Nate glanced out of the window. It was a beautiful day, humid and hot, perfect for the barbecue and pool party Ash and Grace had planned for the early evening. Freya would be there, and it was important that he maintained some distance and kept things friendly but cool.
Would she be wearing a bikini?
He lowered his head onto the desk. There was no hope for him—none whatsoever.
Chapter Thirteen
“Definitely the blue one,” said Mia, nodding appreciatively at Freya’s choice of swimwear. “You look hot. Not that I’m turning into a lesbian or anything, but I’d do you, given half a chance.”
Freya laughed and slipped on shorts and a T-shirt over the top of the bikini. “Things not going well with Ross?”
Mia shrugged. “It was never the romance of a lifetime. He was convenient, you know? I mean, I know that sounds callous, but it was the same for him. We were under no illusions about our relationship.”
“So it’s definitely over?”
“Yeah, I reckon.” She didn’t seem devastated. “Anyway, enough of my miserable love life. Tell me about yours.”
“Mine is no less miserable, believe me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tell me about hunky Nate sexing you up in the vines.”
Freya stared at her, startled. “How did you know about that?”
“Honey, everyone knew about it—we were just too polite to say anything when you came back from your refreshing walk with grass stains on your butt and oak leaves in your hair. And the smug smile on both your faces.”
Freya’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”
Mia laughed. “Sweetheart, you looked so happy. You were both glowing.”
“That was sunburn.”
“It was not sunburn—it was an ‘I’ve been screwed within an inch of my life’ glow. Go on, deny it.”
Freya couldn’t. She tried not to smile at Mia’s triumphant “Ha!” and failed. “Okay,” she admitted. “We did sneak off. If you knew, why haven’t you mentioned it before now?”
“I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” Mia admitted. “Grace told me to stop teasing you. Apparently we’re supposed to back off and let the two of you progress at your own pace, but clearly that’s never going to happen.”
“Clearly.”
Mia sighed enviously. “I can’t remember the last time I was screwed senseless.”
“Mia…”
“I’m just saying. I literally can’t remember. Maybe never. Was it good?”
Freya looked at her reflection in the mirror, applied some lip gloss, then sighed. “It was fantastic. And that’s so depressing.”
“Sorry, why?”
“Because I know it’s not going to end well.” She gave Mia a sad smile. “It’s not over yet. But our timing’s shite. Two or three years, maybe we would have been ready, but now… He’s got issues, I’ve got, well, my parents. Nothing’s going to happen between us all the time we’ve got so much stuff cluttering up our lives.”
“So unclutter.”
Freya pressed her lips together, meeting Mia’s gaze in the mirror. “Easier said than done.”
“I know. But at some point, love, you’re going to have to put your foot down.”
“It doesn’t come easily to me. I’m a pushover.”
“You’re really not,” said Mia gently. “Not generally, anyway. I always think of you as one of my strongest friends.”
“Really?” Freya was genuinely surprised. “I thought I was like those flowers we’ve got in the front garden—I put up a good show, but a stiff wind and I’m flat on my back.” She thought about what she’d said. “Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the best analogy.” She gave Mia a pained look as she laughed. “Do you think he thinks I’m easy?”
“Do you?”
“I practically forced him to have sex with me in his flat during the storm.”
Mia smirked. “I’m sure you all but raped him.”
“He tried to stop me.”
“‘No, no, oh all right then’, isn’t really a great defence.”
Freya scratched her nose. “He wouldn’t have taken advantage of me.”
“What is this, Sense and Sensibility? For God’s sake, Freya, this is the twenty-first century. Gone are the days when men were the only ones who could let off a little steam when they felt the urge. What’s wrong with two consenting adults having hot sex? You were both up front with each other, from what I understand—you made it clear it was only physical and that you weren’t looking for something else.”
The two girls studied each other—Freya sheepish, Mia startled.
“Oh my God,” said Mia. “You’re looking for something else.”
“I’m not.”
“You are!”
“I…” Freya couldn’t bring herself to argue. “I know I shouldn’t want anything else. He’s a lovely guy, Mia, but his psyche’s like your pantyhose drawer.”
“Jeez, that bad?”
“Tangled, knotted and most of it probably needs putting in the trash. He’s in a bad way, and I don’t think I’m the one to sort him out.”
“I think you’re exactly the one to sort him out.”
Freya stared at her helplessly. “I’m no shrink and that’s what he needs. Someone to help him deal with his past. Until he does that, he’s not going anywhere.”
“Maybe. But perhaps all he needs is some good, old-fashioned loving.”
Freya pondered on Mia’s closing comment all the way to Ash’s house. She felt nervous at the thought of seeing Nate again. She’d originally promised him they’d only have sex once, and then she’d talked him into it again at the vineyard. Okay, so she hadn’t had to argue long and hard, but yet again she knew he wouldn’t have suggested it first. The poor guy didn’t want commitment or a moon-eyed girl hanging on his every word. He’d wanted sex—just as she had at the time, and that was all he’d signed up for. She couldn’t start introducing anything else into their relationship, or whatever you called it when you’d had sex with someone twice.
