To Have and Hate

by Alam, Donna

  It’s not like I’ve been in love with all the men I’ve slept with, I reason as I try to make sense of these feelings. That’s also not to say I’ve slept with a lot of men, or that I’ve been in love a bunch of times, but I usually like the men I screw, at least. Which is possibly the reason I haven’t had sex in a while.

  But I find I don’t need a reason or an excuse right now. The sun is setting when we step out into the humid evening, its scarlet rays escaping through the swirls of dark clouds. His car is at the kerbside, the engine idling before the driver climbs out. I inhale as I turn, ready to speak when he cuts me off.

  ‘If you say well again, I’ll throttle you.’

  ‘That’s one way to end an evening, I suppose.’ I find myself smiling. There’s something about annoying him that calls to me; something that amuses the little devil sitting on my shoulder.

  ‘Get in the car,’ he mutters with an air of long suffering, but we both know where this evening will end. And those tingling nerve endings from before? In the close confines of the back seat, they increase tenfold. I don’t know where we’re going, but I imagine it’s either his place or a hotel. Or a dark warehouse somewhere far enough away from civilisation where the soon-to-be murder victim can’t be heard. The thought causes me to shiver and not in an entirely pleasant way.

  ‘Cold?’ His head turns my way, his question solicitous. I don’t even get to answer before the driver is adjusting the climate controls, the hum of it adapting immediately.

  We might be sitting side by side, but we’re barely touching, so maybe I am on the way to be murdered somewhere? I turn my ridiculous smile to the window and watch darkened snapshots of London blur by.

  It’s barely ten minutes before the car pulls to a stop in front of a pair of automatic gates, and in this time, Beckett has spoken a total of one word. It could be that I’m just really bad at reading the signals. If he wanted to fuck me—really have me like he said at the dinner table—then wouldn’t he have at least made the tiniest of moves? A compliment or even a caress?

  But nothing. Nada. Nope.

  The man is keeping his cards close to his chest.

  My gaze slides to him, though I don’t turn my head. Because if he likes to play games, I can play, too. I’ll play the I’m-far-too-sophisticated-to-be-concerned game.

  The gates are slow to open, and the driveway is a decent length as far as London property standards go, before the car pulls to a stop outside of what can only be described as a Georgian mansion.

  Well, here we are, I almost say. The interior light illuminates the small space as the driver climbs out of the car. But strangely, Beckett doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to open any of the other doors. I begin to wonder where the driver has gone, not that I technically need the help. I’ve gotten to the grand old age of almost twenty-seven without someone travelling a couple of feet in front of me to open doors like my hands are nothing but stuffed gloves. But what I could do with is a clue as I narrow my eyes and peer out into the darkness. At least until I feel the caress of his finger against the back of my hand.

  ‘You have freckles.’

  His voice is soft, the tenor of it drawing my attention as much as his touch. We both watch as his finger moves across the pale skin of my knuckles. With his head angled, I can see his hair is shorn short in an effort to keep it from its natural curl. His lips softly pout, his lashes casting dark shadows under his eyes as this thing between us, this animal attraction, swirls weighty and thick. It’s like the air around us is suddenly filled with an almost electrical charge.

  And then the light goes out.

  And everyone knows the darkness brings its own delights.

  His hand travels up the length of my arm, the pads of his fingers stroking the inside of my elbow. I inhale sharply, biting down on my bottom lip, refusing to give in to the urge to sigh. Who knew the skin there was so sensitive? The sensation of his soft, teasing circles radiates outwards, hardening my nipples under the gauziness of my dress and making them ache for attention.

  Is he testing me? Torturing me? Waiting for me to make the first move?

  There’s only one way to find out, and find out is the least of what I intend to do as I turn and press my lips to his. He kisses me back—more than returning the action. His hands slide into my hair as he holds my head immobile, and I find out exactly how soft his lips are. He tastes me. Teases me. Savours me like I’m a delicious dish. My head lolls back against the headrest as he draws away to press kisses along my jawline, one hand slipping to my breast.

