by Alam, Donna
‘Stripped?’ The word comes out husky. Strange that was the one word I picked up on.
‘Yes, a hundred and fifty years of paint seemed a bit excessive, not to mention time-consuming, to strip by hand.’ Her dark lashes flutter up at me as I resist the urge of a dozen actions. Run my palms down her body. Grip her arse. Bring my lips to hers. While I concentrate on doing none of those things, my arms tighten instinctively.
‘You can let go of me.’ Her eyes slip from mine, her cheeks a deep pink.
‘Or you could stay here.’
‘To what ends?’ I want to take her chin, raise her head, and make her look at me, but I don’t want to let go. It’s too soon, my mind whispers.
‘My end, of course.’
‘Is that some kind of dick joke?’ Now she looks at me—none too complimentarily.
‘I never joke about my dick, Nell.’ I drop my arms with reluctance, allowing her to step back.
‘Now that’s a little more like the Ben I know.’
‘I told dick jokes?’ I frown, wondering what she can mean. I wouldn’t have had the nerve. Girls were like a foreign species to me until I was nineteen.
‘Not specifically, but young Ben lived to embarrass me.’ Oh, sweetheart, you’re so wrong. I lived for your attention. ‘Did you hear what I said about the doors?’ she asks. Sliding those tempting curls behind her ears, she’s refusing to engage, or lower herself, further.
‘Doors?’ I repeat. ‘There aren’t any. It doesn’t worry me.’ Fact: there’s not a great deal of personal dignity when on deployment. I also happen not to be at all self-conscious about my body.
Though the lack of doors doesn’t worry me, it appears to worry Nell. Very much, if her expression is any indicator.
‘It’s just, well . . .’ Her dark eyes blink up at me, suddenly solemn. ‘Our bedroom doors almost face.’
‘What doors?’ My tone is low and soft, and I have to coil my fingers in a conscious effort not to reach out and bring her soft body against mine again. A lack of doors between our sleeping quarters sounds like a gift from the gods. It wasn’t my intention to get into Nell’s pants when Melody suggested I stay here. Sure, it was a vague thought or maybe a distant possibility. Though I’ve thought about her often, I couldn’t be sure of her reaction to me. So it wasn’t my intention, but I’d be lying if I said the prospect wasn’t becoming more and more attractive by the minute. She’s soft flesh and sweet smelling and so much more than my memory holds of her.
‘What doors, exactly?’ she almost whispers, her tongue darting out to wet that biteable bottom lip. ‘It doesn’t bode well for privacy.’
No fucking complaints here. Not one springs to mind, strangely enough.
‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to the fact that I sleep naked.’ This time, I can’t resist the lure of the curl, pulling the end of one straight before releasing and watching it coil again. ‘I’m sure the sight isn’t quite as horrifying as your expression. Nell,’ I add, laying my palms on her shoulders. ‘I’m used to sharing my personal space with hairy-arsed blokes.’
‘Maybe you are, but I’m not.’
My hands move to my fly as I make a show of unbuttoning. ‘I’m pretty sure my arse isn’t hairy. You can check if you like?’
‘Stop!’ she says, giggling rather than horrified. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ The flirty smile I send her earns me a chastising frown in response. ‘When are the doors due back? I can make sure your bedroom is the first door hung.’
‘That won’t work,’ she says with a frustrated sounding sigh.
‘Does the company not replace them? No problem, I can.’
‘No, you won’t be able to,’ she repeats.
‘I’m not just a pretty face, you know. And I don’t mind helping out.’
‘No, I mean you can’t.’ Quite suddenly, her cheeks turn from pink to red. ‘Because I don’t know if I’ll get them back. The stripping company is currently holding them ransom because they haven’t been paid. Last week, they even threatened to sell them in lieu of the work they’ve carried out.’
‘Can they do that?’
She shrugs, her hands slapping against her mostly bare thighs. ‘Apparently, there’s quite the market for original Victorian doors.’ She sighs as though the weight of the world is balanced on her shoulders. ‘Come on. Let me show you to your room.’
