by Donna Alam
‘Dr Honey Bea.’
I can’t muster a response as he covers my hands with his. I appear to be touching his chest again, his broad, firm chest—man, he is cut—though I can’t feel the beat of his heart over the pounding of my own. I make to step away when Kit presses his hands more firmly, flattening mine against his pecs. But that doesn’t stop me from moving—it’s his words that stun me into place.
‘It’s a little too late for that.’
Threading his fingers though mine, he lifts them, tugging me farther down the hallway. My feet feel weighted down, not because I’m reluctant, but because my mind is on delay, and I can’t think of anything to say for wondering what this means.
The lights are dim at the end of the corridor where he stops by a door.
‘Your boyfriend.’ His voice is low and husky, and I can make out the hint of a smile in the darkened space. ‘Is breaking up something you do often?’ I wonder abstractly if this is something Fin has told him.
‘We fight. Quite a lot, actually. But no. Not like this.’
He nods as though understanding. But he can’t. Not really. Not the history, at least.
‘He’s been cheating on me,’ I say, bringing up my head.
‘Then I have only one more question for you.’
‘Yes?’ My heart begins to beat staccato, my throat suddenly dry as he leans in and places his forearm against the wall above my head. I should feel crowded, but I don’t. It just feels intimate. And I like it so much. His throat is almost within licking distance, and I see his pulse thrumming there. I want, quite suddenly, to feel the blood hammering through his veins elsewhere. As all these things—thoughts and desires—surge through my head and body, I’m almost shocked when he speaks.
‘Who were you dancing for out there?’
Chapter Six
BEA
‘Who was I dancing for?’ The dim lighting crests his head as he nods, bringing out unusual threads of roan and red. ‘That’s an awfully particular question.’
‘I’m told I’m a particular kind of man.’
‘What if I told you I was dancing for myself? Dancing for the joy of simply dancing?’
‘I’d probably nod and say fair enough. Then I’d walk away.’
‘And if I told you I was dancing for you? Imagining my hands as your hands . . .’ My words trail off sort of seductively. This is mad—so mad. Yet the air is alive between us like static electricity right before a summer storm.
He leans closer still and slips his index finger in the wide neck of my sweater-cum-dress. He begins running it back and forth, from collarbone to shoulder, electrifying my skin. A hundred tiny alarm bells start ringing. Unfortunately, those bells are in my panties rather than in my head.
‘If you told me that, I might be inclined to do this.’
His lashes cast dark shadows against his cheeks right before he slants his mouth over mine perfectly. Because we’re kissing, and it’s so divine. There’s a hint of tongue, testing, and then teasing as his kiss deepens. And when I return the motions, he hums in appreciation, and I feel the deep vibration all the way to my bones.
Before I realise he’s done so, the hand curled at my shoulder has me pushed against the wall.
‘You liked me watching you.’ His mouth is hot against my ear, and God, that husky voice has my knees feeling like rubber.
If I had words, I’d answer him, but I only have halting and rapid breath as his warm lips press against my neck and jaw. His teeth skimming my bare shoulder causes me to moan, and his hand to slide under my woollen dress.
‘You okay there, honey bee?’
Am I okay? I think so. At least, I am if I don’t think about what this means.
He laughs softly, and I ignore the part where I said that out loud.
‘It means I’m fucking hard for you.’ His forearm slides from the wall, taking my hand in his. ‘And I want to know what you liked best. Me watching you, or knowing you made me feel like this.’
‘Oh!’ Such an inadequate exclamation—tiny, really—as compared to the monster he pushes into my palm. My hand in his, my fingers point down to the tips of his shoes, yet my hand doesn’t cover the whole length of his dick. If I let him near me, he’d probably split me in two!
And what’s more, I think I’d let him because my slutty senses are totally tingling.
I change the angle of my hand and tighten my fingers, swallowing hard at the feel of him. Blessed with girth and length and stellar kissing skills.
And he’s bisexual, it seems. Why is that so hot?
I press harder, and he groans rough and sweet, which makes him hotter still.
