Tempting Escape

by Heather McVey

  When they were outside and Michael suggested they go for a drink, Shelly was all for it. A drink might help dull the pain a little, even if she could only have one.

  "Excuse me, I'll be right back,” Shelly said half an hour later, rising from the round wooden-topped table at which they were sitting. She walked the length of the pub, though not past all that many people, as business was surprisingly slack, to the door marked Ladies and went inside. She supposed that everybody, no doubt, had as little spare cash as she did leftover so soon after Christmas, and so a lot of the regulars were probably staying home.

  Alone as she hoped she'd be, she let herself go, abandoning herself to the tears that had threatened to fall all evening since first hearing that song. She started to tremble, and then shake all over. Going to the sink, she splashed cold water over her face, and felt a little better. So she splashed some more.

  Shelly turned as Claire came through the door, her expression one of concern. “Are you all right? You've been looking ... well strange, to say the least, ever since we came out of the cinema."

  Shelly gulped. “I miss him."

  Claire frowned. There was no need to ask who he was, for the answer was clear, her holiday hunk. She hadn't agreed when Shelly had let him go. She had felt her friend was doing it for all the wrong reasons. But she was Shelly's friend and she would stand by her and give her comfort where it was needed.

  "Is it Guy?"

  Shelly sobbed. “I always miss him. I try not to think of him, b ... but when Bryan Adams played, I couldn't help myself."

  Claire asked gently, “Was that your song?"

  Shelly sobbed again and nodded.

  "Oh, honey, when he means so much to you, why did you let him go in the first place?"

  Shelly flung her hands up in the air. “Because of Ted, because I'm a fool, because I wasn't brave enough."

  "Perhaps you're brave enough now?” Claire suggested slowly.

  Miserably, Shelly shook her head. “I'm not and I never will be."

  There was no towel or hand-drying machine. She took out a hanky and dried herself with that. When she was finished, she noted the hanky was streaked with what little makeup she'd been wearing. She'd have to repair that before going through again to meet the men.

  "I've stopped shaking,” she said in surprise. “I was shaking like a leaf just moments ago."

  "It's understandable,” Claire replied, handing her a face compact from her canvas handbag.

  "Is it?” Shelly asked, her green eyes large and bright with tears.

  Claire nodded. “Aye, it is. You're in love with one hunk of a man, and you're having his baby, darling."

  Shelly crumpled. “But I sent him away."

  Claire said confidently, “You can get him back."

  "D ... do you think?” Shelly asked, gripping the compact for dear life.

  "Yes,” Claire looked with patience and compassion at her friend. “I do."

  Shelly sniffed. “But I hurt him so badly. And I love him, but he has too much pride to ever come back to me."

  "Poor darling,” Claire said softly.

  The tears were back. Shelly could feel them stinging her newly washed face.

  "I'm sorry, I'm making such a fool of myself,” she choked.

  "You're not. You're just getting it off your chest is all, to a friend—that's what friends are for."

  "Oh, Claire,” Shelly cried and hung her head.

  Claire took her into her arms and held her. Comforting her, till finally the tears stopped, and Shelly was, once more, in control of herself.

  * * * *

  "Philip, find a spot off the road and let's draw in there for a while,” Shelly said. On returning to their table with Claire, she had pleaded a migraine and so Philip was driving her back home. Claire and Michael had stayed on, at her insistence.

  Philip shot Shelly a questioning look. What exactly did she mean by that? He liked Shelly. Who wouldn't? She was a knockout, but he was never quite sure what to make of her. “Head better, then?” he asked.

  "Yes, thank you."

  He remembered a dirt track turnoff that he'd noticed on the drive there. The sort of thing used by tractors and little else, it meandered past a river and then on up to a farm. He turned into that, stopped by the river and switched off the ignition. Outside, the rain suddenly began to fall harder than before. The wind picked up, too, and howled around the car.

  Shelly stared through the rain-spotted windshield steamed from their breathing. When at last, finding the silence unbearable, she asked, “Something wrong?"

