ I roll my eyes despite my limbs loosening, his words humming against my skin.
‘Ah, you uncover my naked villainy.’
‘Keep your naked villainy where it is, thanks.’ I giggle behind my hand.
‘Then you’ll need to remove temptation.’ His expression falters, creases forming on his brow. ‘I won’t say I’m sorry for last night because it would be a lie. But when I discovered you’d gone home with . . . Matt, I assumed the worst.’ I open my mouth as he places a finger against my lips. ‘I was convinced you were playing games and I saw red, blood red. I was so angry and I didn’t handle it well. And yes, I wanted to punish you. Give you a taste of my hurt.’ Leaning forward, he kisses me once, butterfly soft.
‘Forgive me. But your reactions were beyond receptive. It made me want to push you further, beyond boundaries I felt you�
��d set. I thought for a mad moment that maybe you’d done this before. Or maybe I just didn’t think at all.’ He shakes his head and the words away. ‘Your reaction afterwards was a complete shock. I truly didn’t anticipate you would be so lachrymose.’
I think I need a dictionary this morning. It’s way too early for such big words.
‘This is all new to me,’ I whisper. I can’t look at him. I’m embarrassed. I know so little and feel such a fool. ‘I wasn’t aware there were any differences between spankings.’ My face flames and I can’t believe I even got the word out. Up until last night spanking was in the realms of chastisement, for small children, and from a time past. Definitely not something you do for kicks. ‘I don’t understand.’ Anything. I don’t understand any of it.
‘I know, habibti. That’s what makes this all the more gratifying, that you would try. That you would trust.’
‘Wait, but who mentioned my leaving with Matt?’
‘A text. Full of suggestion. I let it cloud my judgement.’ His fingertips touch my cheek, his eyes wide and clear.
‘Essam, I’ll bet. I saw him at the marina. He kept banging on about Riyadh for some reason.’
Kai’s hand stops, fingers fastening on my chin. ‘What exactly did he say?’
‘Something about a merger, I told him I wasn’t interested. Then he got pretty arsey when Niamh rocked up. Seems he’s got one of her friends stashed in a flat and he’s given this girl a fake name and everything. Obviously, the chick doesn’t know about his wife.’
‘Oh.’ His lips part and I notice he’d had them held them in a firm line. ‘Did he have anything else to say?’
I shake my head. ‘He left after that. You don’t seem very surprised, about what he’s been up to, I mean. Did you know?’
‘About the apartment? Yes.’
‘And you think that’s okay?’
‘It’s not my concern.’ Shrugging, he turns onto his back and stretches out across the bed.
Tiny cold feet run along my spine. This isn’t right. How can anyone condone stringing two women along, and one of them a wife?
‘She’s a person, Kai. Not a commodity. And new here. Like me.’ Lightning fast, I recall fragments of conversation, my mind drawing parallels as perceptions shift, my thoughts rearranging rapidly. Conversations, warnings, the things Niamh had to say. The fact that not moments ago he could be so blasé about screwing someone else’s wife. I jerk upright in the bed. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘What, what is it?’ Sitting, his hand grasps my arm, his eyes intense. ‘You mustn’t believe anything he says.’
‘Not him. You!’
‘Don’t confuse me with him,’ he says, his hand falling away
‘Why? You both fuck around.’
‘Kate,’ he utters, confused. ‘You have to know you mean the world to me.’
I jump out of bed, dragging the sheet with me. ‘How? How am I supposed to know exactly? Maybe you treat all your friends this way.’
‘Friends? What, you take issue—you think there’s a title to encompass what we have?’
‘I thought it was maybe friends who fuck?’ My tone is arsey again.
‘People who fuck can never be friends.’ His voice is quiet, frighteningly so, and in complete contrast to my own. ‘Relationships have balance, not equality. Give and take.’
My hand tightens on the sheet, clasping the last vestiges of my dignity to my chest. With the other, I sweep the trailing ends from my feet with the decorum of a debutante dressed in a ball gown. Without thought for the future, only for the past, I try to hide the strain in my forcibly lowered voice.
‘Then I’d like you to take yourself out of my bed.’
He doesn’t move, just stares up at me.
‘You heard me. Get up. I’d like you to leave.’
‘Because Essam fucks around, you’re going to kick me out?’ Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he swipes his discarded pants from the floor.
‘No, because cheating means nothing to you. I can’t be with someone like that. Marriage is supposed to mean something. Love and honour, for a start. I can’t be with someone who thinks it’s okay to fuck someone else’s wife.’
Pain from the past reaches my throat in a sob. I’ve barely cried over my never-was marriage since leaving Australia, why would my body choose to do so now? God, my dress. It’s still hanging on the back of my old bedroom door. Shoes and veil in a box on the dresser. I hold a hand to my eyes in an attempt to control the flow.