‘It’s huge,’ I whisper, awed by the feel of him against my hand.
His smile is part tease and part wolf as, with another groan, he pulses in my hand.
‘It’s good?’ My question hits the air all ragged edges. I inhale and start again. ‘I mean, it’s just so big. I’m not used to . . .’ I curl my lips in on themselves, refusing to say another word about him. The other dick.
‘For the record, hearing that never gets old.’
Is it the darkness of the hallway that makes the moment feel intimate? His lips tremble slightly as though attempting to suppress a smile, his lashes casting dark shadows under his eyes as I contemplate so many things.
His fingers now running the gauntlet of the waist of my lacy panties.
The pound of the beat from the club.
The squeak of the ladies’ bathroom door as it opens and the sound of the women spilling out.
But mostly, I contemplate how long it might take for him to start touching me. Really touching me.
The things I want but can’t say.
‘We could get caught.’ My thought becomes words immediately. But with my back flat against the wall, his body shields me.
‘I don’t think we’d be thrown out for kissing,’ he says between small kisses. ‘Or else half the club would be out on their ear.’
‘Oh, right.’ But I don’t mention the index finger he’s currently skimming low across my stomach.
‘Not that I was planning to stop there.’
‘What?’
‘Put your hands above your head, honey bee.’
The backs of my hands move automatically and slide flat against the dark wall, almost mirroring my earlier dance. His lips touch my forehead as he presses one hand against mine while his other slips deftly under the waistband.
‘Fuck, you’re so wet; I think you could take me.’ I whimper a response so needful, Kit sort of chuckles into the kiss he presses to my lips. ‘You like the sound of that? Spreading your sweetness all over me.’
‘Please,’ I whisper, not sure quite exactly what I’m asking for. Just more. More fingers, more lips, more everything. His nose presses into my hair, and he pushes his fabric covered cock into my hip.
‘Fuck, look at you.’ The lilt of his accent is much stronger now. ‘Just look at you. You’re a thinkin’ man’s wet dream.’
Holy. Rolling. R’s. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any hotter.
‘Y-you can’t say things like that.’ Though I think I might sound more convincing if his thumb wasn’t tapping my clit.
‘I just did.’
‘I . . . I don’t think it’s much of a compliment.’
‘Oh, contraire, Dr Honey.’ From one nickname to another, though the meaning of this one wasn’t lost on me. I close my eyes as his lips find my neck again. ‘Smart and sexy and so hot for it. What’s wrong with that?’ I can’t articulate an answer. I can barely think. ‘How long does it usually take to make you come like this?’ In a change of direction, his whisper is hot and heavy against my skin.
‘No one usually touches me like this.’
Kit pulls back, his dark gaze staring down at me. ‘He didn’t finger you?’
‘H-he doesn’t—I mean didn’t,’ I add, correcting myself.
‘His loss,’ he growled. ‘Because this is just the start.’
; Two fingers press deep inside me, causing me to cry out. Kit kisses me again, pressing a whispered hush into my mouth. As his thumb begins petting and moving in small circles against my clit, I push my body against his hand, wanting more pressure. Wanting it all. My eyes are intent on his turned shirt sleeve and his masculine watch. The branch of a strong, tanned arm as it disappears into the darkness of my sweater. The sight is so erotic; it takes my breath away.
This is what I’d longed for while dancing. To be touched like this. To come apart in his arms.
‘Someone could see you like this, riding my hand.’ The images his words create have me arching my back from the wall and pushing into his hand. What would it feel like to be caught? To be watched? ‘Fuck, you like the sound of that. That’s it. You ride my hand. Then later, you can ride my cock.’
‘Yes!’ I cry out as more images fill my head. ‘Yes!’
A door slams somewhere between us and, startled, I jump. But I don’t register much else as he begins to move, his fingers alternately spearing me deeply and curling inside. My legs become liquid as his fingers switch between the two, coaxing and beckoning me on.
