by Donna Alam
Without words, he flips me onto my front, pulling my hips up and into him. Forearms flat on the mattress, I’m on my knees with my ass in the air.
‘Fuck, this ass.’ His voice is awe filled but I can’t help but laugh.
‘Not today, thank you,’ I giggle in return.
‘I’m tabling that for a conversation sometime.’
‘Oh, you want me on the table now?’
‘On the table, over the sofa. On the hood of my car. I want to fuck you anywhere and everywhere, including here,’ he says, slapping my ass again.
Pleasure rocks through my body at his words, but I don’t have a moment to think as he pushes himself inside me once again. He fucks me punishingly, thrusts hard and fast. My body is strung so tight that I can’t believe I’m about to cum again.
If it’s even possible, I can feel him growing harder inside of me. His strokes shorten as he picks up his pace, jackhammering me in the best kind of way. My fingers are twisted in the sheets as I begin to whimper and moan. I can focus on nothing else but where we join and the pleasure that brings. This is so much better than anything I ever could’ve imagined, so much more than my filthiest of fantasies of us. Josh has long been an obsession of mine, but this reality supersedes anything I could’ve thought of myself.
He’s so much. Too much. Everything.
Josh stills on the last of his thrusts as he comes vocally, his fingers tight on my hips, his orgasm pulling me over the edge.
When he finally slides out of my body, I moan, feeling the loss of him. He collapses on the bed, flat on his back—miraculously staying on the narrow mattress—pulling me into him. There’s barely enough space for the two of us on my twin bed, but glued together, we make it work.
Intertwining our fingers, Josh kisses the tips of my own.
‘That was . . . ’ But I can’t find the adequate words.
‘Yeah,’ he says, kissing my head. ‘It was.’
I reach down for the covers, pulling them over our cooling skin. It’s still raining outside, but neither of us mind. The rest of the world can move on without us. We’re where we want to be.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper quietly.
‘Are you thanking me for mind-blowing sex or—’
‘Thank you for coming back. I shouldn’t have called you a coward.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he murmurs. ‘You were right. I should have come back for you a long time ago.’
I yawn, suddenly sleepy and content. The sound of rain against the window is soothing, and it isn’t long before sleep calls for me.
Chapter 8
Josh
When I open my eyes, I’m confused for a moment, until Kallie moves against me. Her hot body is pressed up against mine, her hair all splayed across my chest. The scent of her shampoo fills my senses, making me smile. She’s here and she’s mine, and this is the happiest position I’ve ever woken up to. Even if my leg is beginning to cramp.
Sliding my hand under my head, I blink against the bright sunshine filling the room. The rain clouds have moved on, I think as I look to the window, noticing Addy sitting in the armchair.
‘What the fuck!’ My stomach twists and I tighten my free arm around my girl. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I grate out. My voice is harsh, like I’ve been running or something. ‘Be a creeper, why the fuck don’t you? This is highly fucking inappropriate, Addy, and you know it.’
‘You’re telling me,’ he answers grimly.
At the sound of his voice, Kallie stirs next to me, quickly coming to her senses.
‘Shit,’ she hisses, clutching the covers to her, thankfully, covered yet naked chest. ‘What the fuck, Addy?’
‘Sorry’ Adst responds, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he sounds pretty fucking pissed. And I know that look on his face. He is furious. ‘Don’t let me disturb you, please.’
‘What are you doing, man?’
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Shouldn’t I ask you that?’
Kallie groans, but if she’s embarrassed about being caught in bed with me, she doesn’t show it.
‘Don’t be a dick,’ she groans. ‘It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong.’
‘Yeah?” he demands. ’You’re my sister. And he’s my best friend. Or in other words, off fucking limits!’
Kallie sighs. ‘I don’t see how. It’s not like we’re kids or anything. He’s been away for ten years. Surely, if I want to do this—if we want to do this—we can. You know, being adults and all.’
He shakes his head. I glance at my jeans on the floor, bending down to grab them. I manage to pull them on without compromising Kallie’s nakedness. My nakedness he can just deal with.
‘What the fuck, man!’ he says, turning his head.
‘You want to be a creeper, but you can’t deal with a little dick?’
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ Kallie demands, though I don’t get involved. I learned a long time ago not to get between these two when they fight. To get involved just seems to increase their ire.
‘I came to check if you were okay. I even phoned a couple of times when the lighting hit the power station to find out if you were all right. When you didn’t answer, of course I came to check. Imagine how grand it was to know that you’re doing fucking fine.’
I almost snigger because the fucking was fine, but as Kallie glares at him, I tamp the reaction back.
‘Well, thank you for checking on me, brother mine.’ She sounds anything but thankful, trying hard to retain her cool. ‘But as you can see, we’re good.’ Hell yes! ‘So you can leave now.’
‘What, so you can just do it again? Fat chance.’
Kallie looks like she’s going to explode, visibly shaking with anger.
‘It? Do it? Are we in high school? Think about it; I’m a grown woman. I can do what I want—do who I want. And I deserve a chance at happiness. Maybe I’ll get hurt, maybe I won’t, but I’d rather risk it than end up being alone.’