Self-fucking sabotage!
‘Grow up, Kate. Marriage doesn’t always equate to love, especially here.’ His tone is ice-cold as he begins to stab his legs into his pants. ‘I don’t concern myself with labels and don’t give a fuck what people think. You might want to try it. It might loosen you up.’
His words land like a slap as the doorbell rings. Without really thinking through my state of undress, I begin to stamp my way out of the room, dashing hurt from my cheeks with the back of my hands, his words following me out.
‘You’re about to answer the door wearing bedding!’
‘I thought you didn’t care what people think!’
I yank the door wide, my breathing as hard and as fast as a fat bloke at a rave. A fat bloke wearing overalls.
A tiny jolt of panic halts my pulse as I open it wide.
‘Hey, Katie.’ Warm but tired, his eyes are as travel-worn as the clothes on his back. ‘I’ve come a long way, babe. You gonna invite me in, or what?’
Life is a filthy, dirty trickster with the ability to convince you that up is down. Just when you think you’re sorted, when you think you can divide the wood from the trees, it drops a great fucking branch on your head.
I can’t speak. No, really, I can’t as Kai’s hand clasps my shoulder. With gravitas.
‘Who is this, habibti?’
I brave a glance to his face, unable to find the words to answer as I stare into the dark, simmering depths of his eyes.
‘I’m her fiancé,’ Shane interrupts from the doorway. ‘Babe, who the fuck is this?’
Authors Note
So, what happens next?
Has shit-house Shane (as I like to think of him) arrived to win Kate back, or has he turned up merely to apprise her of his current herpes status?
Read on for a sneak peek of Part Two of the Pretty Series
Pretty Liar
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So, this is me touting for business, standing by the side of the road, short skirt shimmying upwards, a simultaneous flash of thigh and cleavage because, you know I want you to . . .
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Pretty Liar Sneak Peek
‘Habibti, who is this?’
My shoulder warms under the weight of Kai’s hand, his thumb massaging the blade almost pointedly. Tucking the sheet tighter under my arms, I can feel myself shake, anger extinguished by a blanket of shock. Never in a hundred years, hell, in a millennium, could I have anticipated Shane turning up on my doorstep in Dubai. I hardly left a forwarding address.
‘Habib...’ Shane’s eyes are now saucer-wide. ‘You haven’t changed your name, have you? Gone whatsit . . . changed religion? Your mum’ll go spare!’
‘Of course I haven’t.’ The tips of my fingers tremble as I hold them to my lips. ‘It means darling,’ I mumble robotically, my stomach beginning to feel quite sick.
Instantly, Shanes blue eyes go from saucers to slits, his whole posture changing as he straightens, bracing his hands on either side of the doorframe. For a moment, I’m grateful Kai’s behind me. At least I don’t have to see his expression.
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nbsp; ‘Mate,’ Shane drawls, his accent excessively pronounced. This isn’t the Shane I know, the man from Ascot; the enclave of Brisbane that’s as posh as it sounds. This is Shane, the dick head. The one who, in times gone by, like nothing more than a weekend pub brawl, wearing a split lip or a black eye like a badge to uni on Monday. ‘I dunno about ‘round here, but where I come from calling another bloke’s girl darlin’ gets your teeth smashed down the back of your throat.’
Despite his posturing, I know he gets it. I’m dressed in a bed sheet and Kai is shoeless and wearing not much more. You don’t need a Ph.D. to work out we’ve been doing the naked dance. It’s hardly a subtle clue to our relationship status. Add to it the fact that I mailed back his ring, and we’re through.
Part of me—a big part—wants to gloat. Ask him how it feels, seeing the evidence of someone you professed to love doing someone else. It hurts, I know that well enough. And while it might be kinda satisfying to hear just how much it hurts, it might also go some way to explaining how he can look so bloody smug.
‘Have you had a concussion or something?’ I don’t give Kai a chance, don’t want him involved.
Grasping the edges of the door with the intention of slamming it closed, even if it is on his fingers, I end up stumbling over the sheet and being caught by two sets of hands. The hands struggle to right me, grabby and possessive, like housewives fighting over something in a department store bargain bin.
‘Get off, leave me alone!’ With one hand, I push them away, the other still clinging to the sheet at my chest.
‘You heard her, piss off!’
This from Shane, puffing his chest like a gorilla in my midst as he attempts to step over the threshold, to a wall of Kai.
One hand tight on my arm, Kai holds out his other like a stop-sign. His movements are almost languid, belying how his weight-bearing shifts, perhaps preparing to protect me. Or perhaps preparing for a fight. It’s not an aggressive stance by any means, but he does seem to grow larger, despite his already considerable height advantage over me and probably three inches over Shane. Not that it matters. Appearances can be deceptive. Shane may be a lot of things I don’t like, but he also happens to be very good with his fists. From way back.