Fairground Attraction

by Raven McAllan

  Huh? “Er, um, pardon, my love? I’m butt naked, as far as I can tell. If that’s not easily accessible, I don’t know what is. What about you? Are you butt naked and accessible as well?”

  She purred, no other word for it, and he felt her breasts against his chest, her nipples touching him. “Well now, that’s immaterial, isn’t it? Because you aren’t going to touch me. This is my show, played out how I want it. I wonder…yes.” His jeans scratched his skin as they scrunched firmly around his ankles, limiting his movements as surely as if she had tied them, and cool air teased his chest. Vairi had undone and pushed his shirt pushed down his arms to his restraints. Fuck, what was happening? She had hooked the shirt over the chair back, limiting his movements even further. His cock responded to the arousal his mind experienced and throbbed to an almost unbearable pitch.

  The unexpected warmth of her mouth as it closed around him, licking and sucking, would have had him off the chair if a small hand had not held him down

  “Stay,” she mumbled around a mouthful of cock. She used her teeth to nip and graze along the hard length, inviting him to swell and fill as her hands tweaked and played with his rock-hard nipples and smoothed over his body with sensuous strokes. He leaned back in the chair as best he could and absorbed all she was doing, all he discerned.

  Sheesh, now her teeth were grazing his balls. He felt them taken into her mouth and sucked, like she was playing with plum stones or apricots. An almost indescribable sensation built. It was the one that made him realize, hell, he was going to come.

  “Vairi, shit this is amazing. Gonna come.” He decided it was only fair to warn her. “So, if you don’t want to drink me, now’s the time to back off.”

  His reply was ice-cold. Literally. He yelped as a cold cube was rubbed firmly over the base of his cock.

  “Not yet. Not until I decide.” The inside of her mouth was chilly as she took him again. Obviously the ice cube worked in more than one place.

  The heat she was generating soon warmed him. He knew nothing she could say or do was going to stop his climax. As he tensed and began to shake, her mouth gripped and moved faster and harder.

  “That’s it, love.” Although muttered, he heard every word, felt the rumble of them run through him. “Now. Come for me now, my Rake, fuck my mouth. Come on, now. Come now!”

  He did. Afterward, he wondered if his roar of triumph had been heard in the village. He filled her with cock and cum pumping, enjoying the way her lips tightened around him, sucking and swallowing until he was dry and shaking. Still she kept her mouth firm on his dick until he was quiescent. Slowly she moved. He wanted to hold her, to embrace her trembling and the way she cried out as he had. Not the right time, he sensed that. This had been her gift to him, and what a gift. He felt his jeans moved, his hands untied, then his eyes were uncovered and he blinked as he adjusted to the light. Vairi stood fully clothed in front of him, her eyes wary.

  “That, my love, was the most beautiful, arousing, generous and fucking sexy thing I have ever experienced,” Raig said huskily. “Any time you want to repeat it, I’m your man. I give in. Wholeheartedly, unreservedly. Can I take you to our bed and make love to you?” He’d worry about tonight, well, tonight. Priorities, he told himself. Priorities. The first of those was to bury himself deep inside his love.

  In answer, she held out her hands to him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * * *

  By seven o’clock that evening he was antsy. After several hours of glorious lovemaking, he’d made his meeting by the skin of his teeth, having rushed to his office for it, and had told Berto not to expect him in the following day before driving home and finding Vairi sunbathing in the secret garden. In the nude, the Jacuzzi bubbling away gently behind her, inviting them to embrace its warm caress. It had certainly stopped him worrying about what was to come. But now, with only a couple of hours left, he needed to sit Vairi down and talk to her.

  She was pottering about in the kitchen wearing one of his shirts, the sleeves turned up, and a smile. Nothing else. His cock, encased in his habitual jeans, albeit with no snap fastened and the zip half down, was responding as it always did to her presence. Helping to hold up said denims.

  “D’you want butter with this?” She turned from the crusty loaf she was cutting. “Or is pâté enough?”

