by Donna Alam
‘I can’t. I’ve only known you five minutes,’ I whisper. I can’t look at him, staring mindlessly at his shirt as it rises and falls with his rapid breath.
‘What does that matter?’
‘I can’t,’ I repeat. ‘I can’t jump from being fuck-friend to girlfriend and then to wife in the space of a couple of weeks.’
‘Those are just words, titles. The truth is, you’re part of me. You’ve wound your way into my soul.’
‘Be serious, Kai.’
‘I’ve never been more serious, or surer of anything.’
I rest my forehead against his broad chest, I laugh softly. It sounds odd. Hell, it feels odd. I must be slightly unhinged. Lack of sleep, maybe?
Releasing my wrists, Kai anchors his hands in my hair. Being close to him is dangerous, so tempting, his mouth hovering just out of reach. Yes, he looks tired. Exhausted, but he also looks sincere. Even as I think this, the thought is replaced by the realisation that I know fuck-all. A cheater is a creature I’ll never recognise.
But knowledge, emotion, and desire are all very different things, and as he lowers his head, I know I’ll allow him to kiss me. My eyes roll closed as our lips touch and I savour the shape of his lips against my own, kisses that are soft butterfly wings of regret. I try to hang on. To think. To remind myself of all that he’s said. Done. I shouldn’t need to make the effort, ought to know the answer. I’ve been here before: pain, anguish and lies. This is a kiss goodbye.
He pulls away, lingering with small, sweet kisses of reluctance as his hands cup my face. A tremor touches his full bottom lip as words spill from them and unravel my anger. Undo me totally.
‘You’ve opened my eyes, Kate, and I love you more than I ever thought possible. Love I didn’t know I was capable of. You placed your trust in my hands and I know I can’t be whole without it. Give me your love, desire and trust, sweetheart, or walk away.’ He steps back, his hands loosening as my vison blurs at his words. ‘I won’t risk a life full of half-measures now. ’
Risk. Here’s the thing I know about risk: It leaves you exposed, vulnerable. Trembling and tie to a table. On the beach with your bloodied heart beating in another person’s hands.
He said once only I could decide if we were worth the risk. If he was worth the risk. Then like lightening, clarity strikes my mind. The power and intensity of what’s between us, the danger and fear of loving so much, it all falls away.
I answer him, and myself, by throwing my body against him, making him stagger against the sand. I wrap my arms, legs—wind my whole self around him—placing my lips and my fingerprints everywhere.
His words are in my heart and in my head.
I kiss him hard.
I kiss him mine.
I kiss him yes.
A holiday in Australia?
A wedding?
A return to Dubai?
One and a half sets of reluctant parents.
It’s not going to be plain sailing—will they get there in the end?
Will Kais remember faint heart never won fair lady?
Will Kate trust her instincts or always expect the worst?
Find out what happens next in part three of the Pretty Series.
Pretty Things
Book Three of the Pretty Series
By Donna Alam
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Published By: Donna Alam
Copyright and Disclaimer
The moral right of this author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Chapter One
The day breaks not, it is my heart.
He stands a stark silhouette framed by shadow, all but obscured by the brightest of sunlight streaming in through the window. His shirt, mostly unbuttoned and pulled carelessly from the waist of his pants, whispers as he moves closer, moves towards the bed.
Large. Looming. Drawing near.
My mind stirs from the thickness of sleep, heavy with the weight of my dreams, disorientation dragging at my consciousness as I struggle to comprehend where I am. Who I am, though I recognise him.
Kai.
I’d fallen asleep in his arms. Were things resolved? Did we talk at all?
Watching him from mostly closed lids, I lie still as my heart begins to stir with a mixture of desire and unease. Unease because it’s all coming back to me. We were on the beach, arguing; surfers and dog walkers slowing down as they passed to stare. Yes, I ran from Dubai—I’d admitted it, loud and adamant, but not for the reasons he’d claimed. I didn’t believe him—couldn’t allow myself to comprehend—that who I saw in his hotel suite couldn’t have been him.
