by Donna Alam
This isn’t like me. I rarely get angry. And kinky—what even is that? And what the hell is he looking for in the kitchen drawer next to my hip?
He grunts in satisfaction, and though I strain to see what it is, it doesn’t appear in front of me.
It had to be something small enough to slip into his pants pocket?
He lifts my dress, caressing the rounds of my ass with his hands.
‘I hope you weren’t too attached to these,’ he says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband, slipping the bare wisp of my panties down my thighs. He kisses my shoulder, licks the length of my spine then, pushes his booted foot between mine, he widens my stance. And the noise he makes as his slides two fingers inside. I want to bottle it—the absolute need. His desire.
All for me. Because when this vacation is over, these things won’t ever happen to me.
An ass man, I think, smiling secretly as his hands stroke my butt again. I feel the drag of his damp fingers against my skin, the air scented with my arousal. My absolute need
But then Will says something strange. Something that doesn’t make any sense.
‘Necessity definitely is the mother of all invention, plum.’
Something swipes the flesh of my ass. With the jolt, my skin comes alive—with the jolt, my body jerks against his hand, expletives like bullets as they hit the air.
‘Motherfucker! What the fuck?’
I don’t think I’ve ever cursed as much as I have around this man. This bad influence.
‘Tell me you won’t see him again.’ His words are stronger this time, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before swiping my other cheek.
I hear the sound of . . . of whatever it is before it hits me again. But this time, I bite back my cry. I’d like to say he rains down a torrent of blows, but in reality, he hits me twice more on each cheek. And each time, I think I hate it a little less. Each time, my cries take on the tenor of a moan. But I don’t agree not to see Julian.
A girl has her principles, if nothing else. Something drops by my head; a silicone spatula.
‘Could’ve been worse.’ The backdrop to his words is the clink of his belt and the sound of his zipper. My insides emptily clench. ‘There’s a wooden spoon in the same drawer. Believe me, that hurts a lot worse.’
The sound I make as he enters me is low and greedy and sublime. I want it in a bottle along with my other gathered Will sounds. And I feel him everywhere. From his breath on my back to the hands he has wrapped around my hips. His hard cock inside me, and his simmering frustration—his desperation for me to give in.
‘Fuck, I need you.’ His voice is rough, but he doesn’t make a move as he draws his hand down my spine. A shiver chases his fingertips.
‘Have me,’ I whisper, pushing back. Fuck me, I want to say as my insides yearn.
He’s going to do it, I think, as his cock slide the length of me. But no.
‘Tell me you won’t see him,’ he growls. ‘Not without me there, at least.’
‘Please,’ I whimper, as his hardness gliding the length of me again, bumping my clit before gliding back again.
I push up onto my toes—how’s that for necessity, I think, leveraging my position against him, but he just changes the angle, his cock gliding past my entrance once again. His movements are port torture, part tease, and I’m wet. Oh my God, am I wet. I can hear myself. Hear him. Hear the hitch in his breath with every pass.
‘Tell me.’ His growl vibrates through my bones, pulling the answer from my chest.
And I give in. Give up. Promise him anything as he covers his body with mine and begins to deliver small, powerful thrusts. I once said his body was built for impact, but I realise now that my body was built for his.
‘Yes!’ More hiss than word, it’s almost as though I can feel every ridge of him as he drives inside me again and again. Until there are no more words, and nothing exists but this.
I peak. Climax. Come hard, my body undulating against him, drawing out every drop as my skin comes alive, every inch hot and tingling as though pierced by a million pins. I’d like to say I feel the moment Will meets his own release, but I don’t. One deep thrust more, and his movements turn jerky. I feel his loss immediately, my insides clenching around nothing.
Next comes the hard, wet slide of him between my ass cheeks. It feels . . . dangerous. A lot like my attraction to the man himself. I twist my head as he begins to curse, watch avidly as he takes his glistening cock into his own hand. Resist the urge to fill my pussy with my fingers as he uses the silky scrap of my panties to jerk himself to his own end.