  Philip said, “I don't know,"

  Shelly noted that his lilting Scottish accent was very easy on the ear. She remembered suddenly that Guy's accent, a mixture of Alaskan, American and something she couldn't quite place, had also been pleasing on the ear. How could she like two seemingly different accents?

  Philip swiveled in his seat and looked at her. “You seem in a funny mood tonight."

  "Am I? I wasn't aware of that,” she lied.

  "Have I done something?"

  "Of course not, you've been your usual sweet self.” Leaning across, she kissed him, ignoring the uncomfortable feel of the gear stick against her ribs. Next moment, he'd pulled her to him and his lips were on hers, his tongue deep inside her mouth, hungry, insistent, and demanding.

  The first thing Shelly noticed was that he wasn't as big or as strong as Guy, but then few men were. The second was that he smelled of boot polish and whiskey. An odd combination, but one she didn't find at all offensive. In fact, it was rather pleasant, and certainly very masculine.

  It hadn't been in her mind to do what she did next, but maybe in her unconscious mind, the thought had rested since she first left the picture house. She smiled as he stiffened when she took his hand and placed it on her breast, then guided his other to her crotch.

  Through her clothing, he kneaded and squeezed first one breast, then the other. His hands were much smaller than Guy's. She shook off the thought and continued to try and enjoy the pleasures of his touch. She didn't protest when his cold fingers rocked up her skirt, found the outline of her pussy and pressed gently into her warm depths.

  "Let's go in the back,” he suggested, his voice heavy and thick with desire, for he fancied Shelly. He always had since he had first set eyes on her. But he'd never dared hope, that she would allow him to do what he was daring to hope to do now, there and then, in the backseat of his BMW.

  As the rain hammered on the roof, there was a long silence in which Shelly, with a motion akin to regret, studied the erection beneath his dark blue jeans. Then removing the hand from between her legs, she got out of the car. The chilly night air prickled her skin with goose bumps. The fat raindrops plastered her hair against her head, causing a lump to swell in her throat. On Male, the air had been warm and caressing, like Guy's fingers. She was sitting in the backseat, already shrugging out of her skirt when Philip joined her.

  "Have you got protection?” As she said the words, Shelly hoped that he didn't, then she could forget the foolishness that she had begun.

  He swallowed and nodded. Shelly watched him shrug out of his jeans. Her thoughts and emotions were in turmoil; the old wound had been ripped wide open again. Damn Guy, for making her feel the way she did about him. Damn her, for still caring and feeling about him the way that she did—and most of all, damn Sue, that redheaded bitch, for ever planting a seed of doubt between them when their relationship was so budding and new. Damn Sue to roast in hell! She closed her eyes as Philip entered her. It was the first time since she had last made love with Guy on the kitchen table. All that she could think of was that the man now cupping her face so tenderly wasn't as large as Guy. His thrusts and the touch of his fingers didn't bring her all the same pleasure and the warmth of the man that she loved.

  Guy, Guy, Guy, she choked, as she blinked back tears. What had she done?

  Chapter 27

  Guy sat alone, a bottle of rum at his elbow, a glass in his hand.
Moonlight filtered through the large windows in his exclusive, penthouse flat, broken now and again by the orange glare of a passing car below.

  "Here's to New York,” he muttered, pouring the last of his drink down his throat. The liquor was rough, burning all the way to his gut.

  He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. The clink of glass on glass vibrated loudly through the modern designed, one hundred and thirty square meter flat. It only served to emphasize the fact that he was alone. Mind you, he had wanted it that way. It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of friends, women too, who were more than happy to spend the night with him. It was just that the only person he seemed to want around wasn't there.

  He took another sip of the rich golden liquor. Thoughts of the past haunted him, thoughts of Shelly and all that they'd shared together in those two magical weeks—the soft look of desire in her green eyes that turned him on, the taste of her, the feel of her.

  In his practice, when he should be working, he found himself remembering the love shining in her eyes when she had talked about her family—the gentle scent of her hair carried to him on the warm breeze or her little body, or the way she walked, girlish and utterly feminine all at the same time.