  “I wouldn’t mind butter with you.” He put his arms around her waist from behind and moved his fingers unerringly to her clit to run and arouse. She moaned and pushed both into his fingers and back to his cock, no mean feat. “But we need to talk.” He nipped her nape. The knife waved threateningly. “Pâté is fine,” he added in haste. “Come and sit down in the lounge. We’ll bring this with us.” He grabbed the bowl of salad and the cutlery, leaving her to bring the pâté and bread.

  “Right.” He paused as she settled next to him. “What do you know about Mickey Dooley?”

  She put her head to one side, something he had noticed she did when considering how to answer a question. “Investigative reporter, known as The Irishman.” She stared at him for a long moment then a smile played over her lips. “That newspaper article I read was all about him. Brave bloke. Helped to put a fair few people away. Won awards, supposed to always be in disguise, no one knows what he looks like. Except, I guess, those he has investigated while in disguise.”

  “And now you.”

  She stared at him as if he had grown horns and a tale. “Pardon?”

  He kissed her and took hold of her hand. “And now you. For a short while. I’ve just arranged his demise. As of nine p.m. tonight, the whole world, well, those watching the TV, on the correct channel, will know he is out of business. No more Mickey D. For those who need to know—hello, Padraig O’Shea.”

  “You?” Her voice was incredulous. “That’s you? Bloody hell, I wondered when you asked me because of his moniker, The Irishman, but never really… Oh my God, Raig, all those dangerous things. Shit, you could have been killed before I ever knew you.” She was crying, tears running down her cheeks. “Are you safe now?” Vairi took hold of his shoulders none too gently and shook him. “Please tell me you are.”

  “We are safe now, love. That’s what all the cloak-and-dagger stuff was about. After the documentary, we will be safe. I wanted us to be together, see his demise and look forward to the future. Will you do that? Forgive me for the secrecy?”

  In reply, she kissed him with fierce passion. “Of course I will, you moron.”

  “Well then, Vairi My Queen, are you ready to begin the rest of our life together? And don’t give me any of that shit about the age difference. You’re only—”

  “As old as you feel,” she finished for him. “So that makes me a youngster, and you the oldie. Oh, my pleasure, my love.”

  “And mine,” he assured her. “Oh, and mine.”

  Epilogue

  Nine months later

  “Okay, Ma, let’s get this show on the road eh?” Lorna fussed with the hem of Vairi’s dress and grinned. “Before you ask, no, the bump doesn’t show, yes, you do have both earrings in, no, your skirts aren’t tucked into your knickers and yes, Raig is here waiting for you. Not so patiently over by the door. So get your ass into gear and join him.”

  Raig grinned, as Vairi swung around to glare at him.

  “It’s not the done thing for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, you know,” she said snappily. “Why are you here?”

  “Ah now then, I come in peace,” he said in his best brogue as held his hands in the air in mock surrender and kept his face straight as Lorna sidled out of another exit.

  “It’s our wedding now. This minute—or as soon as we take the few steps into the other room. And I have something for you.” Raig pushed himself off the doorjamb and sauntered toward her. “I have in my pocket a letter I believe you’ll like. Something about an award I think.”

  “An award? You’ve won an award?” She whooped. “What for, when, how, who… Ooft.”

  Raig shut her up by haul
ing her to him and kissing her hard. The softness of her rounded belly pressed against him and he sighed as he deepened the kiss. Lord, how he’d waited for this moment. It had been a long six months of ‘will we, won’t we, what next?’

  Now though before they said I do he had something even more exciting—in one way—to tell her. He lifted his lips from hers. “I haven’t.”

  “Haven’t what?” Vairi tilted her head up to look at him properly. Her eyes were still glazed with desire. Macho though it was, Raig got not a little satisfaction knowing it was he who did that to her.

  “Won an award. You might have.”

  “Me? But… Gimme that letter! How come you got it? What does it say?” She all but danced on the spot as he hauled two envelopes out of his pocket. “What’s in the other one?”

  “A letter from Kenny saying that Mr. Dooley, deceased, didn’t get nominated. Thank god. Now we really can put it all behind us. But I did get a list of nominees and a certain Carry C is up for best radio show and best individual program.”