She was right about the bed and had repeated as much, standing in the doorless doorway. Without stepping through. As her footsteps trip lightly down the bare wooden stairs, I drop my bag onto the bed and run my hands through my hair. I consider phoning Melody for a little more intel. What the fuck is going on here? The Nell I knew was pretty bloody fierce. Quick to temper, though just as quick to forgive. This Nell, treading quietly about her own house, it’s like she’s frightened to live. Sure, she’s recently split from her boyfriend, but I remember a girl with more fire than she’s shown so far. Hampstead is an expensive London borough. Despite the state of disrepair, this place would’ve cost a pretty packet. Much more than an NHS doctor can afford. No surprise she can’t buy her fucking doors back.
What kind of prick leaves a woman to pay the bills?
His loss is my fucking gain, no matter how temporarily, because here’s the thing: I might not have arrived at her door with the idea of fucking her, but I’m not going to be able to leave until I’ve had her pliant and spent underneath me. Until my back is covered in her nail marks, and I’ve sucked every inch of her skin.
Every broken relationship needs a rebound and what better rebound than someone who you’re not likely to see around. Or ever, as the case may be.
I know I should tread carefully. I know I should make the rules and the outcome clear.
Yet despite the sense behind my thoughts, when it becomes obvious Nell isn’t making her way to bed, like a little lapdog, or a dog who’d like to hump more than her leg, I follow her downstairs.
Chapter 4
PENELOPE
My back is to the doorway as I twist of the screw cap of a bottle of Cabernet I’d opened yesterday when I hear Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. I’m not really sure what to think about him as a lodger, though I’m pretty sure of what I think about him as a man. He’s a Grade A hottie in the flesh and almost as annoying as I remember him. Okay, so he’s not really annoying. I’m sure Mel would say he’s just a little cheeky, though he’s certainly a little full of himself. And we appear to have fallen into a semi-familiar pattern of teasing, which is preferable to meanness. And while I refuse to believe he was anything but mean as a youngster, these days he doesn’t seem to have the capacity to be cruel.
But his voice? So deep and masculine. His parents always seemed a little posh to me. Maybe that’s why his diction seems so sharp. The voice and the accent. One thing’s for sure, I have no problem imagining him being in charge—of bossing me about. I mean, men. Bossing his men about.
Six months. Man-hab, my mind whispers.
I don’t turn around as I hear Ben enter the kitchen. Instead, I fill my glass with a generous pour before screwing the lid back on the bottle tight and placing it back on the countertop—Formica made to look like teak ala 1960s—and turn to face him.
‘Don’t judge,’ I say, folding one arm around my waist as I bring my glass to my lips.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Yet your smirking expression would suggest you already have.’
‘Ah, so you’re a mind reader. Funny. Here’s me thinking you went to medical school, not circus school.’
I giggle—yes, giggle—then take another sip of my wine, hiding my delight behind the rim of my glass. Not very successfully, obviously, as he continues to goad.
‘Or maybe it was an online course in mind reading? If I were you, I’d ask for my money back.’
‘I definitely did go to medical school. I still have the bags under my eyes to prove it.’ And I do just that with a pointed fing
er.
‘Bollocks,’ he half chuckles. ‘You look exactly the same.’
‘But circus school was during the holidays,’ I add, ignoring the compliment because compliments are dangerous territory. Compliments lead to big heads, and not just the flattered kind. And what I don’t need is Ben’s satin smooth, engorged, and swollen head in the vicinity of my vagina. Or do I? No, I don’t.
So much for my cries of “but I’ve only ever had sex with one man”. Who was that man again? It seems I’ve conveniently forgotten on account of the confident Viking-esque man standing in my kitchen’s doorless doorway, paying me compliments as I stand in my tiny pyjamas, drinking wine. And that’s on top of having managed only four hours sleep in the past thirty-six.
