Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3) Read online

  Looking up triggers a sort of slo-mo effect, ensuring I take in every inch of this guest’s appearance, from dainty ankles up to her new made-to-look-unnatural fake tits. Would you go to the souk to buy a copy Prada and choose the most obvious fake? Of course not, so then why do women insist on having beach balls implanted in their chest?

  Sofia. You whore.

  ‘You might need a bit of something.’ Niamh glances around as though a clue to ‘what’ might be written on the wall, muttering something about my having gone into shock. ‘Here, this’ll do.’ She hands me a bottle of vintage Veuve lifted from the startled waitress’ hand.

  ‘I don’t need a drink!’

  ‘I thought you might want to christen her.’ She adds a comic bottle-wielding mime. ‘Might be a bit late, though, given that everyone’s already had her out for a ride.’

  Everyone including Kai. I shake my head, attempting to control my thoughts.

  ‘She’s had them done.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Her boobs were never that big before. Shit, she’s coming this way.’ My eyes frantically scan the room for Kai—or an escape—but neither are in sight.

  ‘Let her come, the gobshite,’ Niamh says, flicking the length of red hair from her shoulder. ‘A bit of trouble only makes for a good night.’

  ‘Sounds like something Kai would say.’ Despite Sofia’s airy tone, I hear the tremor in her voice well enough. ‘He does so like a challenge.’ Her gaze flicks over me, a gesture implying she finds me lacking in that sense. ‘My heartiest congratulations, habibti.’ Somehow, she drags the endearment out into a sneer, her congratulations sounding more poisonous than hearty.

  ‘Condragulations.’ Niamh sniggers, pointing a thumb at Sofia’s face. ‘D’you think she shovels that shite on with a trowel?’

  My laugh sounds abrasive, hard. And ridiculous, as Sofia’s make-up is flawless. In fact, her whole outfit is, as usual, impeccable; from her tiny gold body-con dress to the bronze gladiator stilettos laced up her long bronzed legs. She’s had a bit of caramel blonde added to her chestnut coloured hair since I last saw her, as well as the zorb balls she’s had implanted in her chest.

  ‘Well?’ Sofia demands, one fist resting on her hip.

  ‘Well?’ I make a gesture of not understanding, my gaze sliding to Niamh.

  ‘I suppose you’re satisfied.’

  I blink wildly. And laugh. At least, I think that’s the noise expelled from my chest. ‘Are you for real?’ I glance between her and Niamh again, eyebrows sitting somewhere in my hairline. She’s screwed Kai, so she must know how satisfied I am. I want to say this. But I don’t, and despite how outwardly blasé I act, my insides are twisted and churning.

  ‘You overestimate him, habibti. I told you once before, Kais is never interested in one woman for long. This won’t last,’ she hisses, malice and jealously warping her face.

  ‘And I believe I told you once before that you can get fucked!’

  Might’ve been a bit loud, especially as the noise in the room stops. Like a snapped thread.

  ‘Putain,’ she spits. You tie yourself to him by trickery! You are no more worthy of him than—’

  ‘Trickery?’ I yell right back. ‘You were the one on her knees inhaling his cousin’s cock! Don’t fucking tell me about tricks, you whore!’ It might be the same words I used earlier with Niamh, but the intent is not the same.

  Somewhat hazily, I hear my mother’s sharp intake of breath and Geoff’s apologies to those nearby. I also hear Niamh’s encouragement, telling Sofia in no uncertain terms where to get off, but it’s all sort of out-of-focus, like I’m hearing them from inside a bubble. A bubble of rage of my own. I’m seething; every pore of my being alight, right until she slaps me. Slaps me across my face. Stunned doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think I’ve ever been slapped before. Well, other than when Kai spanks me, of course . . .

  ‘That’s a fucking ‘nuff,’ Niamh yells. ‘The man wouldn’t ride you even for practise!’ She shoves Sofia’s shoulder hard, and Sofia raises her hand, but François appears out of nowhere, grabbing Sofia’s arm as she looks set to strike again. It’s then I notice his clothing; François isn’t dressed for a party. More like the gym.

  ‘Stop this right now.’ Pulling hard, he forces her to face him. ‘You promised me, habibti. You promised you would not let your feelings get in the way. Kais has made his choice, and no amount of . . .’—he waves his other hand between her hair and chest—‘will change this fact.’

  Ohhh . . .

  For a moment, I’d swear that François is next on her list for a slap, Sofia’s fist clenching and unclenching by her thigh, the other still in the air, fingers held wide. Angry tears spark in her eyes as the air around us pulsates with her ire.

  ‘C’est vraiment des conneries!’

  For a moment it looks like François is on the verge of breaking down, his passive expression on the brink of crumbling. He blinks twice, a sad smile returning.

  ‘No, darling. Bullshit it is not. It is what’s called love. Something you will never understand.’

  His eyes catch mine as he turns, the love and hurt as obvious as their blue colouring. In the time it takes for him to turn from me, an unspoken understanding passes between us. He loves her, perhaps not as a wife, but it’s a love unrequited, still. Perhaps the same as his love for Kai. Oh my god. How could I not have seen this before? François loves Kai—love loves Kai.

  The implication sits on my chest as he leads Sofia out, murmuring his apologies to those in the room. I’ve one hand clasped to my face as Niamh comforts me with words I can’t hear as the pressure of this realisation weighs on my lungs, squeezing me tight. But it feels appropriate somehow, this sorrow I feel for him. Maybe because I know what it feels like to be loved by Kai. It’s for this reason alone, and maybe shock, that tears spill down my cheeks at the same moment as Kai appears at the doorway into the room.