  In the evenings, just before sunset, when he was preparing for a night on the town, he found himself wishing that she were there to watch the sunset with him.

  He emptied the glass and poured another. The nights were the worst. In bed, he suffered a torture the likes of what, he didn't know. If his mind and soul were hungry for Shelly throughout the daylight hours, come dark, his body was ravenous. He woke each night hard and aching with a need that he couldn't seem to banish, no matter how many cold showers he took. His dick was dripping now with clear sexual lubricant. He could feel it soaking into his silk briefs. Throbbing and hot, as if remembering the wetness and warmth of Shelly's tiny, tight pussy, the scent and the feel of her creamy desire.

  With one quick movement, he downed the last of his drink before slamming the glass down on the table. At the same moment, his Rolex beeped out the hour against his wrist.

  Midnight.

  Need driving him crazy, Guy cursed and left his study behind, heading for the asymmetrical staircase that would take him to his bedroom. His long, muscular legs took the stairs two at a time, his footsteps jarring loudly off the hard opaque marble.

  He jerked open the bedroom door, leaving it ajar and strolled into the dimly lit room. Pausing in front of the huge circular window, he looked out over the twinkling lights of London, stretching beneath the night sky for as far as the eye could see. With another curse, he pushed his jeans and briefs down to his knees. Then he cupped the head of his swollen dick in his right hand, the strong smell of sperm assaulting his nostrils. Picturing Shelly naked, her pussy open and waiting for him, he began to wank the head of his cock viciously. Pumping his brown piece of engorged meat in and out of his cupped hand, until it hurt.

  His balls tightened. When his climax spurted sperm, sticky and thick, across his hand, he rested his head against the cool windowpane. His eyes shut and his face contorted with pain, rather than the last sweet shivers of ecstasy he should have felt.

  Next day, Guy didn't look back as he stepped aboard the large Boeing 737 and flew to America.

  * * * *

  Guy looked up at the blue sky of England. It had been a whole six months since he had last set foot on the little British Island. While he'd been away, there hadn't been a day when he hadn't longed for Shelly, longed to hear her voice.

  When he'd been asked to review his contract, which would have allowed him to stay on for another year in the States, he'd declined. Carefully, he shut the small, white painted gate, and made his way up her drive on a warm June day. The birds were singing in the trees and children were merrily at play in the neighbor's garden. Guy vowed to himself that he would make Shelly listen. He loved her, she loved him and that was that. She was going to be his wife and if she didn't agree, then he would just carry her away and marry her in Gretna Green.

  For he knew now, as he had never known before, his life had no meaning without her, none at all. And damn it all, he was sick of living like a zombie, Christmas without her had been an empty affair, as had the New Year. Next time, come the festive season, he wanted Shelly there, to decorate his tree and to kiss under the mistletoe.

  With a determined set to his mouth, the blood rushing through his veins, and his heart pounding out of control, he knocked on her front door.

  He waited. And waited.

  There was no answer.

  She couldn't be avoiding him, he reasoned, standing upstairs somewhere, peeking from behind a curtain, because she didn't have the faintest idea that he'd intended to pay her a call. How could she? When he hadn't even known himself. Simply following his feet, he had looked up in stunned shock to find that he was standing at the end of her street.

  It was then that he had known there could be no more pretending. No more denying his feelings, he had to have her. He pulled a little piece of paper from his breast pocket. It had Shelly's parents’ address scribbled on it in sloppy writing, from the private detective he'd hired.

  He'd realized in his expensive New York hotel on 37th Avenue, just after he'd told the stunning, four hundred dollar escort he'd booked for the night that she could go home after talking to her for the last hour about Shelly, that he had no life without Shelly.

  None at all.

  Half a bottle of Scotch sitting like a canon ball in his belly, he'd determined that if he couldn't have Shelly in his life, he could at least have piece of mind by checking on her and making sure from time to time that she was all right—particularly that that asshole Ted hadn't turned up in her life again.

