Surprise Package

by Donna Alam

  ‘Not,’ he retorts resolutely. ‘And I did’nae remember inviting you to. That’s my bed that you almost dragged me out of earlier by the dick.’

  ‘Ha. You’d be so lucky,’ I retort.

  ‘Lucky? Try confused. I might’ve been dragged into bed by it a few times, but never out of it.’

  I ignore his smirk and his dimple and the strange, squirmy feelings washing through me right now. It must be the whisky because this isn’t any kind of attraction I’ve experienced before. I don’t like men who annoy me.

  Do I?

  ‘You can take the sofa,’ I reply airily.

  ‘And you can think again.’

  ‘That’s ungentlemanly,’ I complain.

  ‘Says the woman who’s already manhandled my junk. That’s no’ very ladylike, feeling a sleeping man up.’

  ‘That was an accident! It was dark.’

  ‘Then you pulled my blankets away, no doubt trying to grab a wee peek of the goods.’

  ‘Now, that’s not true,’ I protest, even as my cheeks burn. Indignation, I’m sure. Yes, let’s go with that.

  ‘And now you want into my bed, but not before you demand I talk dirty to you.’

  Oh, well, he’s got me there. On both points, really, though I didn’t mean what I said earlier, even if his dirty game is . . . provocative. And with that accent? Extra points. And that voice? Gah! He sounds like he smokes cigars and sips whisky for breakfast or maybe that has dirty sex every morning before even thinking about bran flakes.

  Despite the friction between us, there’s just something so sexual about him. Something manly and so unlike the city boys I’ve been dating. Slim metros in tight trousers that don’t quite reach the ankle. Men who pay more money for a haircut than I do. What would a man like Greg wear in the daylight hours? Button-fly jeans tucked carelessly over rugged boots. Tight-fitting Henleys and flannel shirts, I’ll bet. Not that I’m complaining about how he looks right now. His pale T-shirt has been washed so often, it covers the thick ropes of his biceps and flat stomach like a second skin. And his pyjama pants? Let just say they don’t leave much to the imagination. I so don’t need to ask him how he’s hanging.

  Who knew clothing porn was a thing?

  ‘I’m not unreasonable,’ I begin, ignoring the rise of his sceptical brows. ‘And I don’t think you are, either, even if it looks like we’re stuck here tonight.’

  ‘I’m not stuck here, I live here. Sometimes.’

  ‘Whatever. And whatever the reason, we both have to stay here tonight. Together. Agreed?’ He does but only just. ‘We just need to decide how.’ He shrugs in acquiescence, his eyes sliding to the leather couch beyond the kitchen. Then he picks up the bottle behind him and tips more into his glass before silently offering to top up mine.

  ‘One more for the road, so to speak.’ His low voice rumbles as I hold out my glass. ‘It’ll help you sleep. I just hope you’re not a bed hog.’

  Chapter 5

  GREG

  Breasts. God, how I love ’em. And don’t get me started on nipples—pink buds, cherry ripened, plum peaks, or chocolate drops. Rolled between fingertips, extended by lips, and tortured by tongue. Used as leverage as we fuck. Delicious. Addictive. I never met a tit I didn’t like. A literal tit, that is. Never met one I didn’t want bouncing in front of my face or framing my cock. And the one that’s under my hand right now? I’m not quite sure if it’s a dream or real, but it feels fucking perfect.

  A dream. It has to be. I wouldn’t have a woman in my bed still in her bra. They’re pretty enough, especially when used to mount those creamy mounds of flesh on, but at the end of the fucking, I like them free. Free for my touch. Bras are useful and pretty, but they’ve no place in fucking unless I’ve used it to tie her hands. And if we’re sleeping together, your tits are fair game. I’m a snuggler, see. And the cheeks of your arse? Somewhere soft to rest my dick.

  And speaking of the favourite part of my anatomy, it stiffens as her nipple pebbles between my fingers, her soft, feminine moan amplified in the dark room. I lower my lips to her neck, sleepily expecting to find the silky warmth of her skin, only to end up spitting fur or fibres from my tongue.

  I’ve gone to bed with a yeti.