‘Fuck, I want to taste you.’ Oh, God. I think my heart just gave out imagining him rolling tongue-fuls of r’s between my legs. Maybe this is what Fin meant about the lure of a Scotsman’s accent? Maybe it’s more than just the way they talk or the things they say. ‘Leave with me. Let me inside you. Let me fuck you until you can’t remember your own name.’
I gasp at his fervent words; his promises blooming and bursting just as I begin to do so myself. My orgasm crawls through me, increasing in its intensity until I’m whimpering and thrashing, desperate to bring my hands down, to pull him to me—to participate. But I can’t. It’s not only my hands pinned as I stare into his eyes, lost in their cool, grey intensity.
The eyes of a wolf.
‘That’s it, honey bee. Jesus Christ, I want to feel this pussy around my cock.’
Those images, the knowledge of the size of him, his fingers, and his dirty words have me delirious, my back arching away from the wall as I begin to engage in the only way I can as I fuck his fingers.
My skin feels electric—I’d forgotten how this feels—how all consuming, how irrelevant everything else is outside of this moment. I cry out, the sound echoing in the hallway, and then I bite the inside of my mouth to stop the sound. My breathing is rapid, my chest heaving, and I feel like my legs might give out as I press again and again into his hand.
‘Tell me yes,’ he growls, his thumb closing on my oversensitive clit. ‘Let me fuck you with more than my hands. Let me use my mouth.’
Would I let him? Could I do this without making things eternally awkward between me and Fin?
Then, as though the thought of her name could conjure her presence, I hear Fin’s voice from the end of the hall. Actually, it’s not so much her voice as her tinkling laughter before the screech of the bathroom door.
My body stiffens, cooling immediately. Kit must see as he pauses for a beat, his hand slowly slipping from my panties and falling to my hip.
‘We can leave separately,’ he says, tightening his hand a touch. ‘Meet later, or you can leave first. I’ll tell Fin you met someone.’
‘She’s not going to believe that. I haven’t told her about—’
The door screeches again. ‘She’s not in there,’ I hear Fin call. ‘Kit, is that you?’
I shake my head, not wanting to be caught. I won’t have any answers to her questions, and if I don’t smell like sex, I’ll look like I’ve been having sex even if his hand isn’t between my legs. Feeling all kinds of conflicted, I lower my arms and straighten my dress, unable to look at him again.
‘At least give me your number.’ I shake my head again, not able to find my words.
‘Kit?’ Fin sort of whisper-hisses again. ‘Is that you down there?’
Thankfully, she doesn’t appear to want to disturb what’s going on at the end of the hall—she obviously hasn’t realised I’m here with Kit. Thank goodness, I’m shielded by Kit’s massive frame even as he turns his head.
‘Give me a minute, would you, hen?’ His words are a little ragged around the edges, his accent a touch heavier.
She laughs nervously. ‘Yeah. No worries, ha-ha. I’ll, erm, see you inside. Oh, you haven’t seen Bea, have you?’
‘I saw her taking a call on her phone outside.’ As he lies smoothly, his amused gaze returns to me, but I’m too busy to appreciate the beauty of it as I freak out silently.
‘Oh. I’ll go see.’
I finally breathe again as Fin’s footsteps begin to fade then disappear at the end the hallway.
‘I-I’d better get back.’ My eyes are on the floor. I just can’t look at him. Not after I let him finger me in a dingy hallway. Plus, I’m all sorts of endorphin confused. All jelly legged.
‘You’re all right.’ His statement is more of a question, though his fingers tilt my chin and force me to look up at him.
‘I . . . it’s . . . thank you.’ The words make me feel sick. I’ve just thanked him for getting me off. Should I offer to reciprocate? Will he feel like I’ve used him? What’s the protocol here? All this nonsense runs through my head, though I can’t voice one word aloud. What about Fin and Rory? How would they feel about this?
‘God, it’s so complicated.’
‘It doesn’t have to be. Let me show you tonight.’ When I don’t answer—when I don’t look at him—he straightens, and his hand falls away.
I scurry around him and back into the club because fantasy and reality will always be two different things.