Oh, God. The sight of him giving in, lost to the sensation and the drive of meeting his own release. Moments later, the first sign of climax spurts between his fingers, coating the back of my thighs and my ass.
Moments later, Will is a dead weight against me, collapsing my front against the cool marble of the countertop.
‘Fuck me,’ he pants, his breath in my ear.
‘Give me a few minutes,’ I reply, his responding laughter hitting my cheeks in hot little puffs of air.
‘Sadie, I only want what’s good for you.’ His tone is tender, his voice sincere, but I don’t answer as his phone begins to sing.
And now that I know what he actually does for a living, Salt-N-Pepa makes so much more sense.
Chapter Twenty-Five
WILL
My body cools instantly and feeling her loss like an ache, I stumble back, landing against another counter. Her head is still on her hands as I tuck my softening dick away, then wipe the remains of my cum from her backside using her own knickers. She lets me do all this without uttering a word. I slide her skirt back over the sight of her beautifully reddened arse, and grab my phone.
I couldn’t answer it without tending to her first.
I return the call, raising it to my ear, suddenly assailed by the scent of her on my fingers. I shake my head, pulling it out of sex Sadie-land as the call connects.
I have a patient in early labour. A high risk pregnancy we were hoping to prolong for at least another couple of weeks. But the best laid plans don’t just get buggered up for mice and men, but for babies, too. And that’s serious shit.
I’m not on call today, having worked yesterday afternoon. But with private patients, there are few concessions. After an assessment by a colleague, mum-to-be is being prepped for theatre as we speak. I don’t have time for the conversation Sadie and I need to have.
‘I’m sorry,’ I begin softly. ‘I have to go.’
Sadie looks so forlorn as she turns, her arms crossed over her breasts, her hair in absolute disarray. She awkwardly tries to tidy it without baring herself and I hate that it’s suddenly become uncomfortable. Hate that I’ve done this to her. It’s not like I’ve forced myself on her, but yet I still feel like a deviant.
I tilt my head back and curse the air. I need time. Time to make sure she’s okay. Time to explain the facts and non-facts behind Julian’s barbs. A fucking minute to tell her I know he’s no good. But how? How can I do all this without exposing myself?
Because exposing her to that kind of sordid would be unkind. She’s too sweet. Too good. Too gentle. Too many superlatives to be saddled with the knowledge of the depravities going on in the Den.
And she’s just too good for me.
‘Just . . . go,’ she says, without looking at me. And while I don’t want too, I don’t really have any choice. Life and death and all that.
So I do leave—leave her standing in Mo’s kitchen looking fragile and alone. And let me tell you, I’ve never felt so fucking wretched before in my life.
But I can’t wallow once in theatre because there’s no space for anything else. Mum’s already had a spinal block, so both she and dad will be with us during the surgery. Game on. No time to think of anything else but the delivery and this scalpel in my hand.
Skin, muscle, uterine tissue, then, swaddled in the goriest of gift wrap, an unborn baby.
Moments later, I’m standin
g with their firstborn in my hands. Both parents are carrot topped, but this baby has a shock of sticky dark hair. In fact, this tiny thing could well be a little more café au lait when his skin warms to the atmosphere. But that’s not my issue. My part in nature’s miracle is done.
As I hold the tiny purple thing with the skinny wiggling arms, I find myself wondering what our baby would look like—a child of Sadie’s and of mine. I’d deliver him, of course. Hold Sadie’s hand right up until the very end, then guide him out into the world. Hold both of their hands for the rest of their damned lives.
Oh, fuck my life. Where did I just go? Fucking-Von-Trapp-la-la-land.
‘Will?’
Mary stands beside me, towel in hand and ready to take the child. I come back to myself with a snap. Though maybe that should be a slap, as in the mental slap I need to give myself.
‘Will.’ This time, Mary doesn’t fill my short name with question. She does so with snark, accompanying it with a sharp dig of her soft footed shoe to my shin.
