by Alexa Riley
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he growls, and it gives me shivers, like someone just walked over my grave.
The death of me.
It’s raw. Everything about death makes life so raw.
I’m glad I’m grunting. Relieved I’m gasping and moaning through the urge to tell him he’s been the life of me.
He thrusts back at me, flesh slapping flesh, and I fold forward, my hands balancing on his knees as he takes my weight.
“Give it to me,” I hiss. “Please, Alexander, give it to me.”
His arms wrap around my waist as he rises to his feet, his cock buried deep in my ass as he moves us to the bed.
I fall forward onto soft bedsheets, and his grip is on the back of my neck, pinning me down as he fucks me. Hard.
I cry out, my ass on beautiful fire as he thrusts.
“Don’t come…” I moan. “Please don’t come… not yet…”
“I won’t,” he grunts.
And he doesn’t.
He fucks me until I’m a sweaty mess. Until my ass is slack and aching.
He fucks me until I don’t know my own name anymore. I couldn’t even tell him if I wanted to.
And finally, when he does fill me up with the perfect seed of him, my lips swollen from his kisses and my clit so tender it hurts, it’s all I can do to get to my feet when he’s done.
He reaches for his jacket and shrugs it on, and I have no idea what he’s doing until he’s eased my arms into his discarded shirt and buttoned me up.
He moves to the window and pulls back the drapes, swings it open wide on its hinges before he grabs a miniature whisky from the minibar.
He pours one for himself and opens another for me.
My nose wrinkles as I take a sniff.
“A routine of mine,” he tells me. “A whisky before bed.”
I smile. “I can do that.”
My heart flutters as he pulls out his Insignia cigarette packet. My stomach tickles as he offers me one.
He flicks the lighter and holds the flame for me, and I hope I don’t cough and splutter since it’s been so long.
“Whisky and a cigarette,” he says before lighting his own. “Two little vices before bedtime.”
We stare at each other in silence, blowing smoke out through the open window as the first hint of dawn bleeds onto the horizon.
And then we go to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MELISSA
I’M ON BORROWED TIME, playing this crazy game with an even crazier prize at the end of it.
Double or bust.
I’m dancing with disaster with every lie I tell, digging myself deeper with every step I take.
Turning up at his house to meet Sonnie without my uniform on Thursday morning, bed-headed and bleary-eyed as she grilled me on who I’d spent my night with.
She told me she wouldn’t snitch to Janet Yorkley about my non-standard work attire, and I know she wouldn’t.
It pained me to shrug off her questions about my mystery man, made me feel queasy when we reached Mr Henley’s bedroom and found his bed still perfectly made from the day before.
How she’d grinned.
“Seems Mr Henley got himself lucky last night, too. I wonder who the lucky cow was.”
I could’ve told her and I know it.
I could have confessed it all and trusted her to keep my secrets.
But I didn’t.
Because as fucked up as it seems, I don’t want to betray him any more than I already have by telling someone else before him.
And so here I am, heading across to Brickwood with another working week completed. Ready to serve up soup and sandwiches and looking forward to my Saturday with Joe and Dean.
Maybe he won’t even be there. I don’t know for sure Alexander turns up here every week, but my question is answered the moment I step in through the door and find him already at work at their industrial hob, a dark cap pulled down over his forehead.
I’d recognise him a mile off, even in crappy denim.
It takes every scrap of nerves not to bail and run, but I couldn’t anyway. Frank is already heading in my direction, already calling out my name and telling me how pleased he is I could make it.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder as though we’re old friends, and leads me through the kitchen introducing me to strangers.
Annabel, Mary, Christine. All nice. All smiling. All welcoming and happy to have me here.
And then, finally, he introduces me to Ted.
Ted turns to face me so slowly, as though being social is nothing but a headache.
He holds out a hand before he’s even seen my face, and he tenses as I take it, his eyes shooting to mine in a heartbeat.
“Ted, this is Amy,” Frank says. “Amy, this is Ted.”
This was a mistake. I see it in his eyes.
They burn dark. His jaw fierce.
“Amy,” he says and I burn up so hot I feel faint.
“Ted,” I say and the word feels like glass in my throat.
Frank whisks me away to the vegetable station, and it’s all I can do to stare back over my shoulder as Alexander’s eyes eat me up.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, but he looks away.
ALEXANDER
MY MIND SPINS. Slurps around in a fucking mess as I stir the shit out of the soup pot.
I have no fucking idea why she’s here, so far away from her fucking house.
I hand the stirrer to Annabel and stalk Frank right out into the storeroom, and I’ve grabbed his arm before I can stop myself. His eyes widen as he spins to face me.
“Amy,” I say. “How do you know her? What’s she doing here?”
He looks so fucking shocked, his mouth flapping like I’m a fucking lunatic.
And I am.
I am a fucking lunatic.
“Eastspring,” he says. “She volunteers at Eastspring.”
