by JC Harroway
‘I told you, the car was a gift for my cousin. And I haven’t thought what I’ll do with him beyond today.’ Another shrug, but his body is tense, defensive. ‘He’ll pay his way, I guess, or I’ll sell him.’
‘So why buy a racehorse for a single race if it’s not a particular hobby of yours or a dream to fulfil?’ I can’t let this go. The dog food was cute, the drum kit for the boy heartbreaking but understandable, given what he’s hinted at about his own spartan upbringing with his single-parent mother. But this? It’s deeper than lavishly throwing around money.
‘Why does this bother you so much? I can afford to buy ten racehorses if I want them. I’m living the high life.’
I ignore the jibe I could interpret as some sort of comparison. ‘Are you? Or are you running from something?’ I sigh and touch his arm to show him that, although I’m crossing a line here, I’m doing so because I care. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to upset you, I just... I can’t stand by and watch you struggle with your inheritance. There are ways I can help.’
I see the look on his face, an expression I’ve never seen before on easygoing, laid-back Cam—cold, hard anger. ‘Well, thank you for the unsolicited financial advice but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not some schoolboy with a winning lottery ticket.’
‘No, but you don’t care about the money either, do you? It’s because it’s his, isn’t it? Your father’s?’ I’m walking a fine line here, but I ache for him. ‘That’s why you’re blowing it with private planes and racehorses and fast cars. You’re not at peace with it.’
He’s still angry, malice glittering in his beautiful, expressive eyes. A desecration. ‘What makes you think I’m struggling? I’m having the time of my life, aren’t I? World-class luxury, every hedonistic pursuit known to man, and a beautiful woman on tap, for whenever I want a good fuck.’
My hand curls into a fist and I’m tempted to slap him, but he’s clearly hurting, lashing out. I’ve backed him into a corner and he’s fighting for his life. I step closer, when I’m certain he expected his harsh words to drive me away. ‘One minute you’re passionate about the underdog, tipping the hotel staff, making some kid’s drumming dream come true, even taking time to play with abandoned dogs, and the next you’re blowing millions of dollars with a cavalier attitude. We’re all complex beings, but this,’ I wave a hand at the racehorses, ‘isn’t you.’
His eyes dart, some of the anger leaving him, as if he’s warring with some internal demons.
The race is about to start, so I’m aware my timing sucks. But is there ever a good time to feel exposed? Don’t I feel the same way every time he pushes me to talk about my father or brings me to account over my workaholic tendencies? Every time we’ve been intimate this past week, as if with each searing look he peels away another layer of my armour? Every time I peer into the future and see a terrifying glimpse of a life I thought I was long past craving?
I lean up against the rail, pretending to watch the race I’m no longer interested in. I feel his struggle in the tense air between us, and regret makes my posture deflate. I want to close the gap. To touch him again. To offer physical comfort if he won’t accept my emotional support. He’s there, right beside me, but may as well be miles away.
‘You’re right.’ His sigh carries in the dry air, my hearing highly attuned to the strain and defeat in his voice. ‘The inheritance was from my—’ he makes a fist and then relaxes it as quickly ‘—my father.’
I hold my breath, desperate to hear what he’s finally decided to tell me, but feeling every blade of his pain. It’s my penance for pushing him, for caring this much, for breaking my own rules.
‘I didn’t want it. Why would I? From a man I never knew? A man who considered my existence irrelevant, who held little score in the values of integrity and family commitment.’
A man so unlike him.
He turns to face me then, both of us deaf to the starter gun and the roar of the excited crowds as we hold each other’s eye contact with brittle and fragile force.
‘I’m sorry, Cam. I understand. I can see how you might harbour resentment for your childhood, but your anger won’t make a difference to what’s done. There are other ways to compensate.’
He presses his lips together, but I see in his eyes that he’s heard. He’s a smart man; he’s probably told himself the same thing a thousand times.
I plough on. ‘Perhaps he was sorry. Ashamed. Perhaps leaving you that money was his way of apologising. The only way he knew how to reach out to you after having left like he did.’
I’m shocked speechless by the venomous expression souring his face. ‘Well, neither of us knew him, did we? Maybe he just wants to control me from the grave. To disrupt my life, which by the way was pretty near perfect before all of this, and dictate how I live. Just because money was the most important thing in his life. I’m not him.’
‘Of course you’re not him. You’re wonderful. I’m just trying to point out that there are other things you can do with your money.’
‘His money. You know, Orla, you more than anyone should understand what it’s like to have a manipulative parent.’
I ignore his reference. I’ve laid him bare and he’s lashing out again. And, of course, he’s right. My father has done his fair share of damage. My shoulders slump. Am I still jumping through my father’s hoops? Is that what drives me still? Yes, maybe in the beginning...but now, when I’m more successful than ever, more even than he is?
But this isn’t about me.
‘Why are you so convinced your father wanted to control you? Why isn’t it just a gift? A way to make amends?’
‘Gifts are yours to do with as you please. They’re not conditional. They don’t chain you.’