And anyway, why was she even thinking about this? Didn’t she have enough on her plate? She’d had no further calls from her mother asking for money, but it was only a matter of time. She had to find a way to deal with her father’s addiction without bankrupting herself, and if she ever wanted to fulfil any of her dreams, she had to do it soon, before he sucked away all of her funds. There was no room in her life for this sort of angst. She’d had sex with Nate. It had been great. Twice. There was nothing else to think about.
Keep telling yourself, she thought, trying to ignore Mia’s sympathetic glances as they pulled into the grounds of Ash’s house. And maybe you’ll start believing it.
In the end, however, in spite of her fears, it turned out to be a pleasant evening. The sun still packed heat at six pm, and the small party gathered around Ash’s impressive pool, the barbecue sizzling away merrily to one side. As well as Grace, Mia and Jodi, there were some other of their friends there, and everyone seemed relaxed and happy it was the weekend.
Nate gave her a hug when she first walked up, but was quiet, and spent most of the time lying on one of the loungers, reading. Freya tried not to stare at his sleek body, toned and muscular with only swimming shorts on, his tattoo resplendent and snagging her gaze every time she glanced at him.
And she wasn’t the only one. She couldn’t help but notice that the two other single women there—Pippa and Emma, both teachers who should have known better—played up to his presence. They pranced around the pool in their tiny bikinis, squealing when someone splashed them, leaned over to pass him a drink and let him have a good view down their cleavage, and tried in vain to get him in the pool, no doubt so they could drape themselves over him and find out whether his muscles really were as hard as they looked. Freya watched them with amusement, wondering whether Nate would join in with the innocent flirting, maybe to prove to her—and himself—that he wasn’t committed to her, and that what they had was casual, hardly a thing
at all.
But he didn’t. He rebuffed their advances in the politest way possible and seemed determined to lie there and enjoy the sun, dark glasses over his eyes hiding his thoughts, helping Ash with the barbecue before returning to his book, which she saw was a biography of a famous rugby player, which made her smile. But he seemed sad, distant, and she wondered whether he’d had bad news again that day. Or maybe he wanted to keep himself to himself, and show her that even though they got on well, they weren’t a couple.
Either way, Freya recognised his need to withdraw and left him to it. She swam, ate, lay in the sun for a while, swam again, and tried to relax and enjoy the beautiful summer evening while it lasted.
And all the while, Nate watched her. Luckily, she couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, and he made sure to keep his head turned as if he were reading, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked gorgeous in her bikini, her skin glistening with sun lotion and moisture. She had a fantastic figure—with a trim waist and full but high breasts, the nipples pointing upward, tight every time she came out of the pool. Her legs were long and slender, her face lit with laughter most of the time. She was beautiful and graceful, warm and fascinating. He should be thinking about what he was going to do about his brother, but all he could think about was the softness of Freya’s lips beneath his own. He ached for her, and that made him both irritated and sad.
He helped clear away the plates after they’d eaten and tried not to watch as Freya carried in a tray of glasses to rinse them for the next round of drinks. As he stacked the plates on the table next to the barbecue, Ash joined him, placing the leftover food on a tray and putting the scraps in a plastic bag.
Ash glanced at Nate, who caught the look. “Don’t say it,” Nate warned.
“Say what?” Ash was amused.
“She’s all around me, yadda yadda. I know.”
Ash said nothing, continuing to tidy up.
Nate sighed, leaning on the table.
“Far out,” said Ash. “You’ve got it bad. Go and talk to her, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know what to say to her, Ash.”
“Try hello and take it from there.”
“You’re not helping.”
“You look like a wounded dog. You’re beginning to annoy even me. Go on, just talk to her. She won’t bite.” Ash winked. “Unless you’re really lucky.” He handed him the plates. “Take these in. Make conversation. I give you this quest.”
Nate took the plates and gave Ash a mute glare. Ash had got it wrong—it was his brother’s letter that was playing on his mind, not Freya, but he knew there was no point in arguing. Ash was right about one thing. He couldn’t let Freya go without talking to her. That would be rude, after everything they’d done.
He walked the short distance across the lawn to the decking and up to the living room, then crossed to the kitchen. His heart pounded and his mouth had gone dry. This was ridiculous. He was acting as if he was a bloody teenager, trying to chat up his first date.
He paused in the entrance to the kitchen and leaned against the wall. Freya stood at the sink, washing up some glasses, looking out at the others in the pool and smiling as they larked around, splashing each other. She was so elegant and gentle. He leaned his aching head against the post and gave a long, slow sigh. She soothed him, as if she were a painting of one of Michelangelo’s sculptures, a work of art he enjoyed admiring, because it reminded him of the pleasurable things in life when the less pleasurable threatened to overwhelm him.