“Eastspring?”
He nods. “Yeah, Eastspring. But she couldn’t make Wednesday night, said something came up. I suggested she come here instead.” He pauses. “You know her?”
I’m out of control.
My paranoia tumbles down as I realise what a fucking fuckup I am.
“We’ve crossed paths.”
He smiles. Poor sod has no fucking idea. “Ah yes, the volunteering circuit is a small place. She’s been a godsend at Eastspring, works like a trooper.”
It’s innocent.
Frank’s easy to read, an open book if ever there fucking was one.
A ridiculous coincidence, but one that has my heart racing.
“It’s nice of her to change venues,” I say.
“She’s a good one,” he tells me. “Sweet girl, very kind.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Very kind.”
He slaps my arm. “Maybe she’ll do both venues, we can hope, right?”
But she won’t be doing both venues, even if our anonymous donor has to cough up the cash for a paid member of staff in her stead.
Her Wednesday nights belong to me now, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I feel like an asshole as I head back through to the kitchen. Amy looks terrified, staring over with scared eyes as I resume my station at the hob.
“I’m sorry,” she mouths again and I feel like such a cunt.
I shrug, and then I smile.
She breathes in relief and pretends to wipe her brow, and she’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful in her dress-down clothes. A pair of jeans and a t-shirt under a fitted jacket.
“We’ll talk later,” I mouth and she nods.
I stir the fucking soup with a hard on until it’s time to fucking go.
MELISSA
HE’S good on the streets.
He doesn’t say much, but he’s genuine.
There isn’t a hint of snobbery as he hands out hot meals. There isn’t any smug self-satisfaction in the way he works so hard.
I feel humbled.
I feel a fraud.
But I’m n
ot a fraud, not entirely. I really do like it here.
I love the way the people are so kind. I love the way the people on the streets communicate from the heart, without any stupid sense of importance. I love the way it feels to help people and have them appreciate it, genuinely appreciate it.
It’s late by the time we wipe down the counters back at the kitchen, stacking up all the trays ready for next week.
I get ready to leave with no assumptions, ready to make a sharp exit if Alexander seems uncomfortable.
He takes my arm as we get outside, angling me in a different direction to the others as we all say our goodbyes.
I wait until they’re out of earshot before I speak, and I can’t help myself, the apologies come tumbling out of my mouth before I’ve even properly said hello.
“I’m so sorry! I had no idea! Frank said come, because of Wednesday… and I wouldn’t have thought…”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. My work makes me suspicious. It was unexpected, it’s as simple as that.”
“I won’t come back,” I say. “I’ll tell Frank I can’t make it…”
His eyes are piercing. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug, and I feel like shit for doing this. The whole thing feels like a bad idea going horribly wrong.
It probably is.
I can practically hear Dean’s warning blaring in my head.
“Because of you… because I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable…”
“You think I’m uncomfortable?”
My eyes meet his, and I hate how they feel watery. “Aren’t you?”
“No,” he says. I’m sure I don’t look convinced and he sighs. “Amy, it was a shock. I’m allowed to be shocked, aren’t I? You must be shocked too. This is… unusual.”
“London’s a small place,” I lie.
“So it appears.” He takes his hands from his jacket pockets and sighs again. “Please let’s just start over.” He takes my hand and places something in my palm, and I know what it is straight away.
“You really carry it?” I say as I hold the stone up to the streetlight.
“It’s lucky,” he says.
I smile. “How do you know that?”
“Because you told me.”
I wish his cap didn’t hide so much of his face.
“I guess there must be something in all this hocus pocus,” he adds, “because it brought you here.”
“And that’s lucky?”
His smile tickles my tummy. “I like to think so.”
I hand him back the quartz and reach in my jeans pocket for the fire opal. I can’t believe I’m doing this as I present it in my palm.
“It’s lucky,” I tell him. “It brought me here.”
We stare at each other for an age. I don’t move, and neither does he, trapped in no man’s land on this grubby street corner with nobody else around.
“I should get going,” I bluff, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he says. “You will.”
I’ve only taken two steps towards the underground before he calls me, and his voice gives me tingles all over.
“Do you have somewhere to be?” he asks as I turn around.
I shake my head. Another lie.
He looks as though he’s struggling. Looks like a sailor lost at sea.
I wait.
Give him space.
It works, just as I know it will.
“My gemstone collection,” he says. “I could show you, if you like.”
“Now?” I ask, and my heart races. I feel it right through me.
“If you have time.”
I smile, and I go to him. I link my arm through his, and rest my cheek against the scratchy denim of his shoulder and he doesn’t pull away. I love how he doesn’t pull away.
“All the time in the world,” I say.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ALEXANDER
AS I STAND with Amy’s arm through mine on that street corner, I’m not just waiting for the cab I just ordered, I’m waiting for my common sense to come piling back in to tell me this is a fucking stupid idea.
