Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘Venez ici. Come here.’ It takes every grain of my restraint to encourage her to leave me with those few remaining brain cells. I pull her up, pull her mouth from me as she tightens her lips, releasing me with a smacking kiss.

  I waste no time pressing her back against the bed as, between us, we work off the rest of my clothing. Her hands reach for my shoulders as I press myself between her legs.

  ‘I want to feel you, skin to skin,’ I whisper, pressing kisses to the silken column of her throat as my fingers find her still plump and swollen. ‘I want to feel you pulsing around me.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s do it,’ she whispers, her hips tilting in invitation. ‘Let’s have babies. Let’s have dozens of them.’

  I halt, my brain lagging behind my willing body. Before I’ve even processed her response, she begins to shake under me.

  ‘God, your face,’ she laughs. ‘You looked like you were mentally reciting a pros and cons list.’

  ‘You . . .’ I narrow my eyes, unable to complete the rest of that sentence without spoiling everything. You are exceptional. I don’t care who you are, and I don’t care the lies I’ll have to tell to keep you here.

  ‘Are joking!’ she brings her hands to her face, finishing for me. ‘And I’m on the pill. I don’t sleep around.’ Do you? Her enquiry goes unspoken, but I hear it anyway.

  ‘The last woman I slept with was you.’

  And then there are no more words as I kiss her again, her hand reaching between us to feed me inside. The sensation is sublime, her soft slickness cradling me. I grit my teeth against the sudden desire to give in, to let her pull me under, my eyes rolling closed. As I fight the moment, I almost miss her reaction. Which would’ve been a shame worth crying over as she inhales a sharp breath, her words falling in a rush as she adjusts to my thickness.

  ‘I forgot how big you are.’

  ‘You’re about to get a reminder.’ I almost smirk, reining it in at the last minute for a modest smile. ‘Feel free to tell me how big my cock is anytime.’

  As she giggles. Oh, mon Dieu, the sensation.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming of this since our first time.’ Unable to resist, I rotate my hips, my pelvis brushing her slickly swollen clit. As I pull back almost to the tip, she makes the most wonderful sound, her pussy clenching around my retreat, her hands tightening on my shoulders as though she fears I might remove myself completely.

  As if that is even possible.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ I growl. ‘You are perfect.’ My hand skates down her body and behind her knee, her body opening for me like a hothouse flower.

  ‘Oh, Remy, that . . . that feels so good.’

  At her tone, my brain all but shuts down. I’m almost certain my eyes roll back in my head as her hot walls squeeze me again, a throbbing sensory memory of our first night. The night where it all began. I might have released her from my arms. I might’ve climbed out of her bed. I might then have turned my face from her, but she never once left my head.

  My body undulates against hers, and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen as she writhes against me, taking her relief. I slide out and push back in, rotate my hips, then repeat the process until she’s whimpering. I begin to drive inside her again and again until her whimpers turn to cries, her fingers beginning to score the skin of my back in a kind of torturous encouragement. Unable to get close enough, I cup her backside in my hands as I whisper a liturgy of filth in her ear. I feel the moment when it arrives, the moment her world comes undone, her pussy bleeding me of all I am worth. And, my God, that isn’t very much as everything narrows, leaving us just thig. My movements are frantic as I try to fuck my madness and possession into her. I want to be deep inside her, own her. Leave my mark. I want to keep fucking her until all that remains are our empty husks. The intensity builds with the collision of skin, growing and expanding until there is nothing but this—this moment.

  This joining in all its head emptying, muscle twisting glory.

  This exquisite and yet torturous release.

  19

  Rose

  The following morning—the morning following the afternoon spent in Remy’s arms, christening several surfaces including the piano (lid down after my butt played a few discordant cords) his pristine and tidy desk, the shockingly cold kitchen worktop, along with a little fooling around out by the moonlit pool—I feel the most content I can ever remember being in quite some time. I mean, it’s not like I’m one of those people who live for misery, the kind who looks on life as a glass half full. But for the first time, I feel like my glass is overflowing.