Sophia, naked and on her knees in between Kai’s splayed thighs.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I deserve it. I fought against my instinct to trust, telling myself he was no better than Shane, but if I’d been loud and adamant, then Kai was just the same. And angry, and hurt, and as convincing as hell. I knew he was telling the truth, but still needed convincing.
And then he’d proposed.
I know I have trust issues; it’s hardly surprising. But maybe I should trust myself more from now on, because this was something my heart answered, not my head.
My heart.
I’d thrown myself at him. Wrapped myself around him.
I’d said yes.
I rub my eyes, realising they’re a little swollen. Behind my closed lids, I sense his dark lashed gaze, still heavy on mine.
He’d wanted to talk about my reasons for leaving, and those for agreeing to marry him, when all I’d wanted to do was sleep. Retreat. I’d almost managed it in his car, as we’d left the beach. In the face of what had happened in Dubai, he’d promised me no hotel. No suites with sluts on their knees. Instead he’d brought me to a house, Sovereign Island, I think.
As he reaches the bed, I see clearly the signs of his tiredness, beyond the air of fatigue. His eyes are darkly circled. Tired eyes, yes, but with a gaze that’s cold. How golden can be anything but warm, I don’t know. What I do know is, the look on his face is one I don’t recognise.
My body starts as his words hit the air. In response, I murmur that I am, not that I need to, but for some reason I feel compelled to fill the space between us with something else.
The sun gleams in from the window behind him, cresting his head with a halo of light as he brushes his hand through my hair. Moving the wayward strands from my face, he rearranges the mass against the white pillow. But he doesn’t speak again, and beyond an intake of breath, I can’t find any words as he begins tracing my mouth with his thumb. Pulling gently at my bottom lip, his fingers drift down over my chin, to my neck. It’s such a soft, gentle caress, and in total contrast to his gaze. Almost detached, he watches me like I’m something of mild interest, some sort of specimen.
‘I have copies of my flight manifest.’ His voice is as soft as his eyes are not.
My mind works on delay, brain function still hampered by lack of sleep, by his presence, by this strangeness washing over him.
‘I said.’ I’m mesmerised by his mouth, how he enunciates excessively clearly. ‘I have copies of the manifest of my flight from Riyadh. Proof that what—who you saw, couldn’t have been me.’
As I lift my head from the pillow in an enquiring inch, his caressing hand opens, his fingers wrapping around my neck and pushing me back against the pillow.
My spine stiffens and I come fully awake quite suddenly. This isn’t a gentle touch, and it’s not like we’ve done this before. Abs
tract thoughts begin to fill my head—this isn’t an appropriate time for power games. Is this his attempt at make-up sex? Angry sex we’ve experience of, but this beast isn’t the same. For a start, he’s holding me by the neck. Carefully? A potential choke-hold?
Shouldn’t our reconciliation begin elsewhere? A conversation to clear the air; not a touch to restrict it?
I close my eyes, swallowing thickly as the pressure of his hand adjusts, deepening my panic. Tendrils of fear unfurl deep in my gut, but I remind myself I can breathe. There’s little pressure on my windpipe; his fingers tighter on the sides of my neck. The panic is in my head—in my stomach—across my prickling skin.
‘Open your eyes.’ His words are emotionless, yet somehow I still feel compelled.
‘Please.’ The word leaves my throat in a whimper; his thumb and fingers pressing tighter. The sound of the word vibrates beneath my skin as an inexorable and familiar sensation flares between my legs.
This can’t be.
‘I said look at me.’
It takes me a beat to do so, blinking away my confusion, staring up into his beautiful and unreadable face. Unreadable but for the flash of heat now in his gaze. My eyes are drawn to the deep pulse in his neck, and when they return to his, those flecks of cognac and amber are a little more intense.
In relief, I lay down the last resistant inch, laying myself open. Submitting to him.
‘Do you trust me?’
He could well be asking what I think the chances are for rain, as his eyes leave my face for the first time, flicking to where he holds me still.
