by Alam, Donna
‘Ahhh. What I wouldn’t give to have you flat on your back.’ Don’t Judge—I can’nae help it. I’m hardwired this way.
‘Did we used to do something fun with me on my back?’ Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks up from the trashy mag, resting her index finger on her chin. ‘I seem to recall something, but the memory is so distant . . . ’
‘I’ll be sure to give you a thorough refresher course as soon as we’re able. ‘Course, I’ll be a funny shape by then. I expect I’ll have one huge and massively veiny—’
‘Massive and veiny?’ She continues in the same manner as if our sex life is something she can’t quite recall. ‘The words seem familiar, but it’s been such a long, long—’
‘It wasn’t that long ago.’ Though long enough. ‘Anyway, you’ve a dirty mind because I was gonna say arm; one massive and veiny arm.’ I stalk around the island to where she sits, unable to resist a quick flex of my guns. True enough, she smiles, delighted, her eyes becoming as large as her mouth is round.
‘If I have, it’s your fault!’ she responds, giggling. ‘And you already have arms like Popeye.’
She reaches out to touch. No chance, darlin’ , I think, slipping behind her to wrap my arms around her shoulders.
‘As for the other massive and veiny,’ I whisper, pressing my nose into the mass of her silky dark hair. ‘I can’t wait to refresh your memory once the bairn is born.’ Her spine liquefies against my chest as she sighs.
‘It’s been such a long, long time. I don’t think I know which part of your anatomy you’re referring to. I think I’m a little—wait!’ Her head turns sharply over her shoulder. ‘You’re saying you’ll have one arm more muscular than the other because . . . because you’ve been . . . ’
‘You can say it, hen.’ I growl the words in her ear, delighted by the shiver they elicit, rock hard at the flush in her cheeks.
As though to stop herself from answering, she rolls her lips inwards. A beat later, her whispered words fall out in a tumble. ‘Because you’ve been interfering with yourself ?’
‘Why are you whispering?’ I whisper back, tightening my arms around. ‘But if by interfering with myself, you mean wankin’ myself stupid, then yes. I have.’
One minute, her back is against my chest, and the next, she’s swung the stool around to face me. She looks so scandalised, I can’t help but chuckle.
‘When? When have you been . . . ?’ The heat in her cheeks deepens, her mouth working soundlessly.
‘Go on, say it,’ I goad because this never gets old. I take her face in my hands because a disconcerted Ella is a sight to fucking behold.
‘Masturbating.’ She enunciates the word clearly, and I can almost see the teacher she’ll eventually become even as her telltale tongue darts out to wet her pink lips. ‘How . . . when?’ she asks avidly, her spine becoming ramrod straight as though hit by a sudden thought. ‘Lord, please don’t say you’ve been doing it at work.’
‘What? No!’ I explain, my hands on her shoulders now.
Her expression screams scepticism even as I begin to laugh at the thoughts of getting my rocks off in my office or even the gym changing rooms. And before you know it, my mind has wandered there. Do people wank off in the showers? Do I need to give the cleaners a raise?
‘But Natasha said—’
Christ on a bike. When will this ever end? ‘That was one time . . . and it wasn’t in the office!’
‘So I heard,’ she answers mockingly. ‘So everyone heard, apparently.’
‘I . . . wait. Are you saying I’m loud when I come?’ Is that even a thing? The louder Ella is when she comes, the better the experience for both of us, as far as I’m concerned.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, but I can guess who did,’ I grumble. Bloody Natasha. ‘And in my defence, I was wearing earphones.’ Natasha is a mutual friend, and my sister’s employee. She might’ve, once upon a time, walked in on me while I was watching porn and tootin’ the horn, so to speak. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything that clipe says.’ Not that she’s a liar. Not at all, but still. The woman is far too open. ‘And that was an invasion of my privacy. How was I supposed to know they’d be visiting?’
‘Well, it is Ivy’s childhood home, too. And are you suggesting I shouldn’t believe your sister, too?’
‘You’re enjoying this far too much,’ I say, narrowing my gaze. ‘If you weren’t so round—’
‘Hey!’