  The problem was he'd never actually had the courage to get the private detective to check on Shelly, after getting her parents’ number in case she wouldn't see him. Guy had felt it was better not to know if she'd moved on and had another man in her life, since he was stuck in the States with an ocean separating them and wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

  Twenty minutes later, Guy took a deep breath as he stopped outside the door marked 122E in gold letters. The drive had been far too short, the house all too easy to find. He wasn't ready to be there.

  He raised his hand to knock, but after a moment tucked his fist under his right arm. He sighed. He didn't want to face Shelly's parents. He really didn't. But he had to do this for himself, for Shelly, for the both of them. He lifted his hand again and knocked firmly on the door.

  There was movement from within, then a pause, which signaled someone looking at him through the peephole. Guy tensed even further as he waited.

  "Yes?” a feminine voice came from within.

  "Hi,” Guy said, surprised to find his voice steady. “I'd like to talk to you, if you have a minute?"

  A stunning woman in her early fifties with hair as black as his own, opened the door. “Yes, can I help you?"

  Guy gulped, if the pale green eyes were anything to go by, this could only be Shelly's mother. “Could I please speak with Shelly?"

  She looked down her nose at him, in a way that normally would have got his back up, but considering the circumstances, he hardly noticed. “Who may I ask is calling?"

  "It's Guy, err, Guy Pearson."

  "Ah.” The green eyes that had been indifferent moments before, narrowed menacingly. So the coward that had gotten her daughter pregnant and run off to the States had finally shown his pathetic face. “My daughter's not here."

  "Wait!” Guy called as she went to close the door in his face. “Could you at least tell her that I called?"

  Disdainfully, she looked at his foot blocking the door. “I said, Shelly's not here nor would she want to see the likes of you, young man."

  Ah! The color drained from Guy's face. She knew about him, then.

  A slender, tall man in his early sixties, obviously disturbed by the sound of their voices approached. “Is anything wrong, Belinda?"

&n
bsp; "No.” She shook her black tresses and said firmly, “This young man was just leaving."

  Guy hastily protested. “No, I wasn't."

  Belinda ignored him and looked towards her husband. “This is Guy Pearson."

  "Ah, I see,” Frank said evenly. “Come away, darling."

  Just at that moment, a well built man, dressed head to foot in leather, jumped off a motorbike. He leapt over the whitewashed fence and bounded up the path towards them. Even as every muscle in Guy's body tensed anticipating a fight, he had to admit that the guy had a fantastic Harley. It gleamed silver and sleek in the sunshine and was obviously well cared for.

  The biker pulled off his helmet to reveal ruffled blonde hair and green eyes, the exact color and shape of Shelly's. Although the features were very masculine on the face that scowled at him, Guy felt as if he could have been looking into Shelly's finely boned face. This was obviously her brother. He was shocked for her brother, whom he estimated to be in his early thirties, was tall for a man. In fact, he was only two inches or so smaller than Guy's own six foot four frame. With Shelly's dainty little height, he hadn't expected it somehow.

  "Is this who I think it is, Dad?” the biker snarled.

  Frank nodded ominously and his son asked, “You want me to get rid of him for you?"

  Guy bristled. He'd like to see him try.

  Frank said, “No, Steven, that won't be necessary, the young man was just leaving."

  Guy looked at Steven's face. He seemed genuinely disappointed that he wasn't getting to smack him in the mouth. He had balls and he kept a Harley, Guy couldn't help but like Shelly's brother a little.

  When Frank tried to close the door again, Guy leaned forward. “Look, listen, stop trying to get rid of me, okay! I want to be a part of your daughter's life if only she'll let me.” In desperation he blurted, “I'm in love with your daughter, sir."

  Steven scowled furiously at him and the older man blinked. “Are you now, son?"

  Guy studied the man. Shelly had obviously inherited her vibrant strawberry-blonde hair from him, and judging by the aggressive set of the older man's jaw, she'd also told her father exactly what she thought of him.