Читать книгу Dirty Little Secrets - Kierney Scott - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMegan looked at the clock on her phone. It was nearly midnight. She should be tired, but she was just hungry. She had had a bag of Fritos and a Snickers bar out of the vending machine, as well as some tar-like substance they were trying to pass off as coffee.
She should have gone home. But she didn’t. Instead she phoned Ben and explained the situation and told him she would be staying to drive James home and then get a cab back to her house.
She had made it as far as the parking garage before she realised James would not be able to drive home with a cast, so she turned around and went back to the ER waiting room. She kept her head down most of the night. The last thing she needed was to be recognised by a former defendant or complaining witness, and the Emergency Room was the most likely place she would see either.
“Mrs. McCoy, Mr. Emerson is being discharged if you want to go back now,” the nurse on the front desk informed her. Three times the nurse had asked Megan if she wanted to go back to the examination room with James. And three times Megan had declined. She suspected the nurse kept offering to see if Megan would provide an excuse. But she didn’t because she didn’t have to.
When she pulled back the curtain, Megan found James fumbling with his phone. He was trying unsuccessfully to balance his mobile on his leg while he dialled with his right hand. When he lifted his head, a look of confusion flashed in his moss-coloured eyes.
“I thought you might need a ride,” she explained.
“Have you been here the whole time?”
She nodded.
“Thanks. I could use a lift. I can’t even manage to dial a cab so chances are I’m not safe to drive a motor vehicle. This is surprisingly heavy.” He pointed at his arm.
“I thought you just broke your hand.” The cast extended nearly to his wrist.
“I did. All this for a broken metacarpal. The child prodigy, I mean my doctor, said it is called a Boxer’s Fracture. Apparently I should have wrapped my hand before I punched that asshole. Seriously, that was his advice.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m just glad boy wonder was able to get it back in place. Otherwise I would have needed surgery. And I think it was past his bed time.”
“I am sorry about tonight,” she said again.
“Stop apologising. You didn’t break my hand.”
“I know. But I sort of dragged you into something. And I was a bitch.”
“I never get dragged where I don’t want to be. And nothing wrong with being a bitch. Sometimes that’s just the way it has to be.” James rose from the bed and grabbed his suit jacket on the back of the chair.
“Yeah well, I’m still sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Thanks for waiting.”
“Well, it was kind of the least I could do after what you did for me.” She paused before adding, “It was really…um…great of you…and I appreciate it.” She clamped her mouth shut before she could say anything else. She was not used to expressing gratitude towards anyone but Ben. With her husband it was easy, nothing said thank you more than the latest issue of Fist ‘accidently’ left under a pillow. But James did not seem the type to appreciate gay porn.
“Any man would have done the same. You don’t hit women. And if you do, there is going to be a bigger man to beat on you.”
Megan could not think what to say, which was unusual for her, to say the least. The issue was too close to her, the incident too fresh. She knew from experience that there were far too many men ready to hit a woman and very few who would step in and stop it. They might think they would, but when it came down to it, most men—no most people—chose to ignore things that made them uncomfortable.
“So where do you live?”
“In Georgetown, not too far from you actually.”
James had not been kidding, he lived just over a mile from her in an impressive redbrick colonial.
“Come in for a drink,” he said as she pulled into the drive. The lights from the patio came on from a sensor, illuminating the path to the front porch.
“I should get home.”
“You need to call a cab anyway,” he said. “Unless you feel more comfortable waiting here in the car. I get that. I’ll call a cab. Just put the keys through the letterbox when you go. Nice meeting you, Megan McCoy.”
He offered her his hand to shake. She stared at it, momentarily forgetting social etiquette. He thought she was scared of him. She stopped being scared of men years ago. She was wary, she was safe, she was pragmatic, but she was not scared. Intentional or not, his words were an explicit challenge to her. “I would love a drink.”
James’ eyes widened, clearly not expecting her to take him up on the offer. “Great.”
James struggled with his keys as he adjusted to using his right hand for the task.
“Let me.” She took the keys without being offered.
“A woman who takes charge.”
“Always,” she said.