  But at least she doesn’t have furry tits.

  Yet this dream is bizarrely real. Her moan, the feel of her. The sweet scent of her hair. Or is it fur?

  It does’nae matter because you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Or a gift yeti in the titty.

  ‘Again,’ she commands, her voice sleepily suffused as she arches into my hand, her arse pressing into me. Her next breath is tight as I repeat the motion, lightly pinching the hardened tip. ‘Mmm, so good . . . ’

  The sound is like a reverse siren’s song, one that pulls me from the depths of my dream even as my mind resists, stubbornly holding on to this very sensual dream.

  ‘Why have you got so many clothes on?’ My voice is a rasp in the dark, my fingers plucking at the layers between us.

  ‘Shush,’ comes her response as she turns in my arms, her hips lifting and wanting, rewarded by the warmth and weight of my body resting against hers. Her legs fall open easily. She rocks into me, her hands seeking, needing, pulling the T-shirt from my head.

  ‘Your skin is so hot,’ she whispers huskily.

  You should feel my cock, I’m pretty sure I only think, not say, as my mouth finds a patch of skin at the base of her neck. She tastes like rain and soap and hot girl. I want her so badly.

  ‘Fuck yeah,’ I groan. And maybe I didn’t only think the invitation as her fingers curl around my stiffness.

  ‘So hot and so big.’ Her breath blows across my cheek as I push up onto my arms, rocking into her centre, her hand falling away, her body moving in a rhythm with mine.

  ‘Yeah. You want some of this.’

  ‘Yes, yes! There, right there . . . ’

  And I feel it, too. Want it just as desperately. I want to claw my way into her layers and lay claim to what lies underneath. And while her near breathless moans make me rock fucking hard, I don’t need her directions, not as her fingers pinch my nipple, the piercingly erotic sensation bringing me abruptly . . . awake.

  I go stiff—all over. Not just in the one place.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ comes her ragged plea beneath me, her legs wrapping around my waist. ‘Don’t stop, please. I want to . . . ’

  You and me both, darlin’.

  But I’m frozen, stock-still, not sure if she’s awake or asleep. This is all kinds of wrong—all kinds of fucked up—despite what my leaking cock thinks.

  Sleepy sex is one thing, but this has the potential to be a whole other something.

  Beside me, Isobel, my uninvited guest grumbles incoherently. The bed bounces a little as she sighs, throwing herself to face the opposite way.

  ‘Can’t hear the rain,’ I think she mumbles before releasing a tiny snore.

  Was she pretending?

  Asleep?

  Dreaming?

  As turned on as me?

  Not the first. Not the way my heart is beating.

  Nevertheless, my feet are on the cold floorboards before I can even think.

  I pull the bathroom door closed behind me, locking it as though the horny hounds of hell are on my heels. I don’t look at myself in the mirror as I pull my cock out of my pyjamas, cupping my aching balls with my free hand.

  ‘Fuck!’ I almost fucked her. And I probably already would have were it not for the ridiculous layers of clothes she’d put on before bed. She’d pulled them out of a leather weekend bag, which must’ve at one point belonged to Mary Poppins, before disappearing into the bathroom.

  So many fucking clothes.

  I told her she’d be too hot, but I didn’t mean the steamy, sexy kind.

  She’d looked like homeless person when she’d climbed into bed, pulling the duvet up to her neck.

  But you saw how fuckable her tits looked in that pink shiny bra with the tiny black ruffles.

  A
nd now you know what she feels like under those layers.

  You know how her body moves and what she likes.

  ‘Fuck, fuck!’

  I slide my hand over the crown of my cock, gripping it tight in my palm. It aches and swells hot in my hand before I slide back over my length, making the fucker throb.

  ‘Eungh.’

  When was the last time I was inside a woman?

  Too long ago.

  I wonder if she’s the type of woman whose knickers match her bra. That pink bra with its tempting wee ruffles. Would her knickers have ruffles, too? And I wonder what kind of knickers she prefers.

  Tiny ones, I’ll bet. The occasional thong.

  Christ, the memory of her tight little arse pushed up against me makes my stomach knot and my balls ache as I give myself a torturous tug.