  “Oh my. Open it for me, please. My hands are trembling, look.” Vairi held her visibly shaking hands in the air. “What program?”

  “The one about you and me and trust. Look.” Raig took the sheet of paper out of the envelope and waved it at her. “You’ll ace it.”

  Vairi scanned the paper and grinned at him. “Well, I couldn’t have done it without you as a subject, could I? So, let’s go and get married then we can celebrate this and”—she patted her tummy—“this.”

  It was just what Raig wanted to hear. Over the last few months they’d both had a lot to contend with. Rumors that Mickey Dooley wasn’t dead—just temporarily retired. It had been a tense time as they both wondered what the hell might happen. He’d made sure Vairi was never alone, even though she argued he needed the same level of protection. They had made love each night as if it were the last time, and he had been sure she had given thanks as fervently as he when it eventually the furor had died down.

  Especially as it had resulted in someone having their balls metaphorically chewed off.

  Vairi’s refusal of his marriage proposal until, as she said, she was sure they were both sure, hadn’t really been a surprise. He still hadn’t quite fathomed all of that one out—he’d always been sure. However, she’d always argued a bit of paper wasn’t necessary to show their commitment to each other so he could understand her prevaricating. Even so, Raig had acknowledged he was old-fashioned enough to want everything signed, sealed and delivered. Mindful of his love’s dogmatic and obstinate attitude, he hadn’t pressed it though. Just hoped one day she’d let him propose then she would say yes.

  They rearranged furniture so the house by the sea was to both their liking and one magical day he’d carried a giggling Vairi over the threshold, up the stairs and to their new bed. Which they’d proceeded to thoroughly christen.

  Vairi had grilled him thoroughly about his ex-alter ego. Sworn at some of his near misses and praised him for his commitment. Then had said very forcefully she was glad it was all over.

  “So we can live a normal life,” she’d added.

  Raig had kissed her nose. “Define normal. Go on, I dare you.”

  Vairi had wound her arms around his neck and rubbed her knickerless—but hidden by a linen skirt—pussy over his denim-covered cock. “Ah well, you have a point. Whatever we chose it to be, I guess.”

  A month later, as they’d were both been getting ready for a day out on the bike, Vairi had got down on her knee and said oh-so-seriously. “Padraig O’Shea, will you marry me?”

  Raig—commando as they both preferred—had been in the middle of zipping up his jeans. He’d sworn as he caught the soft flesh of his cock in between the teeth of the zip.

  Vairi’s eyes had widened as she’d seen what had happened. “No, don’t mutilate yourself. It’s not that bad, honestly.”

  “Idiot.” Raig had eased the metal away from his dick. It had been a close shave with very little between a bruise plus a lack of nooky for a week and a simple ‘ouch, be careful’. “Are you sure?”

  “That it’s not that bad?’ she’d asked with a wicked grin on her face. “Of course I am.”

  “Vairi, love, seriously…” It had been nigh on impossible to put into words what he was trying to ask her. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to explain further.

  “Seriously, my Raig, I want to marry you. Here in our home, with the sea as our music and the garden as our church. When we should get good weather and a chance to dance under the stars, when everyone else has gone home. Celebrate how bloody lucky we are.”

  That he hoped was about to happen. “How’s bump?” Raig asked as he watched, amused, as Vairi smoothed her hair back and did her ineffectual best to tuck the three errant curls that had a mind of their own into the complicated knot at the nape of her neck. “No, leave them, love. They’re you, me and bump makes three.”

  Vairi giggled. “Oh, you. Okay. I’m ready. Do you think anyone suspects bump is now a fine three-month-old secret inside me?”

  Rig patted her almost-showing bump and bent his head. “There, there, bump, my love. Mummy and Daddy are being selfish and not sharing you yet.” He straightened. “Who cares? I’d love to shout it from the top of the hills, but I want to savor our secret as well.”

  “Yeah, so…” She straightened his tie and went on tip-toe to kiss the top of his head. “Shall we go and get married then?”

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Taken Identity

  Raven McAllan

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  “Is this the residence of Julia Frayne?”