This is a recipe for disaster. Or for really good sex. Or a disaster.
For goodness’ sakes—stop!
‘So your psychic powers tell you I’m judging you?’ He quirks a ridiculously sexy brow as if that was even a thing before now. I don’t exactly nod. I more like shrug in the manner of yeah, sure, though I’m actually just trying to keep my mad thoughts to myself. ‘What exactly do your special powers tell you I’m saying?’
Drop your panties, Nell. Let’s get it on.
Another mad thought I ignore, and instead reply, ‘Probably that I’m a lush.’
‘Ah, that makes sense.’ Does it? I’m taken aback by his response and contemplative nod as he unfolds his arms, his boots echoing against the kitchen tile as he walks towards me. ‘Though there seems to have been a little confusion in the translation from my mind to yours because what I was actually thinking was luscious.’
Everything in me lights—like a pinball machine or set of Christmas fairy lights. I’m luscious. He thinks I’m luscious. Or maybe tiredness has addled my brain and therefore my hearing because I don’t feel very luscious.
‘Be serious, Ben,’ I say, appearing to have turned into a schoolmarm.
‘Oh, I am.’ Coming to stand in front of me, he does a very deliberate sweep of my body, my nipples suddenly standing to attention under my thin shirt. ‘So why is it you’re drinking at’—his gaze dips to his raised arm and the very masculine watch on his right wrist—‘a little after one in the afternoon?’
‘Technically, this is a nightcap,’ I reply, raising the bowl of the glass to my lips again. ‘At least, on my hours this week, it is. Feel free to help yourself to . . .’ My words trail off as I read the sudden wickedness in his gaze, my heart literally skipping a beat as my synapsis fire, offering a dozen ways he could help himself. And I try not to sigh like a girly Disney character as he takes the glass from my hand and lifts it to his own lips.
‘Do you have trouble sleeping?’ he asks, passing the glass back to me, the motion drawing my attention to the tanned bicep bulging from under the sleeve of his T-shirt and the coarse hair on his forearms as gold as those on his head.
‘No. Maybe.’ I let out a breath. ‘Sometimes,’ I find myself admitting. ‘I have trouble quietening my mind. It’s like it’s overactive or something.’ He nods as though sympathising. ‘I do a little yoga. That sometimes helps.’
‘If you have trouble today, give me a yell. I know a good stress reliever.’ And then he winks, hopping up to sit on the countertop next to me.
‘And here I was just thinking you weren’t at all like I remember,’ I say, turning to face him, leaning my forearm on the same length of Formica currently holding his ass.
‘That doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.’ He smirks as he looks down at me, and I find myself adjusting the neck of my top to be sure he can’t see down it. His responding expression seems to say are the girls all good? ‘And it’s funny,’ he actually says, ‘because you haven’t changed at all.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Flattery, Ben? Are you trying to kill me with kindness instead of torment?’
‘I’ve never tormented a girl in my life. At least, not without her consent.’
Be still my excited lady parts . . .
‘Are you denying you got your kicks out of persecuting me when we were kids?’
‘Me?’ He touches a finger to his chest, the picture of innocence, if innocence was ever depicted by a man who looks as wicked as him. Not that he looks wicked exactly, more like he looks like he knows where wicked lives. Which is currently in my panties, I think. ‘I couldn’t have been that bad, Nell.’
‘No, you’re right. You were actually worse.’ I take another mouthful of my wine as he rubs his hand up the back of his head in an embarrassed action. He makes a good show of it, at least. You know what else is a good show? The movement of his arm as it pulls his shirt up and exposes the trail of hair between his navel and jeans. I can’t be sure, but I think I see the evidence of abs of steel, and I definitely see the ridge of muscle running around his hips.
‘You know what they say, Nelly. Little boys are made from rats and snails and puppy dog tails.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ I chastise, reaching out to swat his quad, his very solid quad, when he catches my hand. He takes it between both of his. ‘So you’re saying that’s your excuse for sticking snails down my shorts, huh?’