She was surprised by his décor. She expected a typical bachelor pad with leather sofas and a flat screen television the size of a compact car, or fully kitted out in IKEA. Thankfully, the reality was entirely different. The house was classic and understated, hardwood floors with pale throw rugs dotted about. The walls were covered in paintings that ran the gamut of artists: impressionists, modern, to neoclassical. There was no television in sight, instead there were bookcases crammed full of works. She was impressed; few people had more books than she. Ever since she had had a disposable income, her biggest monthly outgoing had been books, and she didn’t part with a single one. Once they were read, they were placed on the book shelf, never before.
“Red or white wine?” James asked as he laid his suit jacket on the back of a chair.
“Red, please.”
“Good, cause I have a bottle open. Not sure I can manage to open the white. That is one way to slow down an Aussie, break his bottle opening hand.” Half of his mouth hitched in a crooked smile.
Her back stiffened, “Do you drink a lot?”
“By Australian standards? I would say I’m verging on teetotal.”
“And by American standards?”
“The Yanks are a funny bunch. A couple drinks with dinner and they start staging an intervention. I reckon most people who drink are alcoholics by American standards.”
She was not going to let the issue go. Alcohol misuse was not something she took lightly. Not that she took much lightly. “So you would say you drink to excess by American standards?”
“Shouldn’t you swear me in before you cross examine me?” When he smiled, crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes.
“Sorry. I don’t make small talk as much as I interrogate.”
“Occupational hazard?”
“No, it’s all me,” she admitted.
“Well then I suppose it was a good thing you found the law.”
She nodded as she sat down on a blue chambray couch.
“I’m starving. Do you fancy a bite to eat? I know you said you have cereal waiting for you at home, but maybe I could tempt you with chicken and salad. Don’t want to brag but I grill a damn fine chicken breast,” he called as he walked through to the kitchen.
Megan thought for a minute. He was only offering to be polite and if she was going to return the favour she should just make her apologies and let him get to bed.
He returned a few minutes later carrying a glass of wine in his right hand and another glass balanced between his left hand and his chest. “I put dinner on for you too. I hate eating alone.”
She accepted the glass and took a sip. “Nice.” The wine was ripe and sweet with a velvety flavour. “Californian?”
“No, Australian. All good things come from down under. When will you Yanks learn that?”
“All good things?” she asked as she took another sip.
“Well, the best wine and the best men.”
Despite herself she smiled. In other men, the comment would be arrogant. From him it seemed a statement of the obvious. As a physical specimen, he would be hard to beat. He was simultaneously beautiful and masculine, raw and refined.
Again she noticed his mouth; it was generous in size with full lips that curved easily into a carefree smile. They were perfect kissing lips. She took another large drink of wine and allowed herself to imagine kissing him. It was harmless fun. She would never actually do it and later when she dusted off her vibrator it would be nice to see such a perfect face as she came.
“I’m going to go check on the chicken. What kind of dressing do you want for the salad? I have French and Italian.”
“What, no Australian? Are they not number one in the condiment market also?”
He rewarded her with a smile and her heart skipped a beat. She took another sip of wine. She was having fun, flirting and pretending to be carefree. She missed sex, the pure hedonistic joy of fucking someone and finding as much pleasure as their body could give you. Tomorrow she was going to book a vacation, somewhere where no one knew she was the senator’s wife. After Booker Colley named Ben as his running mate, Megan would never be anonymous again. Her role would be cast in stone at that point. No turning back.
Her throat tightened at the prospect.
If Megan was going to have sex again in the foreseeable future, she would need to do it sooner rather than later. As soon as she got home she was going to book a flight. Someplace warm, with men who looked like James. She was now determined to find a man for discrete, but utterly hot and meaningless interludes. Abstinence was not a normal state for human beings; for any being, for that matter.
She put her wine down on the coffee table, finding a coaster to protect the polished walnut wood. She picked up the sole book, The Giving Tree. She smiled as she opened the cover and discovered the signature of the author—Shel Silverstein.
“My favourite book,” Megan said when James returned. He topped up her wine before sitting on the armchair opposite her.
He smiled. “Mine too. I take it with me when I move between houses. It’s the only constant. Everything else is interchangeable. The countries, the cars, the furniture.”
“The women,” she continued for him.
He nodded. “I reckon I shouldn’t say that, but yeah the women. One warm body is as good as the next and all that.” He held up his glass to toast. “To warm bodies and good books.”