But it’s such a loaded question, and I’m painfully aware we’re here right now because of my lack of trust. His hotel room. Sofia. Essam. My heartbreak. My absolute conviction of who was between her lips.
Tears begin to gather at the corners of my eyes, leaking onto the pillow as he watches me.
He blinks, the warmth in his gaze evaporating like steam. ‘I get to see your tears now? Am I supposed to feel sorry? For you, I mean. Is this partway to making me understand how you could think so little of me?’
When I don’t answer, his hand flexes again.
‘Trust, sweetheart. It’s such an overused word, don’t you think?’ His thumb presses a fraction tighter, panic darkly bordering around the sensation as I begin to swallow convulsively. ‘How can you profess to trust me?’ His voice is so very even but for a suggestion of emotion simmering. ‘How could you say you love, yet think so little of me? Did you ever, really? Trust that I’d do you no harm?’
His mask of ennui falters, a glimpse of something passing over his face, but he’s quick to cover it. The pressure in his fingers lingers as the fire in his eyes reduces like a stove’s gas flame.
I swallow. Again. Nervous. Give me heat and anger, hell, I’ll even take cold. Because right now his intentions are frighteningly hard to gauge.
Suddenly, his fingers loosen and he pushes his palm into the downy pillow next to my head. I inhale deep, exaggerated breaths, sucking in air like a drowning man as he leans over me, his mouth covering mine, and I inhale Kai, instead.
Damn him, and damn my responses as I feel myself melt into the bed, moaning softly as our lips meet.
Has it been so long since we’ve kissed? Because, really, it feels like an age.
His soft, full lips slide over mine, leading this sensual dance. I moan again, wantonly this time, as his tongue glides against my lips as light and as deft as a butterfly’s wing. It isn’t a conscious act, I’m not trying to distract him, nor spur him on. It’s just him, my need for him outweighing everything.
Our kiss becomes frantic a moment later as his lips move over my neck, my hands feeding into his hair, anchoring him, pulling him closer as his mouth burns holes in my skin. And this? His kissing me? It hurts no less than his hand on my neck, stunting my breath. It’s no less frightening, because it hurts to want him so badly. To physically ache with need.
‘Torn open.’ His words rasp over rough bark as he climbs onto the bed, pulling back the sheet. Sliding his legs between my own, he moves them wider with his knees. ‘How could you leave me?’ His words are delivered through clenched teeth. ‘Leave me feeling like I could tear open my own chest.’ His whole body shudders above me, forearms holding his weight as I pull him closer, kissing him the words I can’t say, words I can’t find.
From the stiff length of him—his hard chest pressed against mine—to there being nothing but cool air between us, as he exhales roughly, pulling away. On his knees now, his hair is chaos from my fingers, his mouth red and darkly swollen, but I’m not sure if it’s the sudden cold blast from the air-conditioner, or the look in his eyes that makes the hairs on my arm prick and stand.
‘But there’s one thing you can always count on me for. Right, babe?’
This isn’t right. This isn’t his endearment for me. I’m Kate, kitty-kat, sweetheart, habibti, generic or otherwise. Babe is what I am—what I was—to Shane.
‘Kai, please—’
My words cease as his hands slip under my cotton tee, the sudden heat of his palms on my stomach dissolving the words on my tongue, and liquefying my reasoning. My reaction is purely visceral as I buck against where we join, skin to skin. It’s a touch that I’ve dreamt of since leaving Dubai—leaving him—both through eyes open and closed. But even through my desperation, my need to feel him, I can tell he has no plans to be kind.
Would I want him to be?
His hands travel over my ribs, skimming over my white cotton bra. He doesn’t comment on its plainness, nor tell me how good I feel under him. Reaching my shoulders, he helps bring the shirt up over my head and I fall back to the pillows as, towering above me, Kai rents the fabric in two by the seam.
‘You don’t mind do you, babe?’
‘Please,’ I repeat, unable to articulate exactly what I mean.