‘I didn’t, did I?’ he asks, sort of delighted. Well, far too delighted for someone who might be better served to show a little remorse. To his new landlord.
‘I’m sure if they’d been handy, you would’ve shoved the rats and a bushel of puppies down there, too.’
‘Litter.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a litter of puppies, not a bushel,’ he says, looking down at my hand. My palm flat against his left hand, he trails his fingers lightly over my fingers. ‘And as I recall, it was your bikini bottoms, not your shorts. Plus, it was one snail. Actually, it was more like an empty snail shell.’
‘So you do remember,’ I say, unplacated by his words, though slightly mesmerised by his actions.
‘There wouldn’t have been room in your bikini bottoms for puppies.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I squeak, snatching my hand back.
‘Just that you had a lovely arse. Round and full.’ And, my God, he holds his hands out as though mimicking my ass for my benefit. ‘You still have. And it seems you’ve still got a thing for wearing very small things.’
Out of that mass of information, my mind grasps onto one thing.
‘You weren’t supposed to be looking!’
‘I was always looking, Nell. And not just when your squealing brought half of the cats in the neighbourhood around.’
‘You were a mean boy,’ I say, narrowing my gaze playfully at him
‘Is this where I apologise?’
‘No, this is where you tell me why!’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I feel sort of shaky all of a sudden, like this is a quiz and I know the answer but just can’t seem to grasp the information from the back of my head. ‘If I was shoving things down your pants, it was because it was the nearest I got to you. And your arse. I even got a peek a couple of times.’
‘So the answer is . . . you were a little pervert?’
‘Yep.’ With minimum effort, he propels himself to the floor again. ‘A little pervert with the biggest crush on you.’
‘That makes no sense at all. You were just—’
‘Three years younger than you and desperately jealous of Mel. It was my way of pulling your pigtails.’
I place my glass on the worktop, taking my heated cheeks into my hands. ‘That all sounds very good—it even absolves you a little bit. But no, Ben, I don’t believe you. You really were awful to me.’ His story is just too farfetched, but if it lessens his discomfort, I’m okay with that.
‘Then I’ll just have to be extra nice to you from now on.’
Before I can respond, he pulls a folded envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘This is for you, and it’s not me being nice. Call it rent,’ he says, passing it into my hands.
‘We haven’t even—’
‘I’ll probably need somewhere
to stay for a few weeks, especially now that Melody’s place is out of commission. If that’s okay with you?’
‘Yeah, that’s, that’s fine,’ I reply, looking up from the white envelope. ‘Totally fine.’ But probably dangerous.
‘It’s not like I’ll be here all of the time.’
‘No, of course. And I’ll be working, mostly.’
His expression falters, changing just as quick. ‘So that’s settled then. Thanks, Nell.’ He presses his lips to my head in the briefest of kisses. ‘You probably won’t even realise I’m here.’
As if that were even possible. As he stares down at me for a moment, he looks unsure, younger even, and I have the sudden urge to wrap him in my arms, but I don’t. Especially not as he says, ‘Right. I’ll go and bring my pet snake in. Is that okay?’
Chapter 5
BEN
The look on her face.
It was priceless.
What the fuck would I do with any pet, let alone a pet snake? The only good snake is a dead one, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been in enough desert warzones, trained in enough jungles to know this as a truth. Yep, the only good snake is one that’s been flattened by a vehicle on some beige, sand blown road. And that goes for scorpions and camel spiders, too.
The fucking Middle East, my mind grumbles as I pull clothing out from my ruck, covering the white duvet with a fine layer of sand, the taste and smell of it hitting the back of my throat in a sensory memory. Heat. Fire. The smell of flesh. I push it all away, concentrating on the clothes on the bed. It doesn’t matter that they’ve already been laundered or unworn or that I’ve been out of the place for days; the film of fine dust—because, as a description, that’s nearer the consistency than sand—gets fucking everywhere.