‘—or so pregnant right now, I’d put you over my knee.’
‘Stop trying to titillate me; it’s not fair! And stop trying to change the subject.’ Leaning forward, Ella loops her forefinger in the waist of my jeans, pulling me closer. Not that I take much persuading, stepping into her and placing my hands on her shoulders, mainly to prevent her from toppling from the stool. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself because, God, I want to touch her. Always.
Short of finding out I had a son, Ella is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And this pregnancy is just the icing on the cake that is currently my life—a great fucking confection of sugar and cream. My cake plate runneth over, or some such fucking thing. I love the bones of this woman. Love her heart, love her caring nature, which is so fucking innate. Love her capacity to love and be loved. Making her happy makes me happy—how can it not? I know I’ll spend my days doing just that . . . as well as trying to get into her pants. Because as much as I love this woman, I crave her in equal measure. I want her in my arms at all time, need to be inside her, rooted deep. She is my cake. My confection. My sugar. My cream, and everything between. I’m greedy for her time and attention, and she makes a glutton of me because God knows I can’t get enough of her any day of the week. But heavy with my child? I’m like an addict desperately fighting the addiction because my drug is off limits to me. My control is shot around her at the best of times—I feel like I need to sit on my hands just to keep them to myself when she’s near.
And the fact she’s on bed rest and we’re forbidden from screwing? I blame myself. Ridiculously so, according to Ella and the midwife, but how can I not when I couldn’t keep from mauling her earlier in her pregnancy?
‘I’m not on bed rest because we’ve had too much sex,’ Ella scoffed, following our last hospital appointment. ‘You heard the midwife,’ she’d said, tipping my downturned head. ’If anyone is to blame, it’s me and my incompetent cervix.’ Her words were delivered lightly, but I could hear the wobble in her voice. But if it couldn’t be my fault, then it couldn’t be hers.
‘Maybe your cervix is punch drunk after the hammering it’s been gettin’ since you moved in with me.’
At least that made her laugh. But I still feel like I’m to blame, and that’s why it’s so difficult when she looks at me the way she is right now, even without the added inducement of the finger she’s dipped under the waistband of my jeans. The teasing trails of its path against my skin.
‘I’ll definitely take a rain check on the spanking.’ Her dark gaze sparkles, her voice low and sultry. ‘But tell me more about these masturbatory habits.’
‘Such dirty talk, darlin’.’ My words are rough and sandpapery, my body and mind at war with her touch.
‘I can do better than talk , darlin’ ,’ she replies, unlooping my belt.
‘Now, Ella—’ I place my hands over hers before she has my jeans around my ankles, but she’s a crafty wee thing and has the leather pulled from the loops before I can say manic masturbation. In my defence, I do try to step back—which is the completely wrong direction as far as my body is concerned—but I’m prevented from moving by the fist she’s wrapped around my waistband. ‘Remember what the doctor said.’ Even I can hear how desperate I sound.
‘I do remember,’ she purrs, deftly flipping the button of my jeans open. ‘But I don’t remember him saying you had to abstain.’ I want to protest—know I should—but my knees almost give out as Ella dips her hand into my boxer briefs, wrapping it around my rock-hard length. ‘T
hat is my favourite sound,’ she whispers as my hands tighten on her shoulders, my body pitched forward and my forehead resting on hers.
‘I didn’t say anything.’ I grunt as her grip tightens, and she begins to jack my cock slowly but firmly.
‘Yeah, that’s the sound.’ Her words are a touch breathless, her hand continuing to work. ‘It’s not a word, per se. It’s more primal than that. ’ And as she slips her other hand into my boxers to cup my balls, I guess I must make the noise again as she whispers her encouragement. ‘Yes. I miss this. I miss you.’
‘I want you so fucking badly,’ I groan. ‘You’re torturing me here.’
‘I can stop if you want?’ Her question taunts, her fingers working all kinds of magic on my neglected junk. Neglected by design, as far as Ella is concerned. And completely abused by me. Usually in the shower. Okay. Every morning.
‘We shouldn’t. This isn’t fair.’ But then my body voices its objection with a growled, ‘But don’t you fucking dare.’