‘I know,’ he says, his lips a mock moue as he twists my torn shirt into one length, sleeve to sleeve. ‘No one likes to be called out, do they? You might not trust me, but at least you can always rely on me to know what you need.’
With that, he drops the ruined garment by my head, sitting back and staring at me for several, long loaded beats. He’s not looking at me with adoration, or like he can’t wait to be inside me. I’m strung out and nervous, but try as I might, I can’t ignore the pulse beating between my legs, the yearning to have him inside.
He must be aware of my nervousness as he slips the shirt from his shoulders, dropping it onto my legs as they tremble around his. Maybe it’s this that prompts him to begin stroking my arms like you might a nervous animal. It’s a cold sort of comfort, contradicted by nerve endings pricking and igniting beneath my skin. Sensation and emotion swirl like an electrical current through my limbs as he entwines his hands with my own, raising them from the bed. Kissing the very tips of my fingers, his eyes scorn the tender moment before he lowers them again. Grabbing my torn T-shirt, he twirls it around and around until it resembles some kind of cotton rope.
‘Remember?’ Less like a smile and more a cruel twist of his lips, he continues. ‘Because I do. I absolutely remember. Images playing through my brain on a fucking loop.’ His chest moves with his words. ‘Let me count the ways,’ he says with a sneer. ‘Count the ways I can make you come. And it’s always so good, isn’t it, babe? Even if you can’t bring yourself to trust. This bit of cotton? It’s your liberation. I’ll tie you up and you can pretend it was all me—all my fault. Nothing soils your milky skin like another’s vice.’ The edge in his voice is so sharp, I’m surprised it doesn’t draw blood.
‘The only thing wrong, is this calls to you, this sordid little secret. You let me tie you. Fuck you. Because you can’t help yourself. And it’s so fucked up—you let me do those things, yet you don’t trust me at all. What does that say about you?’
He sits back, breathes one more heavy breath, and with a veneer of indifference, he shrugs.
‘Admit you don’t trust me, Kate. It doesn’t mean we won’t
get to fuck. There are always other ways. I could flip you over? Throw you up against the wall of the shower? Against a door? Use a chair? It’s all good.’ Like items recited from a menu, he cruelly plucks memories from my head. ‘There are so many ways, and you take them all, babe.’
‘Kai, please—’
‘Which is it to be?’ he purrs dangerously.
‘Kai,’ I plead again, holding out my arms to him. For him. As he raises a forestalling hand.
‘It’s a simple question, Kate.’ His voice simmers now with ill-concealed anger, words spoken through a clenched jaw. ‘I’m not in the mood for discussion. You either trust me in this instance or you don’t.’
‘I do, of course—’
‘Then shut the fuck up.’ Anger I could deal with, but this savage tone hits me like a slap. ‘Really,’ he adds more evenly, his gaze gliding from mine, rising to the wall behind the bed. ‘We’ll talk later. Rehash the whole thing, but right now all I want to do is fuck.’
The rawness of his delivery echoes in the air. Echoes between my legs.
Grasping the cotton rope and pulling it taut, his shoulders square, his eyes finding mine. Staring down. Daring me.
I rise to his challenge, hissing, ‘Do it.’ Yes to trusting. Yes to fucking, and yes to him.
For the first time since I’ve woken, he actually smiles. It’s just a shame it’s all wolf and teeth. And although, intellectually, I know what the makeshift rope is for, it doesn’t stop my heart from stuttering as he begins wrapping it around my wrists. My body hums with tension, even as my hips undulate as he strings anticipation and desire along with my wrists.
I try to focus on the man instead of his actions, his firm chest hovering over me, the determination on his face. He’s so close, his body just a breath from mine, his sharp jaw almost in kissing distance. His hand pushes my hip flat to the bed without acknowledging my writhing, his brow furrowing slightly as he belatedly realises there’s nowhere on the bed to tie the cotton rope to. The frown is brief as he wraps the remaining length around his left hand, clenching his fist.