She clanked her glass against his. She appreciated his honesty. Most men would bullshit about wanting to find the one, as they boned as many women who would let them stick their dick in them. There was something utterly refreshing about his candour.
“So why is it your favourite book?” James asked.
She took another sip of wine before she answered. “Because it’s simple and beautiful at the same time. And it captures just how greedy men are. They take and take and take, even when there is nothing left to give. The take-away message is: men are bastards, but it is written so beautifully, I cry every time I read it.” She realised too late she had admitted far too much about herself. “Tell anyone that and I will deny it.”
“Which part, that you are cynical or that the ice queen can show genuine emotion?”
“God, I am proud of the cynical part, just can’t let people know I cry.”
“I’m guessing not very often.”
She shook her head. “No. I haven’t read the book in a few years, so it has been a while. I probably have a build-up of tears. I really should make time to read it again.”
“Do you really think the take-home message is men are bastards?”
She nodded. “Yep, and still it is beautiful. That is a good writer, who can tell you a horrible truth but put it in such simple and perfect terms that you think your life is richer for the knowledge.”
“Interesting perspective. Not the way I see it, but valid all the same.”
Watching his mouth move while he spoke was mesmerising. His lips caressed each word. Part of it was his generous mouth, the other was his pronunciation. His accent was broad. His intonation rose at the end of each sentence, like we has asking a question. It was an interesting juxtaposition: as a man he radiated confidence but his tone made him sound like he sought approval.
“How do you see it?”she asked.
James reached for the book and rested it on his thigh. “The clue is in the title. It is about the unconditional love of a parent. It’s not about taking, it’s about giving. The tree did not need to keep giving but she did it out of love.”
“If you believe that, you’re far too much of a romantic for me. I’ve never met anyone that loves like that, certainly not my mom. She is more like the little boy who keeps taking when nothing is left.”
“Yeah, so was my dad. Maybe nobody loves like that. It represents an ideal. That is the beauty, it gives something for us to strive for, and fall terribly short.” He topped up the glasses again and raised his again to toast. “To shit parents who fail us and make us stronger.”
“I don’t want to toast to that.”
“If it weren’t for shit parents, you would be out of a job. Christ, so would I, I’d have left journalism if it wasn’t for my dad. And as you can see, it has rewarded me handsomely.” He gestured to the spacious living room. “Shit, I’m talking too much. Maybe I should have asked the child prodigy if it’s safe to mix pain medication and wine. I mean, I wouldn’t have listened but I like to know the risks I’m taking.”
“What do you mean you would have left journalism?” she asked. The idea of him in another profession intrigued her. She tended to think of journalism as a character defect, not something one could walk away from.
“Christ, I’m talking too much. You don’t want to hear about all the ways I think my dad is an asshole. Spoiler—it’s a lot of ways.”
“So why didn’t you sell the company after your father was arrested?”
“And not prove to the world there are journalists with integrity? And prove to my dad that you can run a successful company and have ethics? Perish the thought, woman. You have your life’s work, I have mine.”
“But you don’t like it?” she asked a bit too hopefully.
“I love it, actually. I could do without people thinking I was scum because of it but que sera sera.”
“People think lawyers are scum too, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“Those people are ignorant fucks. They carry on hating lawyers until they need one to get their ass out of a bind.”
Her stomach did a flip. Those were near enough the same words she had said to Ben a few hours earlier. Damn he was hot, smart men were sexy men. But truth be told, she would still be up for it if he was the dullest bulb on the Christmas tree. Thank God James was a journalist because his profession was the only thing that kept her from climbing on his lap and sampling those full lips. She took a deep breath and pushed the thought to the back of her mind where she could find it for later use.
“You do swear a lot.” She crossed her legs as a hot flush spread across her body. She really did need to have sex. She was far too turned on, even for how good looking he was. Maybe it was because he was the ultimate forbidden fruit, a journalist doing a story on her husband. No, that wasn’t it. Journalists did stories on Ben all the time. The media already knew he was odds-on favourite for Colley’s running mate. Her attraction was something different, but she wasn’t going to waste time trying to determine what that actually was.
She really hoped she had fresh batteries because she was going to need them tonight.