  The morning sun shining through the drapes gives Remy’s bedroom a silvery, almost ethereal feel as I slip from his enormous bed and pad over to the adjoining bathroom to brush my teeth, once again grabbing Remy’s discarded shirt to cover my nakedness. I’d more or less made the garment my own late yesterday, though as I press my nose into the collar, I realise with a tiny burst of pleasure that it still smells like him. Like rich and sensual, like bergamot, spice and the heady scent of his skin. It doesn’t, however, look quite so pristine, stained, and crumpled as it is in my reflection. My hair also looks like an opossum has nested in it overnight and I am definitely going to make use of my company scarf for the coming week. But those aren’t the things that catch me off guard because, as I close the bathroom door behind me, I realise I’m smiling.

  Smiling!

  Before seven a.m.

  On a workday!

  And ducking my smile into Remy’s shirt only makes me smile harder because it just smells so heavenly.

  I take care of business in a bathroom fit for a five-star hotel. Marble and chrome, dark cabinetry. The tub is matt black and big enough for a family, the double shower unencumbered by such trivialities as glass. It’s the kind of bathroom that has never once been offended by the sight of a greying washed-out towel, let alone run out of toilet tissue. I wash my face, then spread a little paste on Remy’s toothbrush, figuring I’ve had more intimate possessions of his in my mouth over the past eighteen hours. My own toothbrush isn’t too far away—just a few floors below—but I can’t wait that long. I give my hair a quick finger brush before deciding it’s too painful and giving up. Then I give my reflection a silent pep talk.

  I resolve to take this experience for what it is; to stay in the moment and let the future take care of itself. I’m in Monaco, in a hot man’s apartment—a hot man who has the hots for me. So. Much. Hot!

  Because for the first time in a long time, I have no prickling urge to creep out before my gentleman caller (ahem) awakes. Though I suppose I’m the “caller” in this scenario. A caller who isn’t ready to leave, let alone run far, far away.

  As I run the toothbrush over my molars, my mind slips to the day before and Remy’s description of how he’d tried to reach me, along with his sensitivity in the task—the way he’d considered how it might look to my new colleagues, and my reluctance to become the topic of any kind of office gossip. Colour me a little moved and impressed. Seriously, I find myself touched by his care and thoughtfulness.

  As I rinse, I realised I’m content, that my psyche isn’t preparing for any kind of internal freak-out. Our differences in station, income, or background don’t seem to matter right now. I mean, I’m not about to choose flowers for my bouquet, but I feel content in enjoying what this is, for however long it might last.

  It’s enough for now.

  Or so I tell myself as I make my way back to bed, avoiding the crushed cookies and strawberry stems discarded from our midnight feast. An empty bottle of champagne lies on its side, a small sticky puddle forming under it from where it’d been knocked over, not during the throes of passion, but when he’d begun to tickle me in retaliation for something snarky I’d said. I find myself blushing at the memory of how, as I’d laid back against the pillows to catch my breath, he’d reached for his glass, splashing the cool liquid between my breasts. I’d gasped in shock, everything inside me drawing tight as Remy bent forward, his tong
ue following the trail of the liquid . . . until he wasn’t following it anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how, with his mouth pressed low on my stomach, his eyes rolled up my body to meet mine, daring me to stop him. Even now, just thinking of it, I almost melt into a needy puddle.

  In the mirror, my cheeks appear flushed. My cheeks aren’t the only place blood has pooled to. But I have to work today, so I don’t have time to indulge myself in these memories. I also don’t have time to indulge myself in the real thing either, I consider, as I tiptoe back into the bedroom, hoping Remy is still asleep. Yeah, okay, that’s what I should be hoping for because I really do have to make it back to my apartment to get changed.

  I realise as I open the door that Remy isn’t still sleeping, hearing his voice before my eyes feast on him lounged across the bed. One hand mindlessly traverses the prominent ladder of his abdominals as the other holds his phone to his ear. His smile is almost infectious as he turns to me.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ He holds up his index finger, beginning to speak again, this time in English.

  ‘Ah, yes. Bonjour. Am I speaking to Olga?’