Addy opens his mouth to say something, but at this point, there’s nothing he can say to cool her temper.
‘Look,” I interject. It’s not one of my best ideas, getting between the pair, but I want to help. You need to be okay with this, because it isn’t a one-time deal. I love her.’
Kallie’s attention snaps to me as he frowns.
‘A bit soon for that,’ he grumbles mulishly.
‘Maybe if we just met. But I’ve known her a long time. And I know what I feel.’ They both blink at me, so I might as well keep going now that I’ve shut them both up. ‘I want to do this thing properly; move back here,’ I say to Kallie, hoping for the right reaction. ‘I mean, I can move to Cali, if that’s waht you want. But I’d like to move back here at some point. I want us to be around family. Let’s not waste any more time.’
‘Really?’ Her voice is soft, her gaze solemn.
‘Really,’ I answer sincerely, before glancing Addy’s way. ‘I don’t want to step on your toes. I want to be with her and I’m going to do it anyway, but if we had your blessing it would be really great. For all of us.’
Addy looks unsure, his gaze sliding to Kallie.
‘Not a onetime deal?’ Or in brother speak, he’s not taking advantage of you?
‘No, I think I’ve always loved him.’
‘All I care about is making sure you’re not hurt.’ His demeanour eases, the stiffness in his posture settling, but as his eyes move to me, I see fire there. ‘If you hurt her, I’ll kill you. I won’t just to fuck you up. Do you get what I’m saying?”
I nod, and I know exactly what he means, because in his position, I’d do the same. But he doesn’t have to worry. I know everything about Kallie—her bad moods, her smarts, her sass, her, wit, and her beauty. From here on in, I’ll get to know of her hopes and her dreams.
I’ve been around the world, known plenty of women, and I know for a fact there isn’t a woman out there to compare. Kallie is the one I want. I’m not going to let her go this time.
Addy si
ghs as he pushes to stand. ‘Fine.’ The one word is stiff, but I can see he’s hiding a grin.
‘So you’ll get out of the room now. You know, so I can get dressed.’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, scratching the back of his head. He looks a little embarrassed now, but as he gets to the door, he turns. ‘For what it’s worth, this thing between you? It means I get to have my sister and my best friend home. But it also means I’ll be watching you.’ He points a finger in my direction, sort of like a gun.
‘You were being serious?’ she asks softly.
I take her face in my hands and kiss her cute button nose.
‘I’m seriously in love with you.”
Playing His Games
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.
Cover by Book Cover by Design
Photograph by Wander Aguiar
Editing by Editing 4 Indies
© Donna Alam 2017
ISBN: 978-1977501189
ISBN: 1977501184
The Morning After
One
LOUISE
I’m going to wrap my fingers in your hair, and like a good little girl, you’re going to open your legs and let me see what’s mine. . .
‘Oh, God.’
I press my head deeper into the pillow as my dream fades, replaced by an annoying buzzing that takes me a moment to comprehend. My phone. My hand shoots out from under the covers in a desperate attempt to Make. The. Noise. Stop! It can’t be morning—not yet. I can’t have been asleep for very long. But the sun piercing my eyelids seems to contradict my theory.
‘Oh, Lord.’ Okay, so I’m not entirely comfortable. I lick my parched lips, still groping for my phone as it dances just out of reach. ‘Curse you, Flo,’ I grumble as several thoughts wash through my wool-filled head.
Tequila is the Devil’s water, and I’m never drinking again. If this is what it feels like to be twenty-six, fast forward me straight to middle-age.
The sheets rustle as I shuffle closer to the edge, muttering and heaping blame on the woman who’d forced me from my comfort zone and onto the dance floor last night. My roommate and friend, Flo. The woman who’s right at the top of my shit list today.
‘You’re old before your time,’ she’d taunted, a flash of light from the dance floor making her smile look malicious. ‘Darling, you know what they say; people who don’t dance are terrible in bed.’
I’d rolled my eyes, but her ridiculous gauntlet had roused my competitive side. So, of course, I’d headed for the dance floor . . . just by way of the bar. Never let it be said I’m not up for a challenge, but dancing required the loss of inhibitions, and the removal of those required tequila. And by the way I feel this morning, it seems to have taken a bucket of the stuff.
My eyes are uncooperative as I continue the search for my phone, patting blurry items with my hand when the thing suddenly stills.
‘There is a God,’ I mumble, though the declaration is more a groan than words. I flop back against the pillows with a sigh, not caring who called.
I pull the duvet over my head to ward off the light, wondering how I’d left the drapes open last night. Typical, the one day I’d welcome a grey London morning is the day spring decides to arrive. As the duvet settles on my body, I note I’m naked under it. I wonder if I flashed the neighbours last night?
Oh, well. Maybe if I was less tired, I might care. But as my brain is currently preserved in tequila, it seems like a matter for some other time.
I’m not usually such a morning grouch, still waking with the excitement of someone who has only been living in London for three months—someone who’d transplanted their life over four thousand miles. The city is still strange and so new, I find I don’t mind waking to the muted sounds from the café next door. It’s almost comforting; a sort of acoustic urban backdrop. And nothing remotely like back home.
