"But not tonight," he said, enigmatically.
"What?"
"Tonight. I haven't drunk until I didn't care. Maybe I should. I've just drunk enough for this."
Before she could question or challenge him, his lips were on hers, and her body just took over in primal response. A small logical voice was still asking for more details, way back in her mind, but she ignored it. She thrust her chest upwards, against him, as her hands went first to his hips and then around his waist, running over the smooth taut rise of his buttocks. His kiss was hard, harsh even, pressing her back against the wall, but she fought back, her lips tugging his as their breathing mingled in muffled gasps.
It had been a while since she had been kissed like this. In fact, it had been a while since she had been kissed. Turner's arms drew closer to her head, his hands resting in her hair then creeping down, along her neck, where he held her steady as his tongue sought hers. Emily held on to him even as he pulled away, needing to breathe. Reluctantly she released her grip and let him lean back. Their hips were still hard against one another.
"Oh. Wow."
He laughed at her. "I'm a little out of practise…"
"Not at all."
"Good. So." He swallowed and a look of anxiety seemed to flit over his face. He let go of her fully, and stood back. Suddenly, Emily was cold as the air rushed in between them, and she was just one more party-goer pushed up against a wall. She reached out and touched his wrist, but his expression was worried.
He said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I shouldn't… I'm not that sort of man. To, you know."
"To what?"
"Force myself on anyone."
"You haven't."
"I have. Let me get you home. I need to see you safely home."
Emily didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. She shook her head and smiled. "It's all right. Just get me to a taxi and I'll be fine."
"Sure?"
"Sure."
Turner paused, his expression distant, as if he was about to suggest something. Then he extended his arm and she took it. He led her out of the backstreet and onto the busier routes between Salford and Manchester. They walked in silence until Emily couldn't stand it any longer.
"Turner, listen. Don't beat yourself up. I don't know what's going on in your head right now. You're not yourself. Not that I can claim to know what "yourself" is, but you’re not the man I met the other week. I've had such a great night with you, and then… then you kissed me, and that's okay too. It really is."
His fingers dug into her upper arm and he briefly dipped his mouth to brush her forehead, a light, chaste kiss of acknowledgement. "Thank you. It has been a great night. It makes me feel normal again, like the man I used to be before I messed it all up."
She thought about her own mistakes, but held her tongue. Instead, she let her arm snake around his waist again, her fingers pressing into his hips and slightly dipping under his leather belt.
"Oh Emily, what are you doing?" His voice was low and he stopped walking, half-turning to face her while still holding her close.
"Turner, it's all right…" she said again. Her blood was roaring in her ears as she offered up her lips to him once more.
He accepted her invitation and this time the kiss was deeper and longer. Passing cars tooted their horns but Emily didn't care; she was wrapped in the arms of a strong man, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to absorb every sensation and every touch, taking the moment into her memory for ever.
This time, when they broke apart, they didn't speak. Turner hurried her along the pavement to a taxi rank and they jumped in. A worry flitted through Emily's mind; he's going to find out where I live. But one look at his dark, hungry face, pushed the concern away. He was an ex-criminal, after all.
He didn't even look around her flat as she led him into the cosy, chaotic living room. He was upon her once more, exploring new ways of kissing, judging her responses. Hard, fast, slow, gentle, nibbling and pulling; together they meshed their lips and their bodies, standing central in the dim-lit room, illuminated against the uncovered windows, proudly displaying their passion to the night air of the North.
It felt as if every vein in her body was throbbing and fit to burst. She tugged at his suit jacket, pushing it back from his shoulders, and he let it slide to the floor. He countered by pulling at the waistband of her cardigan, drawing it up over her head, ignoring the buttons. It would stretch out of shape but she didn't care.
"Oho. If I had known you had nothing but a sexy bra on below that cardi, I would have taken you in the alleyway."
Emily ran her hands over his broad chest, up onto his shoulders, and down his muscular forearms. "If I had known that, I would have told you," she replied, encouraging him.
He stepped away to pull his own tee shirt off, and stood still for a moment, allowing her to take in his powerful body. She lingered, letting her eyes do the exploration. Then she unzipped her skirt and let it slither to the floor, revealing her stockings and simple black knickers. He didn't move, and she moved around him, drinking in his toned torso from all angles. On his shoulder blade was a dark tattoo and she reached up to trace it with her fingernail. "Regimental?"
"Yup."
She stayed behind him, snaking her hands around his belly and dipping under his belt once more, teasing him with her fingertips. He reached behind with his hands and grabbed her, stopping her.
"What's up?"
"Let's take this to the bedroom."
"That door there, to the right."
He wasted no time, once in her private room, in shedding his jeans and socks. He stood at the foot of her bed, his arousal clearly visible beneath his smart white underwear.
"Do you want me to undress?" Emily asked, letting her hands rest on her hips.
"Christ, if you don't, I'm going to bite the damn stuff off you with my teeth."
And that was it; all they needed to fall upon one another, tumbling on the bed in a flurry of limbs and passion. He threw her onto her back, while she twisted and entwined around him. They kissed again, not just lips but nipples, hips, back and neck. She fumbled for a condom but he was ahead of her, tearing open a packet and taking charge. She tried to respond as an equal player but this was Turner's game, now, and he set the pace.