Over her blue bikini, she now wore a long wrap tied loosely on her hip. Because of the way she stood, with one hip dropped, the wrap had parted, revealing the long length of her pale leg from hip to ankle. He had a distinct memory of lifting her onto the ledge of the windowsill and parting those pale thighs to reveal the strip of hair and the smooth, swollen skin to either side. Just thinking about it made him hard as a rock.
He must have made a sound, groaned perhaps, because Freya turned her head and looked at him. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, her eyes widening as he didn’t move but continued to study her thoughtfully. She obviously saw the growing heat in his eyes, because she turned her gaze back to the sink, continuing to wash the glasses and stand them on the draining board. A light blush filled her cheeks.
He should turn around and go back outside, leave her alone. He’d told her originally he only slept with women once—he didn’t call them, didn’t see them again. And she’d only slept with him because they’d agreed it was a one-off. The vineyard had been a forgivable slip, but if they did it again—what did that mean? The thought of having a relationship scared him witless, and he didn’t want to end up hurting her if she expected more than he was willing to give. He wanted comfort, and that wasn’t fair on her, not really—he’d be using her, and he hated the thought of being so selfish. He gave energy to others—he didn’t take it. Wasn’t that the oath he’d taken, the promise he’d made?
But he couldn’t help himself. She was too goddamn beautiful, and he’d been lost as soon as he saw her standing there, pale thigh glistening, blonde hair tumbling, shining in the sunlight like an angel’s halo.
He walked up to her slowly, placed the plates on the table and paused behind her. He leaned forward, hands either side of her on the worktop. Freya continued to rinse the glasses, although her pulse beat rapidly in her neck.
“Hey.” He dropped his gaze to caress her creamy, sun-kissed skin.
“Hey.” She swallowed, and it drew his eyes to her throat, the soft skin under her chin.
“Warm today, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally.
“Yes.” She sounded amused.
He couldn’t keep his hands off her any longer. She was delectable, soft and luscious. It was incredibly warm in the kitchen, the sun baking the terracotta tiles, and her skin was damp and flushed. The hollow of her throat glistened, and he lifted his hand up and touched his thumb to it. Bringing it to his mouth, he sucked the moisture off.
Freya watched him do it, pupils dilating. Her eyes met his, and her chest rose with her inhalation as she obviously saw the desire blooming inside him.
He lowered his head and touched his lips to her right shoulder, kissing along to her neck and then slowly up to her ear. He wondered if she’d push him away or complain that he’d overstepped the mark, but instead she tipped her head to the left, exposing the soft skin to him, and he sighed as he touched his tongue to her ear, the smell of roses arising from her warm skin to ensnare him.
He dropped his hands from the worktop to rest on her waist, feeling a glow of pleasure as she leaned back against him, turning her face up to his and raising a wet hand to touch his cheek. He kissed her slowly, leisurely, and when he brushed his tongue against her full bottom lip, she opened her mouth and gave a groan deep in her throat. He slid his arms around her from behind, tightening them, thinking as he kissed her of how soft she was against him, her skin velvety smooth and damp. Her fingers knotted in his hair, pulling his head closer as her tongue danced with his, and hot lust surged through him, making him press his hips against her butt, leaving her in no doubt as to how turned on he was.
Lifting his head reluctantly, he glanced out of the window and saw the others still in the pool, looking set to stay there, for the near future at least.
Mischievously, he raised a hand to the tie at the back of her neck.
Chapter Fourteen
Freya went still, but didn’t move away. Encouraged, wanting to see her, he caught the ties between his fingers and pulled. He let the two laces fall forward, but the material of her bikini remained tantalisingly stuck to her breasts. She looked down at them, but she didn’t try to cover herself up. Heart thumping, Nate took a tie in each hand and pulled them slowly down. Gradually, the material peeled off the swell of her breasts, eventually revealing her nipples, a beautiful rosy pink, swollen and begging to be touched.
He just admired her for a moment, though, stroking the backs of his fingers down her arms. Whe
n he raised his eyes to her face, a flush had stained both her cheeks.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said huskily, amused at her embarrassment after everything they’d done. She didn’t say anything, so he slid his hands around her warm stomach and then up to cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms. Watching her face, he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples and squeezed them gently. She closed her eyes and shivered as her nipples tightened to small, hard buttons in his fingers, and he groaned and bit her earlobe, pressing his erection against her butt. “God, Freya.”
“Nate…”
He lifted her face to his and kissed her hungrily. He’d never wanted a woman so desperately, had never felt this urge to lift a girl’s skirt and thrust straight into her. He wanted to make her sigh, to watch her come. He wanted her so badly it hurt.
Still rubbing her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he dropped his right hand to the split in the wrap and rested it on her thigh before sliding it up slowly until his fingers brushed the edge of her bikini bottoms. He raised his head, his lips hovering over hers as he lifted the material and moved his hand underneath, slipping his fingers into her hair, down into the heart of her. She was already swollen, already wet, and as he began to stroke her, she dropped her head, bracing her hands on the worktop as she pushed back against him.
Making Sense: Sensual Healing, Book 2 Page 12