  She looks like she takes care of herself. Firm thighs and a trim waist, tits stacked high.

  A good handful of woman, in more than one way.

  As the pressure builds, my teasing reaches its peak. I bring my hand to my mouth and with the flat of my tongue, wet my fingers. I run the moisture over swollen cock head and down over my length, then, with one hand gripping the base, I begin to jack.

  There’s a hot woman in my bed, and I’m wanking off in the bathroom.

  I must be mad.

  Or a deviant.

  My grip is firm as I slide and twist, repeating the action again, using my precum now to help with the drag.

  Her pussy burned through those layers right into me.

  I bet she’s wet.

  Maybe she’s in there right now touching herself.

  I work myself harder, my hand sliding from root to tip. My knees buckle, causing me to grasp the basin. I can’t help but look at myself then, dark eyed and slack jawed and more than a little desperate. I look like total shit, but this feels so good. My breathing harsh, I close my eyes as I imagine just how much better this could be.

  In her mouth. Those baby blues staring up at me.

  ‘Jesus . . . ’ My mind is filled with a montage of fuckery.

  My hand in her hair.

  Tits spilling from the confines of her pink bra.

  ‘That’s . . .’

  It.

  All thoughts are cut off, the wiring of my very horny brain short-circuiting as my hot, milky load shoots all over my stomach and hand.

  Chapter 6

  IZZY

  It’s still dark when I wake, and it takes me a few moments to remember where I am and, more to the point, why.

  Travelling.

  Weather.

  Sleeping with a stranger.

  Ah, yes.

  A strange decision to have to make, but it beat the alternative of a cold leather sofa and a small cashmere throw. But now that I think about it, I probably could’ve slept downstairs quite adequately if I’d just thought earlier to wear all these clothes.

  My head is almost buried between the mountain of pillows, so I prop myself up on my elbows and glance look down at my . . . yep, unmolested body. I’ve kicked the duvet to the very bottom of the bed, unsurprisingly, because I did go to bed wearing almost every item of clothing packed in my weekend bag including both a long-sleeved and a short-sleeved T-shirt, underwear, both knickers and a bra, the latter of which wasn’t exactly ideal sleepwear, yesterday’s sweater, a pair of thermal long johns, socks, and a pair of sleep shorts.

  So basically, I went to bed wearing the equivalent of a clothing chastity belt.

  Believe me, it was for the benefit of us both. It’s not that I think I’m irresistible or anything, and while Greg is certainly attractive, especially when his mouth is closed, I’m pretty sure I can manage to resist him. Just by engaging him in conversation, for instance. But if anything was likely to happen, it was more probable to do so while we were both horizontal and in the dark.

  Bullet dodged there.

  But that wasn’t why I went to bed fully and extra clothed. The thing is, past boyfriends have pointed out that, in my sleep, I can be clingy. One even went as far as to describe me as the human equivalent of ivy—something so grasping and invasive, I left him no breathing room. Smothering, I think he said. Needless to say, he wasn’t my boyfriend for very long. But I’d be mortified to think I’d behaved that way last night, hence my clothing chastity belt.

  And speaking of men I’ve slept with, I can hear Greg in the kitchen. It would be hard not to, given the racket he’s making.

  ‘What is that horrible noise?’ I ask, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Aye, very funny.’ Throwing a dish towel over his shoulder, he halts his rendition of Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’.

  Before appearing downstairs, I took a two-minute shower, tied up my hair, then pulled on clean jeans and a lovely soft, pale blue cashmere blend sweater and a pair of bright pink socks. So I suppose I’m surprised to see Greg standing in the kitchen still wearing the same pyjamas he wore last night. Though I’m not complaining. And not that he’d notice me all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed because yes, while I may also have added a little makeup, he’s barely looked up from whatever he’s doing in the kitchen. And also, his singing voice? It’s not really bad. Quite the opposite. Raspy and rough, the sound of it licks at my belly like a cat’s tongue.

  Yes, well, enough of that.

  ‘It is funny,’ I respond. ‘Because I’m pretty sure Tom didn’t sing about the joys of free balling.’

  ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ he says, beginning to whisk the contents of whatever is in the large mixing bowl in front of him.

  ‘What are you concocting?’ I ask, making my way across the room to lean my folded arms on the countertop.

  ‘Omelettes. Want one?’

  At the sound of his voice, I look up, pushing away the twisted ball of anxiety created by the thought of work and the office and all the things I’m supposed to do over the next four days.

  The sun from the small window behind him casts the hairs on his strong arms in a golden glow while also, unfortunately, highlighting the proud slope of his cheekbone.

  ‘Well?’ he questions, his mouth lifting so briefly I might easily have missed it.

  ‘No thank you, but I will take some coffee.’ I make my way around the counter into the small square of space where both Greg and the coffee machine are situated. ‘Where do you keep the . . .’ He turns to face me, and with a forced smile, he pulls open the cupboard door to the right of his head.

  ‘Mugs?’ The word comes out wavery with a giggle. ‘I see you found them, then.’

  ‘Yep.’ He leaves the door open as he turns back to the stove top, pouring the egg mixture into an already sizzling skillet. The air is instantly filled with the scent of eggs and herbs, my stomach immediately and audibly coveting the stuff.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want some of this?’ he says at the exact moment I stand on my tiptoes, leaning into the cupboard. Our bodies come together, stilling us both. I’m frozen, balanced on my toes with my breasts pressed lightly to his back. The smell of him—the scent of soap and wood and spice—seems to spark a fleeting, yet familiar thing, olfactory memories suddenly turning to auditory ones.

  You want some of this . . .

  The somehow familiar words curl around my ears and explode low inside my body like a series of small fireworks. I close my eyes, my mind filled with memories that can’t be mine. In the dark, hands and lips seeking skin.

  ‘Isobel?’

  He turns his head over his shoulder at the same moment I open my eyes. I’m suddenly aware how close we are and how full his lips are.

  Why does this feel familiar?

  ‘Have we’—I can feel my cheeks starting to heat—‘did we . . . no, never mind. I, erm, just need a mug.’

  Wordlessly, he reaches up, then passes a blue mug over his shoulder. I turn and rinse it, peeling off the sticker denoting it as new, which proves nothing, as far as I’m concerned. Turning then, I fill it almost to the rim with the black stuff. That’s cof
fee, not Guinness. Over the hum of the open fridge door, I hear Greg clear his throat.

  ‘There was, some . . . some over clothing touching.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ The carton of milk hits the countertop with a thump. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say at the same time he does.

  ‘Oh, no, this will be my fault,’ I answer, resignation heavy in my tone.

  ‘No, I think maybe I rolled into you first.’ He moves the skillet, turning to face me, folding his hands into his armpits.

  ‘Believe me, this isn’t the first time—’

  ‘I doubt this is either of our first rodeo.’ His rather sanguine cuts me off. And for the record, the way this man rolls his r’s sends my mind rolling into the gutter.

  Imagine the heights that rolling tongue could achieve.

  ‘You’ve had complaints, too?’ I ask, chancing a look up at him because, despite his reassurances, this is embarrassing.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say complaints.’ He rubs his hand across the back of his neck, gifting me with the view of one very pronounced bicep. Or tricep. Hell, it’s big enough to be both! But I’m not thinking about his muscles at all. Even if I have been molesting him in his sleep.

  ‘What would you say, then?’

  Everything south of my zipper clenches as he stares up at me from under his lashes for a beat. A beat that seems to last an eternity.

  ‘I’d say that sleepy sex is usually fun. Not that we got that far, just so you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ I answer with an embarrassed and rueful laugh. ‘It would’ve taken a lot of time or a pair of tailors shears to get me out of those layers.’

  ‘I reckon I’d have been up for the challenge had you been awake.’ His eyes sparkle dark and complicit, though it’s hard to tell if he’s being serious or having a little fun at my expense.

  ‘Yes, well,’ I answer, turning to face the small window. ‘It looks like we won’t be in each other’s hair for very much longer.’ Bright sunlight spills in from the high set window, so bright, in fact, that I find, despite the stone windowsill being at least a foot deep, I can’t bear the strength of it. ‘It looks like it turned out nice today.’