  It’s then I have a bit of an epiphany. Maybe his kisses are where he aims to set his behaviour to rights. The confusing hot and cold thing, the things he said meant to shock and other bad behaviours. Maybe his kisses aren’t quite an apology but a means of showing me who he really is. But the insight evaporates as his clever fingers begin to tease my nipple, pressing and rubbing as he alternates gentle touches with a little pain. A nip of teeth against my ear, a slide of stubble against my neck, each movement oh, so controlled as he reads my reactions until I’m panting and wordless and minutes away from turning to liquid against the leather seat.

  As Beckett finds a particularly sensitive spot on my neck that seems to be inexplicably linked to a point pulsing between my legs, I arch, pressing my breast full in his hand as I moan shamelessly. With something that sounds like a growl of masculine contentment, he slips his hand down my body and grips my thigh.

  God, I’m so ready for this, but I hadn’t envisaged doing the dirty deed in his car. It’s a very nice car, but there’s also a very nice house nearby, no doubt with a very nice bed . . . or ten.

  But those thoughts don’t last either as his hand slips under me to bring my body on top of his. My knees on either side of his hips, I find my summery dress is nowhere near where it should be, and due to the height restriction, my chest heaves in his face. By his wicked expression and the way he draws his fingertips from knee to thigh, this is no happy accident.

  ‘Yes, touch me, please,’ I whimper as his fingers graze the edge of my underwear.

  ‘Such beautiful manners.’ Beckett watches me lazily from under his thick, dark lashes. ‘You colonials are so unfailingly polite.’

  It takes a while for his words to register, but when they do, I drop down and rock over him, causing him to exhale a harsh curse.

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t very polite.’ My voice sounds as though I’d taken up smoking during my formative years as I link my wrists at the back of his neck.

  ‘Fuck polite,’ he grates out, our mouths meeting in a rush as my body continues to undulate over his.

  ‘Oh, I think you want to,’ I taunt as hands grasp and teeth bite as this thing between us builds in the tight space.

  ‘By that definition, I suppose that makes you polite.’

  ‘I can be when the occasion calls,’ I rasp.

  ‘What about when the occasion calls for you to be a dirty whore?’

  ‘I don’t know. But maybe you can explain how that feels.’

  This battling conversation? It’s nothing more than foreplay, and as I grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back to give me access to his mouth, he exhales a stuttering curse. Under me, Beckett is all hard angles and slopes, and I can’t touch enough of him. The dip of his collarbone as I feed my hands under his jacket, the hard caps of his shoulders, and his pectorals as I slide my hands down. The proud outline of his cock pressing against my hot centre, making my panties wet as I rock against him.

  ‘Yes. Yes, like that.’

  My heart soars at his throaty direction, his body silently urging a repeat as his fingers tease my nipple through the gauze of my dress. I jerk with the unexpected sensation, my nerve endings drawing into tight knots.

  One minute, we’re writhing in the back seat, our movements hot and heavy, and the next, I’m on my back, and his hands are drawing away from my waist.

  Oh. This is it.

  We’re moving this from the car to inside his place.


  Good.

  Not that it hasn’t been good so far.

  Actually, it’s been a little trip down teenage memory lane if I ignore the smell of leather and expensive cologne . . . and the hands that seem to know exactly what they’re doing. Endorphins still raging, I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist . . . only for him to disentangle them just as quick as he sits up straight.

  ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, his tone as smooth as silk. Not so smooth is the way he jerkily straightens the cuffs of his shirt.

  ‘Thank you?’ I repeat but not in the same tone as I push up on one elbow, falling back again as it slips off the leather seat. My legs are in an undignified tangle as I try to right myself—my dress and my stance at odds with his very proper form as he straightens his jacket, pulling sharply on the lapels.

  ‘Yes, thank you for an enjoyable evening.’

  For an enjoyable . . . whatthefuck!

  I manage to sit, my movements stiff and erratic, partly because of the space issues and partly because I. Just. Don’t. Get. It.