“Did I forget to say I’m Australian? Sorry, it slipped my mind.”
They finished the bottle of wine before James got up to check on dinner. Megan followed him through to the kitchen.
He had laid out two plates with salad, ready to be dressed.
“Here, let me get the chicken. Hot grill plus broken hand and painkillers and alcohol, I don’t think that story would end well.” She reached beneath the grill and put the meat on the plates beside the salad before turning the oven off.
“I’m not drunk, not even a little bit. Just more relaxed than earlier. Now if you compare me to a paedophile, I’ll tell you to fuck off, that’s the only difference. Other than that we are still good to go.”
He came up behind her as she put dressing on the salads. He was so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her bare shoulder. He was so large, next to her. He filled the area around her, his presence sucking out the air, leaving a vacuum of electric energy. His presence was palpable despite the inches that separated them.
She let out a ragged breath. “Good to know. I’m down with swearing. It’s just violent drunks I can’t handle.”
“I said I wasn’t drunk, but clearly I can be violent when I need to be.”
He reached around her, his hands brushing hers as he reached for a bottle of salad dressing.
She jumped at the brief contact. She turned to face him. She could read people, she would know if he was lying. “At the hospital you said you would never hit a woman.”
“Of course I would never hit a woman. I could be drunk off my face and I would never hit a woman but that doesn’t mean I can’t be violent. You saw, I broke my hand on a guy’s face.” He held up his cast for proof.
Her heart beat faster. “But you would never hit a woman?” she pressed.
“Nope.”
“What if she really pissed you off?”
“We already established that. I would tell her to fuck off.”
“What is she hit you first?”
“Look at me, I have 90lbs on you. You can hit me until your fists bleed. I’m not going to hit you back.”
She shook her head. She needed to know his trigger point. All men had one. “No, what if she was going to hit you with something?”
In an instant, James pushed her against the island, trapping her hard against his hard body and the cold marble. His body was connected to hers at every level, applying enough pressure to keep her pinned in place. He was so close. She could feel his solid heartbeat through his shirt. It was hard to breathe. Heat radiated from her core, sending scorching tendrils down between her thighs, blood pooling in their midst. With every beat of her heart. Desire mounted and her restraint was washed away like the tide carrying away sand.
“There is never an excuse to hit a woman.” He lowered his head and breathed the words against her neck. She shivered from the sensation.
She believed him.
She licked her lips. His moss-green eyes were engulfed by large obsidian pupils. She remembered that look, even though it had been years since she had seen it. It was the look of a man before he kissed a woman. She closed her eyes, a nonverbal sign: an invitation.
She had not been kissed in too long. She could not remember the last time a man had held her with the intent of using her body for his pleasure. She breathed in the moment, the sweet anticipation.
In an instant James’ mouth closed on hers. He was more than a head taller than her so she had to rise on her tiptoes to reach his lowered lips. His mouth was sweet and tasted of wine. Even though all of his weight was pressed against her, he wasn’t close enough. She wriggled her arms free and linked then around his hips and pulled him closer. Through the thick material of his suit trousers, she could feel the hard length of his erection strain against the fabric.
The feeling was intoxicating. She had done that. He was hard because he wanted her, or maybe he just wanted a quick fuck; she didn’t care, because she wanted the same thing. She had gone too long without feeling a man inside her. They would use each other, taking everything they could.
His tongue left her mouth, licking a path across her jaw and into the sensitive hollow of her neck. She threw her head back to expose the delicate flesh. With his casted hand he pushed the dinner plates to the side. His right hand encircled her waist, pulling her closer still and then high as he lifted her onto the marble counter. Her legs spread, creating space for him. She pulled his mouth down again to hers. Her fingers laced through his thick hair.
Her legs spread wider, inviting him further in. There was too much space between them. He would not be close enough until he was inside her. She rubbed against his erection, rocking her hips back and forth against the solid length.
James fumbled with his belt, trying and failing to unfasten the polished leather. Megan pushed his hand away and undid his belt and zip herself.
“Woman, you do like to be in charge,” he smirked. His cock sprung out, long, and thick. She licked her lips. She wanted him everywhere, in her mouth, in her hands, but especially buried deep inside her. She rocked against him harder, his cock pushed up against her panties, the thinnest of material separating them.