‘I won’t . . . providing you promise to let me watch you next time?’
Through the haze of my arousal, something snags. She wants to watch me beating off.
‘You wee deviant.’
‘Your wee deviant. Your poor, neglected wee deviant.’ Her tone is lost on me, my processing skills grinding to a halt as her thumb rubs over my sensitive cock head. As she brings her thumb to her lips, it glistens with a drop of pre-cum. ‘Mmm, tastes so good.’
I almost laugh—her sultry words, contrasted by her cheeky expression, even as it seems my balls are about to burst.
‘Since when does spunk taste good?’
‘Since it tastes like you.’
That. That is why I love her. That and a thousand other things. She’s purity and wickedness. Virtue and vice.
‘I fucking love you and your dirty words.’ My voice audibly hitches as, her eyes intent on mine, she licks her palm, pulling my boxers and jeans farther down with her other hand.
‘That’s better,’ she says, her eyes now focused on my cock, rock hard and standing proudly between us. And aching for touch.
‘Fuck!’ The expletive hits the air as she takes me in her warm, wet hand. Her fingers on me before were good, but with the added lubrication, they’re nothing less than fucking sublime. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I rasp. ‘I want to strip you naked. Touch and kiss every inch of you.’
‘I want that too.’ Her reply is part words, part breathy moan. ‘But the doctor—’
‘Is a sadistic bastard.’ Who tells someone they’re not only forbidden from sex, but also from orgasm? But even as she giggles, I know uterine contractions could be no laughing matter in her condition.
‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’ So my head says; my cock, meanwhile, screams prepare to release the million tiny torpedoes.
‘You want me to stop?’ she taunts.
‘No .’ So many vowels in that tiny, drawn-out word. ‘But it’s not fair to you.’
‘Like I’m not enjoying this. Giving you pleasure. Watching the agony on your face.’
And agony is right; her touch is exquisite, my impending orgasm drawing my balls tight.
‘Fuck!’ I exclaim as she suddenly tugs on my balls.
‘And torturing you just a little bit.’
‘I’ll get you back for that.’ I swallow deeply over the words, conflicted by her pull on my reset switch, so to speak.
‘I’m counting on it,’ she purrs. ‘You know, when I’m not so round .’
‘You know what I mean.’ I groan, placing my hand over hers to tighten her grip, unable to focus on the barb in her tone. She knows how much I want her. Knows I’m desperate to fuck her—to crawl inside her skin. ‘You’re fucking luscious, but no’ the right shape just now for putting over my knee. But God, how I want to.’
‘Tell me,’ she rasps, her breath hitching as, my hand over hers, I begin to jack myself faster.
‘I want you so fucking bad, I’m mad wi’ the thoughts of fucking you. While you lie next to me sleeping, I dream of it every night. I see my wet cock sliding in and out of your body.’ Ella’s expression is avid, her cheeks flushed and her breathing rapid. ‘Your fantastic peach of an arse held high and wide as I fuck you from behind.’
‘Lord, I want that.’
‘Aye, me, too. Your tits bouncing in my hands every time I drive into you, your nipples hard points in my fingertips.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘I wake every morning, rock fucking hard. I take myself and my wicked thoughts off to the shower. I use your conditioner, my hand, and my memories of you.’
‘I want to see that. I want to watch you. I want you to let me help.’
‘But it’s—’
‘Mine, do you hear me? You keep those eyes open and on me.’ The spots dancing behind my lids halt as I blink open my eyes, looking down at the woman I love. And her determined expression . ‘This cock belongs to me, Mac Adams. And I want to watch you touch yourself, want to hear you lose yourself while thinking of me.’ And as though I need the prompt, she closes her fist tighter on the up stroke.
‘Fuck, fuck! ’ Climax hits me unexpectedly. A burst of white-hot electricity starts at the base of my spine, growing and gathering before hitting the air with such force it startles us both. Like a fucking fire hose, it seems never ending, landing on Ella’s chin, her hair, and her fuzzy pyjama covered tits.
My breath is still rough and rasping, my head resting on hers, her fist still wrapped around my pulsing cock.