It strikes me then how unusually quiet it is this morning. Is it a long weekend? And if it is, how come I don’t know? A singular car trundles along the road outside, the sound of children’s voices drifting up from below. They’re familiar sounds but not quite right.
At least the heat is on; London hasn’t yet agreed with the spring calendar, and my bedroom is usually freezing cold. Reveling in the unexpected comfort, I arch my back and yawn, wriggling my toes to a cooler part of the sheets before stilling mid-motion because something feels wrong.
The sheets. Egyptian cotton. Thread count in the thousands, like the ones my mother uses at home. The sound of my phone on the nightstand hitting wood, not glass. The warmth of the bedroom. And, more telling still, the extra leg my foot has just brushed in bed.
I push the duvet off my head in a hurry, and there, on the other side of the mattress, lies the very nice, but unfamiliar, rear view of a man. His masculine shoulder lifts along with a deep sigh and my heart almost stops, though the shock of the motion is fast lost as his large hand reaches to push the comforter down his body until it’s coasting his hip. Muscles. So many muscles. Cording his neck, a bulge of bicep, the flex in his lats. The dimples low on his back. Wow. I think this is what’s called an athletic build.
Seems I’m not at home, and I’m not alone, and the realisation jolts me awake like a slap.
Laughing. So much laughing.
Dancing. And not by myself.
Drinking. Definitely more than I should have.
The man. All of him.
I’d gone out straight from the office last night—in my work clothes, no less— in celebration of a record week. My colleagues had also somehow found out my birthday was the week before, so as much as I hadn’t wanted to go, it seemed impolite not to attend my own birthday celebration. Plus, you can only refuse an invitation so many times before comments turn to back stabbing. So I’d accepted and drank tequila, of all things. Far too much tequila, apparently.
It began innocently enough—it was only supposed to be dinner and a few drinks—when one of the finance guys, with mischief in his eye, had mentioned a local club. He’d said he’d heard it was a club for kink.
‘You know, S and M?’
‘You wouldn’t know kink if it paddled your arse,’ answered someone from another department; acquisitions, I think. The table erupted into laughter, the comments becoming bawdier by the minute. I’d sipped my wine, obviously being sensible at that point, trying to laugh along, even as my heart sat in my throat. It was just a bit of a joke to them but not so to me. I’d tried not to flinch as the questions turned my way.
‘What do you think, birthday girl? Should we go see what it’s all about?’
All eyes were on me. I was sure the staccato beating of my heart could be heard over the music, the restaurant noise, and chatter. Dominance. Submission. Sex. The words were so darkly tempting yet so complicated, and tied in the roots of my psyche somehow.
I’ve had lots of theory learning—Anais Nin and Anne Rice, and I’ve watched all the movies; The Secretary, Maitresse, and the classic Belle de Jour. And okay, maybe a little porn, too. But I shouldn’t. Not least because . . .
‘Sure, why not.’ I’d answered, setting down my glass. Cool, calm, and collected, my answer hit the air on a wave of wine bravery. And I’m not sure who was more surprised—me, or them.
Uptight Louise. The Ice Queen. I’d heard their names for me, not that I’ve ever cared. I developed my armour years ago and carry it
everywhere.
And just like that, we’d finished our meal and headed to the club.
Once inside the place, I recall the mild disappointment, expecting something different, though what, I wasn’t sure. Maybe something tawdry. Freaky. Something less tasteful and . . . ordinary? The interior could’ve been any high-end bar in any city in the world. Dark, sumptuous tones and smoky mirrors, crystal chandeliers juxtaposed by raw brick. It was sophisticated but not long the focus of my attention. Because that was pulled almost magnetically to a man in dark a suit. A man in a suit watching me.
At first, I’d thought him a tourist. Not necessarily a London tourist—he looked too sophisticated for that—but maybe a tourist to the club seeking similar thrills. I’d still been considering the same thoughts much later when he’d slid a hand around my neck. He couldn’t have known how the placement had affected me, but he read my reaction instinctively.
Yearning inside. Wet panties outside.
But how can I recall these very visceral reactions, yet can’t remember his face? And how did I come to be sitting with him?
Did I . . . did I really lick spilled Patrón from his neck?
Oh, God. In a sudden rush, I remember almost falling onto his lap and spilling my drink all over him. He’d been very gracious about being my landing place, even laughing as he agreed I absolutely should buy him a drink by way of an apology. After all, he was wearing mine. And his voice? Caramel, dark chocolate, and all the smooth, dark things. And his accent? Panty-melting posh.
Thoughts and images of the evening rise like sudden wisps of smoke. Offensive promises whispered in the darkness, anonymous hands caressing my flesh.
From the corner of my eye, something else catches my attention. A set of leather restraints dangling from the edge of the iron bedstead. Did I wear them? And if I had, oughtn’t I feel at least a flickering of shame? It’s strange, but I don’t seem able to summon a suitable sense of disgrace. And that feels . . . odd.