  Or maybe I do, I think, my heart sinking along with my gaze. Maybe he’s the kind of man who’s all froth and no substance. The kind of man who arrives at the destination far too prematurely, if you know what I mean. But as my gaze sinks south, I see from the bulge in his pants and know that is not the case. It’s like he still has something stolen from the produce aisle shoved down there. And there’s no telltale wet patch, excuse my indelicacy.

  So, again. I. Don’t. Get. It.

  And it looks like I’m not getting it, either.

  ‘Dobson will take you home.’

  I think I’m making a face like a guppy as I manage, ‘H-home?’

  ‘Yes. It’s late, and you no doubt have lots to do tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow is Saturday,’ I answer automatically. But it doesn’t make one bit of difference as I’m not sure he even heard because the door is already closing at almost the same time as the driver’s one opens.

  ‘Where to, miss?’

  Chapter 7

  OLIVIA

  ‘He said thank you.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I repeat. ‘For services not quite rendered.’ And hell, yeah, I felt cheap. ‘Then he climbed out of the car.’

  ‘And where was the driver while this was going on?’ Reggie asks, her tone no less incredulous and almost squeaking down the phone line. I’m not sure if she’s enthralled or disgusted; it’s hard to tell because of the volume. But she’s definitely invested. And yes, I know. I know I said I wasn’t going to be able to speak to her this weekend, but it’s not like I could spend two whole days without getting this stuff out of my head.

  She knows. She gets it. I’m available for her emergencies, too.

  ‘The driver was standing outside. It was dark, and the windows were tinted so I don’t think he saw anything.’ Though I’m sure he heard my muttering as I cursed complaints all the way home.

  ‘Did it not strike you as a little weird? That the guy’s chauffeur was standing outside while you and the nutjob were getting freaky on the back seat? He could’ve had a camera or something.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I reply, worrying a thread hanging from the seam of my denim shorts.

  ‘Not to mention that the car was parked outside his perfectly habitable house.’

  ‘I know, it was all weird. The only thing I can say is that I was really into him, which is just weirdness on top of more weirdness because he isn’t even my type!’

  ‘He was rich. Rich is everyone’s type. And rich people get a pass for being weird. They even have a different label for it. Eccentric,’ she adds expressively. ‘I’m pretty sure eccentric covers ugly rich asses, too.’

  Her words make me think of the (definitely) elderly (possible) coke fiend in the restaurant bathroom.

  ‘But is he?’

  ‘Is he what?’ I ask, my mind still in the bathroom.

  ‘Ugly.’

  ‘No. He’s not.’ Sadly. ‘He’s hot.’

  ‘What kind of hot? Henry Cavill kind of hot or Tom Hiddleston kind of smoking?’

  ‘He’s definitely more Loki than Superman, for sure.’ But he’s really neither of these. He’s the debonair villain in a film noir. The irascible rake in a regency story. ‘It might’ve been easier if he was ugly.’ Or less straightforward. Less intriguing. Because, let’s face it, it wasn’t just his looks. ‘I might not have ended up in that position at all.’

  ‘Ooh, positions. Kinky.’

  ‘Clumsy, more like. We were in the back seat of a car, remember those days?’ While I’m seven colours of angry and twelve more colours of confused about last night, I’m also painting a picture that isn’t quite true. I might have ended up sprawled across the leather in a less than ladylike manner, but nothing about Beckett’s moves was unpractised. ‘As for kinky, unless this is some kind of serious delayed gratification thing, I think not.’

  ‘He left you high and dry and didn’t even share his name.’ Reggie’s words echo my thoughts. ‘What a douche. What will you do if you see him again?’

  ‘I’ll be sure to run the other way.’

  We both fall quiet before Reggie begins to speak quite animatedly.

  ‘I think I’ve got it! Maybe that’s his kink—getting you all hot under the collar, then withholding the D.’

  Beckett was contained and certainly controlled, but I’m pretty sure that’s not why he left me in the car feeling cheap.