His fingers sought her spaces and judged her readiness; she gasped out, "Yes," wanting to assure him she'd been needing him for some time. Hours, if truth be told. She wrapped her legs around his and tried to guide him to her.
He played, and taunted, teasing until she was begging, before he would relent. When he finally claimed her, she felt tears spring to her eyes and she tried to hold herself back: not yet, oh god…
"Is that all right?" he asked, his gentlemanly concern just a throaty growl. He went slowly, carefully.
"No," she blurted. "More, harder, please, oh god…."
His eyes narrowed and he thrust harder, and she squealed with each slam as the pressure built up. "Yes, that's it - keep going - yes…" She was aware she was babbling but she'd passed that point of caring, the point of no return, the point of ever being the same again.
"Emily…"
Hearing her name from his mouth was the final straw and she scrabbled her fingernails over his back as the rising tide within her became a torrent of stars and explosions. He, too, jerked as he could hold himself no more, and his sweat-soaked head was thrown back as he grunted and shoved in hard, deep, holding himself as the room spun around them both for a long, wild minute or hour or eternity.
Breathing slowed, time slowed. Emily became aware of the weight of him upon her, and pushed at him, so that he rolled off with a muted apology. There was the usual flurry of tissue and re-arrangement, and then they were in an awkward embrace, both unwilling to admit their limbs were cramped and tingling as they wrapped in each other's arms.
She lay awake, expecting him to leap up and demand a shower or a coffee or a taxi. But his breathing continued to deepen and she realised that he'd fallen asle
ep, his left arm up above his head and the sheets still half-tangled around his legs. She let her own eyes close, but her mind was whizzing and awake.
Eventually the pins and needles in her arm forced her to move, and she sat up, pulling the discarded duvet around her body. The lamp light from the living room filtered through the half-open bedroom door, and in the shadows his body seemed immense, even in sleep. His face was relaxed and gentle now.
Oh crap. What have I done? She thought about the article, and her lack of commissions, her money and her job prospects. Her enthusiasm for her work waned and waxed with no warning. She was exhausted from her mind-changing and her switching. Nothing felt right.
For a moment, she just wanted to run away from everything and go to do voluntary work overseas.
Turner was right. The social article was never going to happen. At least that meant what they'd just done was all right, then. There was some small consolation.
She drew her legs up and rested her chin on her knees, hugging herself, feeling suddenly small and alone. Turner slumbered on.
Did she want him to stay or did she want him gone? She felt too old to be having one-night stands. She'd said to Kayleigh that she was looking for The One, these days.
But this was no way to begin a relationship. If she was serious about him, she'd have got to know him. And if he was serious about her, he would have let her.
It should be so simple. A great night and hot sex. She sighed, and felt like crying, and still sleep did not come.
Chapter Four
Five am was a magical time to see any city. Turner strode with the confidence of a man who owned the night, nodding in allegiance to the handful of others he encountered on his way home.
He'd woken suddenly, heart pounding, the room unfamiliar around him, and for a moment the walls had closed around him. He remained still and rigid as the memories of the previous night had seeped back.
Delightful memories.
Emily had been wrapped in her duvet, her makeup smeared all down her face. He could almost imagine she'd been crying with those streaks of mascara on her cheeks. She looked so fragile and so beautiful and he knew, then, that he had to leave. Scum like him had no place in her life.
He moved with stealth, sliding back into his clothes before finding her bathroom. Then he'd left. No note, nothing. It was best this way.
He needed to walk, and to move, and to get his blood flowing. It was chilly, and the sun was near to rising, bringing a deeper darkness ahead of the light that would soon be creeping down the streets.
Emily was fun. He rolled the word around in his mind. It meant so much more to him that those three letters could convey. Fun. Not stressful, or demanding, or puzzling, or anything that could describe many of his exes. Just alive, and bubbling, and fun to be with. She challenged him but in an intellectual way, not a tedious way.
He wanted to sound intelligent when he was with her. He wanted to impress her and delight her, make her laugh and make her think.
The thought returned: She's a woman worth going straight for.
He kicked at a can that clattered with unnatural loudness into the gutter, and a street cleaner two hundred yards away looked up, his shoulders set in a bodily frown of disapproval. Turner strode on, outrunning his guilt.
It was too late, way too late.
He felt a blast of anger at Riggers. The emotion punched up from his stomach and almost winded him. If Riggers had materialised in front of him at that moment, Turner knew he'd be going back to prison for murder. He was angry at Riggers but also at Elaine for having got two children by the man. He was even, shamefully and wrongly, angry at his mother for getting ill.
And he was angry at himself for letting himself fall for a woman like Emily. He cared, and it hurt like knife wounds. Because he cared, he had to leave. If he didn't care, he could happily fuck her any time he pleased.
But not her. Not Emily. She deserved better than him.
Riggers, you bastard.
He lurched sideways into an all-night kiosk, where a dull-eyed teenage boy slumped behind a rack of chocolate bars. Impulsively he gathered up a range of newspapers, fresh that morning, and topped it off with two cans of something acidic and nasty to wake him up. He had to ask three times for a carrier bag from the slothful cashier, and his mood was still dark by the time he got home.