  My heart plummets, despite the worst rendition of an American accent I’ve ever heard. ‘What are you doing?’ I’m not sure if it’s my question or the frantic manner it’s delivered in that he finds amusing, though it’s not so hard to tell that he appreciates the sight of me wearing his shirt if the way his eyes keep dipping to the hem proves anything.

  ‘Ah, yes. Hello. This is Rose’s uncle—Rose’s uncle Fred!’ he adds, clearly pleased with his character’s name while also turning kind of British in his diction. ‘I’m afraid she’ll be coming in a little late today. I arrived in town last night to surprise her—an agreeable surprise, I should add. And well, let’s just say following our reunion she’s has some internal issues overnight.’

  ‘Remy!’ I hiss. No mean feat, considering I’m also smiling and also trying to steal the phone from his hand unsuccessfully as he holds me at bay with one hand. One tickling hand.

  ‘What kind of issues, you ask?’ And he’s back to the terrible American accent again. ‘Well, ma’am, I don’t like to say. Really? Oh, I see. Well, between you and me, she said it feels like her internal organs have been rearranged.’

  ‘Remy!’ I protest again without volume. I mean, he isn’t lying, but that isn’t the reason I drop dramatically to the bed. ‘Kill me now! Being fired isn’t enough to escape this embarrassment.’

  His gaze cuts my way. One eloquent eyebrow raised, his way of reminding me he’s the boss, I suppose. Oh well, no need to worry about being fired, just dying from mortification, I guess.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell her that, though it does seem a little unfair. In fact, I think I might need to mention your thoughts to the folks at the top. Come to think of it, I met one of your top guys last night. What was his name again? Let me see. Jimmy something, I think. Jimmy? Timmy? I’m getting there—there’s no need to take that tone with me. Ah, Remy! Remy Durrand,’ he says, mispronouncing his own name. Doo-raand. ‘Seemed like a decent fella. In fact, he said I could just go on ahead and call his personal assistant, Miss Bisset if I needed anything.’ Miss Bee-set. ‘Well, that’s mighty good of you. I’ll be sure to pass on your words to my squeeze, I mean, my niece. You have yourself a nice day.’

  ‘I’m dead,’ I groan, crossing my hands across my chest as though a corpse, only to throw them up in the air almost immediately. ‘Oh my Lord, what even was that?’

  ‘That was your line manager, not God, ma biche.’

  ‘Did you just call me your bitch?’ I lift my head from the mattress and glare at him. I’m nobody’s bitch. Unless I say so.

  ‘Biche,’ he corrects in that sinful accent of his. ‘It means doe. It was meant with affection. Like honey, or sweetie, or babe.’

  Worst. American. Accent. Ever.

  So long as he’s not calling me dough-y, not that is the only potential issue here. ‘Speaking of line managers, did you not think to ask my opinion before deciding I’d play hooky?’ My gaze flicks to my thighs poking out like undercooked sausages from the bottom of Remy’s shirt.

  ‘You’re perhaps less doe and more leonine, especially the way you’re glaring at me.’ His darkened gaze rakes over me, the brush of his gaze almost a physical thing.

  ‘Except you’re not looking at my eyes.’ Maybe he’s right; my response is more purr than reprimand.

  ‘What do you think has my attention?’

  His question strikes a sudden chord within me. What exactly is it exactly that interests him? Is it the sex? Is it the novelty? Could it really be me?

  ‘What are we doing here, Remy?’

  ‘We are . . .’ A suggestive smile plays in the corner of his mouth. ‘Enjoying ourselves.’

  ‘No, really. We’re enjoying ourselves—enjoying each other. But what about tomorrow, and the day after that? Will you go back to you ignoring me in hallways?’

  ‘I preferred getting you hot on my desk.’

  ‘And afterwards?’ I sit quite suddenly. I turn to face him, curling my legs as I pull the hem of his shirt down my thighs. ‘What happens when things start to wane between us?’ And what if it’s his interest that begins to fade first? Which would be worse; losing my job, or staying to watch him move on? I grit my jaw, refusing to give in to the emotion welling inside me. So much for staying in the moment and enjoying this for what it is.