  ‘Like a ten-dollar whore,’ I grate out some time later as I scrub nonexistent stains from the kitchen worktops, anger having manifested itself as an urge to clean. ‘Asshole. Big footed, big dicked, small-minded asshole.’

  Because that’s the conclusion I’ve come to. The only kind of coming I’ve come near to, so to speak.

  ‘The man couldn’t cope with a woman content in her own skin. A woman who owned her sexuality was a threat to him. There!’ With a decisive nod, I tell myself I’m right, and that the worktops are clean enough. On to the bathroom!

  At least the energy from my sexual frustration is being put to good use.

  Chapter 8

  OLIVIA

  Another Monday, another very important morning meeting, and another last-minute dash. This time, I blame the Uber driver for not knowing there’d be traffic on this route.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t take a shortcut?’

  ‘Madam, I have been in this country less than three months. I think it entirely better if we stick to the suggested route.’

  ‘But I’m going to be late.’

  I’m trying not to be a bitch, despite feeling bitchy. If Friday night was enough to make me turn into a mega bitch, this morning’s experiences have sent that bitch stratospheric. First, Jorge, the developer on staff, rang to say he’s discovered a glitch in the E-Volve back end. It’s going to be offline for an hour, which is a pain in the ass as I’d planned on demonstrating its use this morning at my meeting.

  ‘But late is always better than never,’ the driver advises with a sage waggle of his head. ‘Do you know that the traffic collision rate in Delhi is forty times higher than it is in London? Forty times!’ To emphasise his point, he bangs his hand on the steering wheel.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I answer, sitting back in my seat because straining forward isn’t going to get me there any faster. But it is giving me neckache.

  ‘One death every hour!’ he pontificates, his index finger held aloft. ‘I bless the good Lord for bringing me out of such a deathly place, and I will do my very, very best to keep my passengers safe.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I murmur, my eyes sliding to the side window. No sunshine today, but I’m not taking that as a bad omen, even as the rain begins to dash against the windows. And even if I can’t throw off the funk that’s lingered all weekend. As the driver continues his sermon, I consider leaving him a less than a stellar five stars before deciding I could do without a karmic hit.

  It seems to take forever to get where I
need to be, and despite figuring in extra time, I’m arriving once again by the skin of my teeth. With a quick thanks, I hop out of the car and make a dash for the steps, holding my three-year-old Burberry trench coat over my head as the rain shower becomes a deluge. On Friday, I arrived at the building sweaty because of the heat and my rushing, but this time, anxiety is to blame as a cold sweat breaks out against my skin. Also, my shoes are wet.

  Once inside the building, I shake out my coat, folding it inside out, then drape it over my arm. As I make my way to the behemoth front desk, I run my hand down my thigh, nervously straightening the wrinkles where the material of my skirt has pulled tight.

  ‘Olivia Welland. I have an appointment with Mark Jones of Jones, Beckett, and Wright.’

  Beckett.

  Oh, no. Fuck no!

  My stomach sinks to my shoes. But no, the universe isn’t so cruel. It’s just a coincidence.

  It has to be.

  The receptionist makes the call, murmuring into the handset.

  ‘Oh,’ I hear her remark. ‘Okay. Yes, I’ll tell her. Perhaps there was a mistake.’ Cue a second stomach swoop as her gaze flicks my way with a pinched expression. I straighten my spine and paste a don’t mess with me look on my face. I’m here to do business, and business I intend on doing!

  ‘Ms Welland? Mr Jones’ PA doesn’t have you down for today. Your appointment was Friday.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But I had a call from her asking me to return today.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But what I mean to say is that your appointment this morning is with Mr Beckett.’

  I think . . . I think I must look like I’ve swallowed half a lemon, half a lemon that feels like half a melon in my throat as I swallow down the word motherfuck while also trying to convince myself that this isn’t some massive cosmic shakedown. It’s just a coincidence. Beckett is a common enough surname—hell, Beckett might have even been his first name for all I know. Wouldn’t that make more sense anyway? That he’d give me his Christian name to keep up the whole secrecy thing? Also, on Friday, he was only near the building, not in it. He wasn’t at the meeting.