His street was quiet, just litter blowing across the road, though a few lights were showing in the windows and opposite, a television flickered in a living room. But the daylight was bringing grey steel to the air and soon the usual bustle would be beginning, even here, where hardly anyone worked and for many, daytime was just a lighter shade of boredom.
Turner's first act was a long, hot shower, followed by one of the cans of fizz and a large cup of coffee. Then he spread the papers out on the small pine table in the kitchen, and flicked through them indifferently. All he really wanted were the ads sections at the back: Situations Vacant.
Telesales, telesales, telesales. CEO, lollipop lady, telesales. Make £500 a week, call now, no name, no clue; obvious scams. He tore through the thin sheets in increasing frustration, his pile of clippings and leads woefully small.
It was a long, slow drag through to nine o'clock. Voicemail after voicemail, answerphones and empty silences.
It's Saturday, you fool.
Turner sighed as the realisation of his idiocy crept around his neck and he sank his head into his hands. What was the fucking point?
He must have dozed, or perhaps passed out, because then it was ten am and there was a furious battering on his door. He jerked upright, alert in an instant, ready to flee from the police.
But the shouting was from a familiar and equally unwelcome voice, and with a curse, Turner stood and went to the back door to let Riggers in.
"What do you want." He spoke it as a statement, not a question. You want nothing from me, nothing that I am willing to give.
Riggers was in the same old grey sweat pants, and a grey hooded top with expensive logos emblazoned across the chest. He pushed forwards from the alleyway behind the house, forcing himself into Turner's kitchen, smiling as if they were long-lost friends. Turner stood back to let him in, though he was still itching to punch him.
Why do I keep letting this little turd in?
He already knew the answer. Because he needed him. Turner felt ill.
"All right, matey? Been out, have you? You look like you've not slept. Nice one, nice one. Living it large, innit."
Listen to yourself, you little prick. Turner folded his arms, deliberately flexing his muscles, wondering if Riggers would be bright enough to notice his veiled threat. It was always a gamble. Riggers abused a variety of substances, which either clouded or heightened his senses, and it wasn't easy to tell how he'd see the world from moment to moment.
Riggers must have been either temporarily clean, or possibly on a slight amount of amphetamine, as he was alert enough to have noticed Turner's defensive posture and he said, "Hey, we're mates, eh? Any chance of a brew? Parched, I am."
Speed, then, was Rigger's choice of drug for the day. Turner spoke flatly. "No. I'm out of coffee."
Riggers spun around, his dilated pupils taking everything in. He spotted the half-full jar by the sink, and whirled back round to face Turner, his smile gone. "Okay, whatever. Looking for a job, are you?"
Turner glanced sideways at the papers scattered on the table. His intentions were clearly marked with inked circles and torn-out adverts. "Yes."
"Chatty, aren't you?"
"No."
"Why did you let me in then?"
"Curiosity."
"So?"
"So?"
They waited, Turner still leaning against the table, and Riggers darting his head around, little flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. "Come on, Turner. You're kidding yourself. Getting a job? Who the fuck's going to take you on?"
"I don't know. Labouring, anything."
"Pay's shit."
"Doesn
't matter. It's about self-respect. Oh wait, that's something you don't have."
"Yeah? I don't get why you're so down on me all the time. We're family, Turner."
Turner couldn't help the sneer on his face, and Riggers saw it. "Don't you look like that, like I'm dog shit on your shoe. We're family, whether you like it or not, and you have no cause to be looking down on me. We're the same, innit. In fact, I'm better than you and I am better than you think of me, right."
"How's that?" Even as he spoke, Turner knew he was stupid for even being drawn into the conversation. It was like a car crash or a horror film, and he couldn't look away.
"I'm around. I'm trying to be a dad to my sons - your nephews. Unlike you, I didn't get myself banged up, yeah. Who's been around while you've been lying about in prison, watching dvds and getting three meals a day? Me. Who took your mum to hospital to get her test results? That'd be me, all right?"
Turner looked at Riggers' little rodent face, all indignant self-righteousness, and nearly gagged on the bile in his throat. "Who put me in prison in the first place, you prick?"
"Your own stupidity, innit mate. Notice how I managed to not get sent down?"
It was true. Turner's innocence and inexperience in the world of crime had contributed to his downfall. It was a mistake he wouldn't make twice.
He opened his mouth to tell Riggers to leave, but his mobile phone began to ring, and he saw instantly that it was Emily; her name flashed large across the smartphone's screen, and Riggers' heightened alertness saw it too. Turner dismissed the call with a rub of his thumb, and shoved the phone into his pocket, but Riggers was already looking triumphant.
"Now I know why you're looking so shagged, mate. Because you are! Emily. Lovely name. Sounds posh. Is she? Well done. Nice one."
"Fuck off. Fuck off out of my house."
"It's nice to be with someone, innit? Like my Elaine, for instance."
"She's not your Elaine."
"I think we might give it another go. I've grown up."
Hidden Heart (Love Is The Law 1) Page 6