I think about my earrings, the gift designed to send me away, quietly and without a fuss, from a role that was mine by rights. A gift I wear to remind myself that we don’t always receive what we deserve, and that not everyone, even those who should do, sees the real us.
‘I know that.’ My voice is small, because Cam’s touched a nerve.
‘Without conditions I could do what I like with it, but he put a clause in the will which prevents me from giving more than twenty-five per cent away. I couldn’t even donate the entire sum to the hospice that nursed my mother through her last days. Even from the grave, he still cares more about that money than he does about me or his ex-wife and mother to his only son.’
His smile is so vengeful, my stomach turns. ‘I’d stake my life on the fact that he would detest what I’m doing with his billions,’ he says. ‘Frittering it away with a cavalier attitude, as you called it.’
A brittle silence settles between us. He’s right. Neither of us knows his father’s intent.
I grow hot under Cam’s focus. I want to rewind, to start over, to hold him until I’ve chased away the distress I’ve put in his eyes. But how do I repair the damage? We’re not a real couple. We only have a few weeks of shared history to fall back on, most of that superficial and impersonal, at my insistence. Why would he seek comfort from me of all people? And I shouldn’t offer it, not after admitting that my feelings are dangerously ensnared.
But...
I glance down at the racetrack. The race is over. ‘I’m sorry, it looks like Contempt of Court lost.’ I turn back to face him, seeing him, understanding him in a whole new light. ‘You’re right though—it’s a perfect name.’ A two-fingered gesture to a man he can’t confront any other way.
All the energy drains from my body. I’ve messed up. I should have known Cam would never do anything frivolous or erratic. He’s the most thoughtful and considerate human being I know. This is what happens when I forget my rules. This is what I hoped to avoid by keeping things purely physical. This feeling of failure. That I can’t do this. That relationships just aren’t my strength.
I should stick to what I know.
‘Do
you want to get out of here?’ I want to touch him, to show him my regret for both his situation and for drawing out his secret pain. I want to get back to where we were this morning. Restore my own equilibrium and his in the only way I can allow: physically.
But not here.
His struggle to let go of the things I’ve dragged up passes over his face, but he finally nods and I gather my bag and hat.
The journey is tense, quiet, stomach-churning. Back at the M Club in Dubai’s downtown, I assume we’re heading for our room, but without comment Cam takes my hand and leads me to the basement club, which is alive with the insistent beat of some dance track. The last thing I want to do is dance, to pretend that everything between us is okay. But perhaps that’s exactly what I need to do. Pretend. Pretend this is still about no-strings pleasure.
I follow him, weaving through the crowds of clubbers.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ says Cam, his voice hard, all that lovely deep and sexy resonance rubbed away. ‘I’ve reserved one of the private rooms.’
I nod, my heart heavy, but I follow him to the club’s perimeter, where discreet private booths are located. The interior is decorated in signature M Club black—a womblike space, a fully stocked bar, a wide and sumptuous sofa, an adjustable PA system so the volume of the thumping music can be altered to personal taste or allow conversation, and a wall of one-way glass, to ensure absolute privacy, even as the occupants feel part of the club’s vibrant atmosphere with a view of the dance floor.
Cam hands me a Scotch, knocking back his own in a single swallow. He doesn’t adjust the volume of the music, but I don’t think we’re here for conversation.
I take a mouthful of my drink, my mind scrambling for something to say. I want to make things right between us. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. I shouldn’t have lowered my guard enough to care. But I do.
‘Cam, I’m sorry.’
His fingers settle against my mouth. He hushes me as he glides the pad of his fingers across my sensitive lips.
He takes my glass and drains what’s left and then replaces his fingers with his mouth, parting his lips to allow a trickle of the liquor to pass from his mouth to mine in a decadent, provocative kiss.
I swallow, my lips clinging to his in silent apology. His kiss turns demanding, his tongue probing while his eyes burn into mine as if begging for something. Silence? Understanding? Escape?
He pulls back. ‘I don’t want to talk any more.’ His hands settle on my hips and his body starts to move to the pounding beat of the dance track. I move with him, lost in the intensity in his eyes, deep, dark desire concealing the earlier pain. I clutch the lifeline. The desire. It’s easier to chase because I want him, despite my other, harder-to-name feelings. Our need for each other is the only stability left now everything else feels as if it’s shifting underfoot.
He wants to hide. To retreat behind what we do, what we know—how to make each other feel good. I do too. Haven’t I done the same myself, more than once? Used him in the same way? Isn’t a part of me doing exactly that now? Avoiding the treacherous thoughts of us being more than this?
This whole proposition began because I wanted a distraction, and now so does Cam.
I loop my arms around his neck and kick off my sandals, my hips matching his rhythm, which is confident and inherently sexy—like everything else about him. He bends so low, our lips brush as we move, not quite a kiss, but somehow more, a presence, a reminder that the other person is there, breathing the same air.
His hands curve over my backside, his fingers curling and bunching up the silk fabric of my dress as he grinds me against his hard length. ‘Turn around,’ he murmurs against my mouth, his hard stare glittering with now familiar challenge.