‘The gift that keeps on giving,’ she says with a little giggle. ‘Well, I did ask Santa for snow,’ she says with a little giggle. ‘I wonder if he can make it snow in my mouth next time?’ At her suggestion, the pulsing double times, one part of me at least feeling very unconflicted.
‘You,’ I say, placing my lips against her forehead, ‘are a wicked little minx. And all I want for Christmas.’ I kiss her, reciting the rest of my wish in my head.
All I want for Christmas is for you to say yes.
Chapter Three
NATASHA
THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
‘I don’t know why we couldn’t have flown down with Ivy’s parents.’
It’s late afternoon, and the night is quickly closing in, lights of nearby houses and towns whizzing by the window.
‘There was nothing stopping you from flying down with them. I don’t need a babysitter,’ June says, her tone tinged with asperity.
‘Flying from Scotland to London is a flight like that!’ Like the brat I feel, I snap my finger and thumb in front of her face. ‘Ninety minutes, tops. Driving will take nearer ninety years.’
‘That suits me.’ Ignoring my complaint, she folds her arms over the cashmere blanket the driver had placed over her lap. ‘Another ninety years and I’ll be—’
‘Bored shitless.’
‘I’ll have almost doubled my life.’ I ignore the meaning of her words. She’s not going to die even if she is in her eighties. My grandmother is defo a witch or something. I reckon, stroke or not, she’ll outlive us all.
‘You’d like ninety years of purgatory? Ninety years of hanging out in God’s waiting room?’ That doesn’t sound like the June I know even if she is afraid of flying. And refuses to say. ‘Give me five minutes of excitement over ninety years of tedium.’
‘That’s the trouble wi’ your generation.’ June tsks, bringing a snowy white handkerchief to dab the corner of her mouth. ‘Everything has to be immediate. Instant coffee. Micro meals. Drive-through food places because you haven’t a minute to spare to sit down to a decent meal.’
‘You don’t mind a wee cheeseburger yourself, now and again.’
‘Insta-satisfaction. Insta-love. Insta-gram! It’s no’ healthy, I’m telling you. Slow down, child. Smell the roses while you still can.’
She dabs her mouth again, the handkerchief a reminder of that awful summer. The summer I thought I’d lose her. She’s recovered most of her motor function, save for a slight weakness d
own one side. Hence the delicate dabbing to the corner of her mouth and a little spittle she’s worried is lying there. And she still uses her wheelchair when she’s outside her house, though I’m not at all sure she doesn’t enjoy that. Especially having Sam, her hot and very handsome day nurse, wheeling her around like the bloody queen.
Seriously, though, I know her body isn’t as strong as it once was, but her bloody will is. And that’s why we’re driving to Scotland to spend Christmas with her favourite people, and not flying down. Like we should be.
‘We could’ve been there by now,’ I grumble.
‘Ocht, quit your greetin’. Anyone would think you’re having to drive there yourself, not be driven there in the lap of luxury.’ True. And a good job, too. My driving’s good enough, but I’ve never driven the length of a country before. As it is, Dylan arranged for us travel in style by sending a driver and a posh motor for the journey.
‘It pays to have friends with deep pockets, doesn’t it?’
‘Aye. He’s a lovely man, Dylan. And generous, too. Most Scottish men with deep pockets usually have wee short arms. Ocht , but it’s such a long time since I’ve had such a beautiful ride.’
Eyebrows in my hairline, I try not to laugh. ‘Is that right?’
‘And I’ve never had the pleasure of a ride that warmed my buttocks before.’
At this, I can’t contain my laughter. ‘I don’t believe for one minute you’ve never been spanked,’ I say under my breath because there are some things you just shouldn’t know about your grandmother.
‘What? What was that, hen?’
‘They’re called seat warmers, June,’ I respond a little louder.
‘Aye, and my seat is well and truly warmed. I’d thought back in Scotland I might ha’ peed myself. The warmth was a bit of a strange sensation.’
‘You’re pure mental. Crackers, so you are!’
‘I could eat some crackers. My belly thinks my throat’s been cut. And I could kill a cuppa.’
‘See, now, if we’d flown, we’d be in the hotel by now.’