‘Oh.’ Oh, shit. My gaze rises from the baby to the couple whose lives are about to change forever. I suddenly realise I’m responsible for their joint rictus expressions, and the death white grip of their joined hands. So I quickly pull my head out of my arse, pass the child to Mary, while shooting them my most professional, reassuring grin.
‘Congratulations, folks,’ I say, as their baby gives a lusty cry. ‘You have a son.’
The breaths they’d held almost fill the room, the redheaded mother beginning to quietly sob as her husband brushes the hair from her face, straining to look over the blue curtain at his son.
His whole world, right here in this room.
A whole world I’ll never get to experience.
In light of my current fucked up brain, I do what all sensible men do when in a dilemma. I phone a friend. Or in my case, two friends. I can’t face Sadie right now. I need to get my story straight—come up with a plan. But instead, I go to the pub with my mates.
Men, am I right?
‘What’s with your face,’ Keir asks, his tone not a kindly enquiry. More a rough sounding taunt. I don’t look up from the pint of blond coloured beer in front of me.
‘Woman trouble,’ asserts Mac. ‘I’d know the face of that pain anywhere.
‘Are you a mind reader now?’ Keir snaps.
‘Just because you din’nae get your dick wet very often—’
‘Listen, Mister Congeniality yourself over there; just because you’ve got Ella doesn’t make you an expert. In fact—’
‘Would the two of you just give your tongues a rest.’ I straighten my spine, my forearms retracting from the copper coloured pole lying the length of the bar. ‘What is this? An episode of Scot’s in The City? For cryin’ out loud.’ Picking up my glass, I take a mouthful of the cool liquid.
‘Must be shark week,’ grumbles Keir.
‘The pair of you do sound like you’re on your periods,’ I reply, putting my glass down again, and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
‘He meant you, miserable fucker.’
‘Aye, so I say again. What the fuck is wrong with your face? You know, apart from nature dealin’ you a poor hand.’
‘It is woman trouble,’ I say with a sigh. ‘But not how you think.’
‘That’s what we all say in the beginning.’ Mac takes several swallows from his own pint glass, putting it back down considerably emptier. ‘Doesn’t matter what you tell yourself.’ He signals to Tracey, the fifty-something blonde behind the bar. ‘You’ll get there in the end.’
‘Wherever the fuck there is,’ mutters Keir in an undertone.
Out of the three of us, there’s only one man among us lucky in love, so to speak, and that’s Mac. Keir’s wife left him for another man, taking half of his money and leaving his young daughter behind. Since then, he’s been dead below the waist as far as I can tell.
‘What can I get you boys?’ Tracey asks. ‘And what’s with misery guts ’ere?’ she asks in her nasally north London accent, hooking a thumb in my direction.
‘Tracey. You wound me,’ I say, clutching my heart theatrically. ‘I thought we had something special!’
Our something special is that she has a soft spot for me, according to Mac and Keir, manifested in a better level of service and the extra chips I receive heaped on my plate when we order burgers. Not that we visit much these days.
‘That there is the face of a man coming to terms with cashing in his single status,’ Mac tells her happily.
I shoot the smug bastard a look of disgust but save my get fucked retort for when Tracey goes to the other end of the bar. I know from experience Tracey don’t stand for no bad language where there are ladies around. Which is a bit of a paradox as I’ve heard her swear like a sailor herself.
‘Aw, Will, babe,’ she says, leaning over the bar to pinch my cheek like I’m five years old. ‘Gone and found yourself a nice girl, ’av you?’
‘All the girls I know are nice,’ I protest.
‘Willie,’ she chastises good naturedly. ‘Free with their favours and nice ain’t the same thing. Now, what can I get you boys?’
Mac orders us each a shot of Macallan, while reminding us he has to leave in half an hour, the consummate family man he now is.
‘It’s your bloody fault I’m in this mess anyway,’ I grumble, taking my glass from his hand.
‘Me? What the fuck did I do?’ His aggrieved look lasts only a minute before he’s on the attack. ‘Did I insinuate I was screwing the love of your life at rugby?’