She doesn’t even ask where we’re headed as the taxi arrives, just piles herself into the backseat and shuffles along to make room for me. She doesn’t even move fully to the other side – her body stays pressed to my side, her thigh tight against mine as she buckles herself in.
It’s a comfortable silence. Strangely comfortable.
Resting my hand on her knee feels like the most natural thing in the world, even though it shouldn’t be.
I’ve no idea why I feel like I’ve known her my whole fucking life, but I like it. I like it too fucking much to stop.
I pay the driver as we arrive outside mine, and if she’s shocked by the grandeur of the place she doesn’t show it.
I take her hand as we head to the front door, and turn to face her as I slip my key into the lock.
“My dog is… difficult,” I tell her. “He really doesn’t like strangers.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m good with dogs.”
I want to apologise for him in advance and tell her the dismal story of his existence before I saved him from death row, just so she’ll give him a chance, but she’s already shivering from our evening in the cold.
“He’ll be aggressive,” I tell her. “But don’t worry, I promise I won’t let him hurt you.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m not scared.”
But she will be. I know full well she will be.
I open the door and head on through to deactivate the alarm. She looks so dainty in my hallway as I get the lights. I can’t stop staring as her eyes soak the place in.
I’m still staring as Brutus comes charging through, and he’s so much fucking faster than usual. He’s a dog who stalks from a distance, growls like a fucking demon before he attacks, but not tonight.
I lunge but I miss him, I yell his name and tell him to come fucking back, but he ignores me completely.
My blood runs cold as I charge down the hallway, and I’m shouting at her not to run, please don’t fucking run.
But she doesn’t.
She drops to her knees and the horror hits me in the gut.
She holds out her arms for him and I swear he’s going to tear her pretty throat open.
But he doesn’t. He fucking doesn’t.
His tail is thumping as he skids to a halt, his tongue lolling out as she coo coos in his face and scratches his ears. And I stare. Mute. Fucking astounded.
“What’s his name?” she asks.
It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “Brutus.”
“Brutus!” she says, and his tail thumps harder. “He’s lovely.”
“He’s not usually,” I tell her.
“Rescue?” she asks, and I nod. “He’s lucky you found him.”
“I’m the lucky one. He’s great when you get to know him.”
He’s still staring up at her like a sappy poodle when she gets to her feet, and I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.
“You have a beautiful house,” she says and I thank her. “And a beautiful dog,” she adds, and I think she really believes it, even though he’s hardly going to win a beauty pageant any time soon.
Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe she sees through all that.
I shouldn’t even be hoping, but I am. I shouldn’t be this invested in some pretty girl who moonlights as a prostitute, but I am.
“Are you going to give me a tour?” she asks and I come to my senses enough to stop fucking gawping at her.
I lead her through to the kitchen and ask if she’d like a drink, and she sits herself at my island with her cute little feet tapping against the stool. Brutus plops himself down at her side, his head on his paws like she’s part of the furniture.
Un-fucking-real.
“A coffee would be divine,” she says, and I ditch my stupid incognito cap and get to work putting the beans in the machine, trying
to work out if I’ve had a woman in this place since Claire. I haven’t.
I’m still making the drinks when Brutus gets to his feet. He needs a piss, I know it as soon as he barks, but it’s not me he’s asking. He’s barking at her, as though she’ll know what the fuck he’s asking for.
But she does.
She slips from the stool and heads for the back door like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“He wants to go out, right?” she asks, and I nod.
“Please.”
She catches me watching and tips her head. “What? What is it?”
“Milk?”
She nods. “Please. Two sugars.” She smiles. “You weren’t wondering if I take milk, were you?”
I hand her a mug without saying a word, but she won’t let it up.
“What?” she says, and giggles. “You’re making me nervous.”
I look about the room, look anywhere. “Just this,” I tell her. “This is strange. Brutus is strange.”
“Dogs can tell who their kind of people are,” she says.
“So it seems.”
“I’m glad he likes me.” She smiles.
I have a niggle in my gut I can’t place. It feels tender – as though the tiniest green shoot is poking its fragile form up through charred soil.
It’s not entirely pleasant.
Brutus pads nonchalantly back inside and I wonder what the hell he’s thinking as his eyes meet mine. His eyes say nothing other than he loves our new guest, and I trust him. I trust his judgement as much as my own.
I force that niggle aside. Force myself to go along with this insanity, because why not?
What else is there to do?
How could I possibly walk away from this?
Amy locks the back door without being asked. I watch her drink her coffee and enjoy the way the colour comes back to her cheeks.
“It was cold out there,” she says. “But worth it. I love working with the homeless. It makes you so grateful for what you have, right? I’m just glad I can do something to help, even if it’s just a little.”
“I fell into it,” I admit and her eyebrows lift.
“Fell into it?”
But I don’t want to expand on that. Not today. Maybe not ever.