I obey, pulse leaping. When I’m faced away from him, his big hands on my hips and my hands looped around his neck behind my head, I push my ass back to torture him some more. Him and myself. Because he’s hard and ready for me and I want him, as always.
We dance on, my back to his front, one of his arms around my waist and the other hand on my hip as we sway together in a way that’s more foreplay than choreography and would be completely prohibited in any other establishment in this country other than here in the privacy and decadence of the M Club.
The track changes, seamlessly blending into one that’s more sensuous. No longer content to merely tease, I drag Cam’s hands north to cup my breasts through my dress. He gives me a hint of friction, his thumbs and fingers rolling my nipples, but it’s not enough. I want more. I always want more of the way he makes me feel.
But can this, just this, ever be enough?
To switch off my mind, I tangle my fingers in the hair at his nape as I rest my head on his shoulder and turn my face to his, begging for his mouth.
‘Cam.’ His name sounds like a plea and it is. A plea to drag me with him into oblivion, to guide us both until we’re lost in sensation. Because otherwise I’ll think, and thinking about this man, and the way I am with him, is as addictive as it is foolish.
Cam presses his mouth to my neck, below my ear, and judders wrack my body—he knows how sensitive I am in that spot, knows it turns me on to feel his scruff against my skin and hear his breath panting because he feels the same need.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I say, twisting so I can capture his mouth, touch my tongue to his, swallow the sound of the low groan he lets free. I want to ensure everything is right with us after our fight. I want to know he’s still with me, still happy to travel to Singapore and then on to Sydney, our hometown, where this heady whirlwind will come to a natural end.
As if it’s still part of our dance, Cam nudges me forward, following close behind until I’m only inches in front of the wall of one-way glass that gifts us a panoramic view of the club. Before I can repeat my desire to take this upstairs to our suite, his hands slip to the button between my breasts and he slowly undoes one after another.
I gasp, the rational part of my brain tricked into believing the people dancing only a few metres on the other side of the glass can see us.
Can I do this? Here?
The answer is as clear as the window in front of me. The same answer as every other time Cam’s challenged me, or I’ve challenged myself.
Yes.
‘Tell me to stop.’ Cam speaks against my throat, his lips a sensual glide and his chin prickling my nerves alive.
Stop is what we should do. Not just this display of exhibitionism, but also the arrangement we made. Before I slip any deeper into the building feelings and before we push each other to expose more than we can recover from.
‘Tell me to stop.’ He presses his erection between my buttocks and I brace my hands flat on the glass, pressing my lips together to hold in the words. Because I want him. In any way. All the ways it’s possible to want someone.
I ignore the racing of my heart and the spike of adrenaline warning me to pull back. His hands continue with the buttons, his hips still swaying to the beat behind me, where I’m too turned on to do more than hold my body upright and glory in the decadence of his touch. While he scrapes kisses up and down my neck, he scoops the cups of my bra down, exposing my breasts.
The cool air hits me and I gasp at being naked here, in front of strangers.
With a grunt, Cam presses up even closer so I’m shunted forwards the last inch and my bare nipples touch the frigid glass. I groan at the foreign sensation. But I have no time to absorb the pleasure, because Cam slips one hand between my legs and delves inside my lacy thong to stroke my swollen clit, which is aching and ready.
‘Tell me to stop,’ he says, gruff, his face buried against the side of my neck. I hear him inhale deeply, sucking in my scent, and I almost smile, because I’ve done the same thing a hundred times, sniffing his sweater left on a chair or his tousled hair while he’s asleep.
At my answering moan, he taps my foot with his and b
unches my dress around my waist from behind, his intentions clear. He’s going to do this, right here. And I want him with equal desperation.
I spread my feet wide, excitement rising when I hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of his zip. I can’t believe we’re doing this, but it’s as if we both need the reminder of why we’re here and only this—hot, demanding sex—will reset the boundaries.
His hand shifts from between my legs, and I cry out at its loss, only to press my mouth up against the glass to stave off the pleasure of his fingers, which he plunges inside me from behind, as if testing my readiness.
‘Cam, yes. I’m ready. Do it.’
His fingers disappear and I feel the fat head of his cock nudge my entrance. I tilt my hips back to allow him access, my palms pressing against the glass for leverage. He’s going too slowly. I want to control the pace. To chase away our fight and my own confusion.
I feel him enter me, just an inch or so, and it’s not enough.
‘What are you doing to me, Orla?’ he grits out, his fingers digging into my hips. ‘Tell me to stop.’
‘I don’t want you to stop,’ I cry. As to what we’re doing, I have no answers, because whatever I’m doing to him, he’s doing to me tenfold. I’m more alive when I’m with him, more myself than I’ve been in years, so long I’ve almost forgotten how it feels.
He surges inside with a protracted groan. I brace my palms against the glass as he drags my hips back to meet the thrust of his hips. His possession fills me and in that moment I want to be more to him, although I can’t define in what way. I just know that if he walked away tonight, after our fight, I’d grieve more than his company and the regular, earth-shifting orgasms. I’d grieve his loss.