  ‘You don’t think very much of me, do you?’

  ‘I barely know you.’ My gaze falls from his with this truth, a truth my head and body seemed content to ignore a few hours ago. I knew what I was getting myself into—I knew the score—but I have to be woman enough to say what I feel as I force myself to meet his eyes once more. ‘And you barely know me, or you wouldn’t have rung Olga without clearing it with me first.’

  ‘Point taken.’ He inclines his head, almost as though he thinks I’m being cute. ‘I’ll try to restrain some of my urges around you.’

  ‘Try or will?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know what to think, beyond the fact that I’m here by some kind of cosmic accident after what happened between us back in March. But as for what happens now.’ My words dry up, my mind beginning to race.

  ‘Why are you thinking about this ending before it has even begun?’

  ‘Maybe I worry that this is what you do. That you’ll creep out again when I fall asleep.’

  ‘You forget, this is my bed.’

  ‘Figuratively, then. You don’t really know me, and I don’t know you, and we’re both from such different places. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it shouldn’t have gone beyond that night back in March.’ As I’m saying this, that emotion welling? It turns to anxiety, to fight or flight. And guess whose legs are sliding from the bed . . .

  Well, not mine as he lunges for me, and I find myself almost instantly under him, the change of position so fluid it’s almost as though it’s part of a choreographed dance.

  ‘Neither of us are going anywhere.’ His shoulders are so wide and so strong, his body bent over mine like an arc of sunlight spilling across the room.

  ‘For now.’ Why do my words sound like a dare?

  ‘You’re right. You don’t know me because if you did, you’d know how hard it was for me to leave you that night.’ My intake of breath is sharp, his body meeting mine, his weight balanced on his forearms. ‘You were so kind to me,’ he murmurs, pushing away my hair to cradle my face. ‘Kinder than I can ever remember anyone ever being. But I was only in town for that week, so it seemed kinder to leave that way. For one of us, at least.’

  ‘It was almost as though you’d been a dream.’ My heart rises to my throat along with the admission.

  ‘A dream. I like that. A dream made real once again.’

  As his head dips, my response is almost a whisper against his lips as I try not to let myself get swept away. ‘If you’d stayed, I would’ve at least made you coffee befo
re kicking you out.’

  ‘Not the coffee.’ His expression turns almost pained, though I’m pretty sure my giggles are more relief than amusement. Relief that he hasn’t challenged the way I try to protect myself. ‘I think we both recognised, even back then, that the night was special. But I promise it wasn’t disinterest that made me leave. It seemed so impossible. And you’re correct. I don’t lead an ordinary life. I decided you didn’t deserve to be dragged into it.’

  ‘Yet, here I am.’

  ‘Yes. Here you are.’ The green of his gaze is so vivid as it roams over me with a belly-licking kind of warmth. ‘And now that the gods and the cosmos have intervened, I’m not letting you go.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ I press my palm against the centre of his chest as he lowers his forehead to mine. ‘I think you’re kind of sweet.’

  ‘Sweet?’ he repeats, though his tone isn’t the same.

  ‘Kind of,’ I correct. No need for him to get a big head.

  ‘I don’t think anyone has ever referred to me in such a way.’

  ‘Not even your mom?’

  ‘Especially not her.’ There’s a story, though not one for today.

  ‘Well, I think you’re sweet. Especially when you’re pretending not to know people who pass you in the hallway.’

  ‘It wasn’t my finest moment,’ he agrees. ‘Forgive me, I was shocked.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is asshole.’

  ‘I thought I was sweet.’ His words are delivered in a whisper to my neck. A whisper, a lick, a graze of his teeth, the kind of attentions that make me tremble under him.

  ‘You are sweet.’ I swallow deeply at the feel of his body pressed against mine. ‘You bought me a three-thousand-dollar coffee machine. A beautiful robe, which I now have the perfect apartment to glide around in while wearing it. And such beautiful flowers, and coffee, and a spa membership, which I hope you’ve gotten a refund on. But what I don’t understand is, why you thought to do all this for me? To send me these gifts.’