Chapter Seven
BEA
‘Morning, sleepyhead.’ I wave away Fin’s words as I enter the kitchen, heading for the coffee pot. ‘Or should that be hungover head?’
As I pour the dark liquid into the white cup, I contemplate an answer. ‘It’s not so bad. I’m just a little tired, I guess. Want some?’ I ask over my shoulder, though she lifts her cup in answer. Way ahead of you. ‘And where’s Randy today? Don’t tell me he works on Sunday, too.’
‘He’s gone home to check on the refurbishment.’ That’s right, Randy or Rory, rather, is having his place gutted and restyled, ready for Fin to move in. ‘Didn’t you want to go see? It’ll be your home, too.’
‘I told him I’d prefer it to be a surprise. He knows I think it’s completely unnecessary. I’m not interested in it for the trappings. I’d be happy to start a home with him anywhere, so long as we have hot water and a roof.’
Fin’s seen the downside of the trappings of wealth and come out on the other side, though hardly unscathed. Her take on possessions is a lot like mine. It’s just stuff you can’t take with you when you go.
You know, go.
As I take a mouthful of my coffee, I reflect. I need to make more room for enjoyment in my life because you never know when your time’s up.
But still, it’s a shame. She has a good eye for decorating and even designed the interior of one of Rory and Kit’s boutique hotels. The restaurant, bar, and reception, I believe.
‘Any more news on Jon’s trip?’
Coffee turns to bitter tar in my mouth. I find myself shaking my head, and I find I can’t tell her right now. I don’t even want to think about it myself. ‘We haven’t discussed when, exactly. And I forgot I have a medical thing in Edinburgh next week. It’s only one night away, but the preparation and stuff . . . you know.’
Clearly, she doesn’t buy any of this. I mean, though, she’s kind enough to sort of shrug and nod. Shrug-nod?
‘I thought he was due to visit in a week or two? You said he was flying to you this time.’
Okay, so she’s not an empath. Dog, meet bone. Bone, prepare to be chewed.
‘Yeah, I did say that.’
‘Great! I’ll stay with Rory. You know, to give you some space.’ Her words are heavy with meaning. Meanwhile, I just feel heavy. ‘But we’ll have to meet him, right?’
In a change of
topic, I ask, ‘Did you get a corner office with this new gig?’
‘Hardly. Just a few more pennies in the bank at the end of the month in exchange for a whole lot of additional responsibilities.’
‘Ah, the joys of the corporate ladder and smashing that glass ceiling.’
‘Glass ceiling? I can’t even see it from my dark little corner.’ As Fin inhales sharply, I turn my head. ‘Rory’s offered to loan me some money to go it alone—to start my own company.’ She looks down at her cup, her expression unreadable. ‘Only I’m not all that sure it’s a good idea.’
The past is a vicious bitch. And also a great yardstick.
‘Yeah, I get that.’
‘It’s just so tempting.’ Her eyes are shining with unshed tears as she raises her head. ‘He’s great, and I love him so much. Probably even a smidge more after what he’s offering me. He just wants the best for me. But I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘No, maybe not right now.’ I slide myself into the kitchen chair next to hers. ‘I get it, you know. But it doesn’t mean you have to write the idea off completely. Rory’s not Marcus,’ I add quietly.
‘God, don’t I know it,’ she says through a watery laugh. ‘But enough with the seriousness. Did you have fun last night?’
I find it hard to suppress my smile, letting it escape at both corners of my mouth. ‘I did. Sorry I was late. Again.’
‘What did you think of Kit?’ she asks, brushing off my apology.
‘He’s a little . . . intense.’ And he has such large . . . hands.
‘He has a heart of gold. Absolute gold. Even though they’re the same age, it always seems Kit has . . . This is going to sound silly, but I feel like he’s fathered Rory. Held a lot of weight on his shoulders, you know?’
I know from past conversations that Rory and Kit were raised by a single mother. No dad on the scene. Wasn’t there something about a grand family house being left to a dog’s charity, too?
‘It’s not so silly. Especially given their mother’s death. I suppose, being the older twin—’