‘What?’ I reply quickly. ‘When did I do that? Is that why you had my nut sack in your hand?’ With each spoken word, my accent thickens as I recall the excruciating pain that brought me to my knees on the field Sunday. ‘I nearly passed out, y’ shite bag!’
‘Fuckin’ tickle parties,’ he growls.
‘I have’nae been anywhere near the lassie!’ Not since she made it clear she wasn’t interested in anyone but him. And even then, I only took her out for a drink once. And I was rebuffed soundly.
‘Simmer down,’ interjects Keir. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘Thank you, Keir,’ I reply.
‘She’s far too sensible to get mixed up wi’ the likes of him.’
‘And fuck you, too, Keir.’ I raise my glass, throwing the fiery liquid down my throat, relishing the peaty burn.
‘That’s the last time I’m buying you the good stuff,’ Mac grumbles, his temper easier now. ‘You’re supposed to savour it.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ I fold my arms, leaning forward and against the bar as a dark cloud settles around my head.
‘And why is this all my fault again?’ he asks.
‘Christ,’ Kier interjects. ‘When did you two get married? It’s not a fucking guessing game. Tell him what he’s done to piss you off, man.’
‘Because if you hadn’t gone and fallen in love, I’d still have my wingman and I wouldn’t have gone and joined a fucking sex club!’
‘Wanna say that a bit louder?’ Mac asks. ‘I think ’yon fella playing pool did’nae quite hear.’
Despite the evenness of his tone, Mac looks shocked. Meanwhile, Keir places his elbows on the bar next to me, dragging his hands down his face muttering something that sounds like, for fuck sakes.
‘What happened,’ he asks evenly. ‘Have you gotten into strife wi’ a married woman or something?’
I’m grateful he doesn’t ask about the club, but rather how it affects me. I knew he wouldn’t be impressed and I suppose that’s why I never mentioned it. That and possibly a little shame. Keir and Mac are such stand up, solid blokes. They have families. People depending on them. Values and morals. They’re not fucked up skirt chasers like me. And while Keir would be unimpressed to learn of the tens of thousands of pounds I pay for my annual membership, Mac would likely punch me. Keir is wealthy beyond most people’s ken, while Mac is just canny with his money. Like lots of Scotsmen.
‘Give me some cr
edit,’ I mumble. ‘Anyway, the married ones usually come with their other halves.’
‘Are they just exhibitionists, then?’ To my right, Mac leans his elbow on the bar looking genuinely confused.
‘What? That’s not what I meant; if members are married, they attend with their partner’s consent, whether they come with them or not. Whether they cum with them or not.’
‘Now I’m confused,’ says Keir. I turn my head back to look at him. ‘Not about who comes on or with who,’ he qualifies. I manage to refrain from correcting him. Who comes on whom. ‘But why has joining a dungeon to get your rocks off got you in a temper?’
‘Sadie.’ I say her name with a sigh. ‘And it’s not a dungeon, fucker. It has a very exclusive clientele.’
‘Can’t be that flash if they let you in.’ This is one of the things I love about my friends; they both know of my blue-blooded background. And they both give zero fucks about the whole thing.
‘Did you meet the lassie there?’ interjects Mac, sort of horrified.
‘What do you think,’ I shoot flatly back.
‘Me? Well, I think the quiet ones are always the worst.’
‘And I’ll remind you that Ella would fall very comfortably into that category,’ I answer immediately. Maybe nastily.
‘I swear to God,’ he growls. ‘If you’re imagining her in feathers—’
‘Aye, aye,’ placates Keir wearily. ‘You’ll pull both our eyes out and piss in the bloody holes.’ Ella, bless her curves, once flashed Keir and I—and about eighty other people—more flesh than Mac would readily approved. ‘Now tell us what the fuck is going on.’
So I do. I tell them about Julian. About our dealings, past and present. About my weekend with his sister. I tell them about Sadie and how I want to protect her from an issue I appear to have caused, though what or how, who the fuck knows. What I don’t tell them about is my thoughts of holding our baby in my arms. Because that’s pure fairy-tale; bullshit rolled in glitter then sprinkled in magical dust.