“Condom,” she moaned against his mouth.
“Upstairs,” he said.
She couldn’t wait. She wanted to feel him now if only for a few strokes. She wanted to feel the sensation of him pushing into her wetness. She slid off the counter and pulled her panties down before sitting back on the counter.
“Don’t come inside me,” she said as she reached for his cock. The girth was so large, her fingers could not span it when she wrapped her hand around the head.
“I’m clean. Are you?” he asked. His tone was low, almost a growl.
She nodded her head. “But don’t come inside me. I’m not on the pill.”
His dark brows knitted together in a brief expression of surprise and confusion, but it was soon replaced again with a dark hungry desire.
With a single powerful trust he was in her. She cried out at the sudden fullness between her thighs. Her eyes widened at the invasion. He was too big but her body still wanted it. She pulled frantically on the buttons of his shirt. She needed to feel more of his flesh.
“Fuck you’re tight,” he moaned against her mouth. “So wet…fuck…so good.” He slid in and out of her, his pace frenzied, lacking all the control he had demonstrated earlier. She did that to him. She was drunk on the power of it and the need for him. A bolt of electric desire ran up her spine.
He lifted her from the counter, still sheathed inside her. He pushed her up against the wall, his pelvis driving hard into hers. She tilted her hips so every thrust slid across her clit, pushing her higher towards release.
She closed her eyes and let the sensation wash over her, her emotions temporarily suspended; there was nothing but the feeling of his body in hers, this moment, the passion the frenzy. If she thought about it, she would realise it was reckless and sordid, maybe even dirty: two strangers, fully clothed, fucking against a wall. But she didn’t think, she just felt.
And it felt right.
Her breath came in frantic pants. Her internal walls clamped down hard against him as the tension built.
“Fuck I am going to come.” James pulled out of her, letting out a ragged breath.
She slid down the wall, her legs unable to support her. James pulled her tight against him, not letting her fall.
She felt empty and incomplete.
“We’re not done yet,” James rasped. Effortlessly he lifted her and carried upstairs into the master bedroom. His cast was hard against her back, biting into her flesh.
He laid her on the duvet, the white material puffing up around her. James opened the drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a condom.
Megan pulled it from his fingers, her hands shaking as she frantically ripped at the foil wrapper and rolled it over him. Her hands ran down the length of him and settled on his balls, their full weight heavy in her hand. He was utterly male, nothing polished or refined about his masculinity.
Megan pushed James down on the bed. She could help him take off his trousers but it added to the sensation to leave them on, made it feel anonymous. She climbed on top of him, and lowered herself onto him, inch by inch, taking him deeper into her, deeper than she remembered a man could be. She stopped for a moment and let her body stretch tautly around him. She was so full, so complete. She rocked against him, grinding her hips against him, using his body, bringing her closer to release with every languid movement. The tender pressure built inside her, gathering tighter, pushing her higher.
With one hand she traced the deep ridges of his abs. And with her other, she reached between them, finding the sensitive spot and rubbed.
He gave a terse shake of his dark head, a devious look on his perfect features. Wordlessly he rolled her on her back, pinning her between him and the mattress. His mouth was on hers again, kissing her as he rode her. This time it was his hand between them, his hand tracing circles around her clit, wringing out every ounce of pleasure her body had. He was invading her in every way a man could, and she wanted it. There was nowhere else she would rather be, no person she wanted more.
Her back arched as she threw her hand high above her head and knocked the headboard. The metal of her wedding band hit the iron rails, creating a high tinny chime. The sound reminded her of her marriage, her role: all the boundaries she had painted around herself. In the moment she was free of everything. There were no secrets, no goals: no pressure. She was just a woman experiencing the primal satisfaction of a man deep inside her. She cried out from the pleasure of it as she gave herself over to her climax.
Her body shook and spasmed, clamping down around him. Seconds later he groaned, signalling his own release.
He collapsed onto her, his weight pinning her in place. He was heavy so there was not much room to breathe but it felt…right…safe. His large muscular frame was like a barrier to reality. She closed her eyes and let the last contractions wash over her, her body completely sated. She breathed in his scent, creating a memory. For a few moments they lay together, James still inside her, their hearts beating fast against the other’s ribs.