  Whoever said a tone of voice couldn’t shatter glass was wrong. Very, very, wrong. This one could, and it sent shivers down Julia’s spine. Shivers of the, ‘Oh no, this is not good,’ kind.

  Julia—known to all and sundry as Jules—looked at the questioner closely. It was a pity he was a blur. She’d been about to put her contacts in when the doorbell rang, and she hadn’t stopped to pick up her specs before answering.

  “So, is this the residence of Julia Frayne?” His tone was tinged with annoyance. “For goodness’ sake, woman, it’s not a trick question. A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  He—she assumed it was a he by the deep voice—was distinctly hazy, although from what she could see, there was a tall, drop-dead gorgeous man on her doorstep. Her body tingled. “Why?” she asked. She hated the defensive tone in her voice, but she had no idea who her questioner was, and she was too wary of all the horror stories around to give out information freely. “Who wants to know?”

  He stared at her and didn’t answer. That made Jules grit her teeth. If there was one thing guaranteed to get her riled, it was an arrogant, up his own ass man, who ignored something so important as a question like that. Information was a two-way street. She groped around on the shelf by the front door and took hold of her rape alarm. When you lived out in the country, it paid to be careful.

  And who didn’t always remember to put the chain on, eh?

  Next to it was a spray bottle of water then one of deodorant. A step-by-step disable kit, as Miss McMurty, her next-door neighbor said, just in case. Miss M didn’t specify what case she had in mind, but as she loved Miss M, Jules made sure her homemade alarm kit was always handy. Now she might be glad of it.

  “Please tell Ms. Frayne I wish to speak with her.” He invested the Ms. with all the disdain his patrician voice could enunciate.

  “Tell her, Mr.—?”

  “Reynard.”

  Jules waited, but he obviously wasn’t going to expand his stark statement. What was it with tall, dark men trying to be macho? Okay, she admitted he didn’t need to try very hard. Over six feet of what seemed—even to her un-lensed eyes—to be perfectly proportioned male, whose short, dark hair showed just a hint of curl. And those eyes, oh, those eyes. She’d bet they were deep, dark and what Miss M would call enigmatic, they screamed macho without any effort. It stil
l made her want to stamp on his toe to see if he squealed.

  Jules swallowed. He was every woman’s fantasy—or nightmare—depending on how you looked at it.

  She didn’t want to look at it—or him—and either way, until she put her contacts in, there wasn’t much chance of that happening. Her stomach did a flip and her skin crawled in a positively uncomfortable manner. All her instincts were screaming trouble as loud as possible.

  She could feel his impatience. It hit her like a winter wind. Cold and unfriendly, it bombarded her with slivers of icy annoyance and a shiver ran down her spine. Jules reckoned she’d better tell him what he wanted and use her ‘knee him in the balls and slam the door shut’ technique if he didn’t like her answer.

  “Well, Mr. Reynard.” She spoke in a brisk fashion, as she did her best to emulate his tone and pace and show none of the tension he invoked in her. Unfortunately—and no doubt he’d see it as a weakness—she had to squint slightly to bring him into focus. It wouldn’t be a pretty look. She’d taken enough selfies sans glasses or contacts to know that. She peered at him closely to bring him into focus. “So, how may I help you?”

  Even without twenty-twenty vision, Jules was now close enough to see and decide the glance he gave her was along the lines of one you might give a not very bright child. She gritted her teeth, determined to show nothing of how she felt. Which was like a particularly unpleasant bug under a microscope.

  “Well?” she prompted him in as pleasant a voice as she could manage. When she’d gone to answer the door, Jules hadn’t had time to put her shoes on and the old stone floor of the cottage’s hallway wasn’t warm. It would have been oh so easy to shiver, except she thought it would project a wrong image. She was not scared. Allegedly.

  “I wish to speak to Julia Frayne.”

  Sheesh, is he a robot or something? Stuck on one sentence? “You are speaking to Julia Frayne. Oh, for fuck’s sake, hold on a sec.” She remembered her old glasses, the ones she wore for gardening, were in her jacket pocket and if she stretched out, she should be able to reach them.