  François shakes his head, unspeaking as Kai begins to ask what’s wrong. Words still hanging in the air, he’s suddenly at my side, enveloping me in his arms.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His fingers are in my hair, my head clasped to his chest. ‘Darling, speak to me.’ Placing his hands on my shoulders, he angles my head to look at him.

  ‘She slapped her. That fucking bitch slapped her! She needs locking up.’ Niamh.

  ‘Babe, you need to calm down.’ Rob.

  ‘You poor darling! Regina! Regina! Get some ice, could you please? Who on earth let her—never mind. She would’ve found a way. The woman is unhinged!’ Mishael.

  ‘Who was that woman, Katie?’ Geoff.

  ‘Such language, Katherine. I never thought to hear you speak like that.’ Mum.

  ‘Enough!’ Kai’s voice rings from the walls. ‘Enough,’ he repeats quieter. ‘Kate, speak to me.’

  I stare at him, blinking, fighting through a moment of telling him everything that just passed. I can feel my teeth gnawing at my lip.

  ‘Where have you been?’ The words come out watery and sort of bubbly as Kai bends lower, his sorrowful gaze now level with mine.

  ‘I was upstairs. Fifth door on the right.’ Words laced with meaning, a tiny smile lurking in the corner of his mouth.

  I burst into giggles, the most inappropriate kind. ‘Sorry,’ I say between hiccupping cries. ‘I sort of got carried away down here.’

  Pulling me back into his arms, he kisses my head. ‘Let’s take you home.’

  Chapter Thirty

  The closing of the door echoes across the vast hallway of our home as I begin to fight with the zip at the side of my dress.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making sure you make good on your promise.’ The words are mumbled into my armpit, the zip having snagged on the lining, though my shaking fingers don’t help the situation much. ‘Just ‘cos I didn’t meet my end of the deal.’

  ‘Stop.’ His hands are on my shoulders before he pulls me back against his chest, his arms like a vice. ‘You’re
trembling.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Great. Watery words to match my lashes.

  ‘Yes. You are.’ His arms tighten. ‘Why do I feel like this is my fault?’

  ‘Did you write the guest list?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘I don’t want her at the wedding,’ I add quickly, cutting him off.

  ‘I doubt she’ll be in the country this time tomorrow. François looked pretty pissed.’

  ‘But you’ll make sure?’ My fingers tighten against his forearm. ‘ ‘Cos if she’s going to be there, I’m fucking not.’

  ‘Really?’ Kai’s tone is disparaging, at best. ‘Are you planning on running away again?’

  His words hit me sharply, pulling me from my focus. My anger. I really don’t want to get into this. I don’t want to make the evening into a bigger drama than it already has been, but the fact of the matter is, when I look at Sofia, I feel lots of things. Lots of things that make me feel inadequate. She’s so stunning, and I’m sort of ordinary. She’s got legs ‘til next Tuesday and I’m just a little short arse. She’s all glamour and Gucci, while I’m more your Target end of the mall. Even spending a bit more cash on my clothes these days doesn’t lift me into her league at all.

  And then I look at Kai; the male mirror of her. Physically at least.

  ‘One of these days you’ll realise.’

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ I mumble.

  ‘And what might I realise, habibti?’

  I shrug, not willing to elaborate. ‘Lots of stuff.’

  ‘That you can trust me,’ he says softly.

  I try to turn to face him, prevented by the band of his arms. ‘I do trust you. This isn’t about you.’ Not really.

  ‘You can also trust me with your thoughts.’

  My chest tightens. Screwing my eyes tight, I swallow. ‘Don’t be a sook and help me with my zip.’ Diversionary tactics. It bears saying again: I’m well versed in these.

  ‘A sook?’

  Sounds funny in his accent; long vowels and hard consonants. And totally silly. It strikes me this is probably the first word I’ve heard him utter that doesn’t make me want to inhale him on the spot.

  ‘What’s sookful about me?’

  ‘Sookful?’ I scoff. ‘Just sooky. You’re being a sooky lala.’

  ‘That sounds even worse. You’re sure you didn’t bang your head?’

  ‘You’re being overly emotional.’ Aimed for a taunt, and yep, nailed it.

  ‘Emotional? My wife gets assaulted, starts tearing off her clothes before the doors are even closed, and I’m not supposed to be concerned?’

  ‘You can be concerned. You could’ve also just given in.’

  ‘Fuck your concerns into the background? Distract you? Distract me?’

  ‘Sometimes sex is just sex, Kai.’

  ‘And sometimes it’s not about sex at all.’

  I press my arse into his crotch—these shoes have me nearer his crotch, anyway. ‘Then maybe you can just kiss this booboo better?’ I slide my hand between us, my palm brushing his hard length. ‘The body’s willing, at any rate.’

  ‘And the control is weak,’ he says all gravelly, pushing back against my hand.

  And now we’re getting somewhere.

  ‘Control is overrated,’ I answer in soft encouragement.

  ‘Now there’s where you’re wrong, kitten.’

  And just like that, he turns me, and I tilt my head for his kiss . . . a kiss that’s devious and cunning and hidden in the corners of my mouth, my hair, the place where my neck and shoulder meet.

  I groan as his fingers simultaneously make short work of my zip. I don’t give the sound of fabric tearing a second thought. In fact, as I close my eyes, I don’t think about anything but having him inside me as he pushes the dress from my shoulders, dragging it further past my waist.

  ‘These are new,’ he says running a finger across the froufrou edges of my undies. Navy lace—the real stuff, made in France, I’m told—quite a lot of it, considering the brevity of these briefs.

  Wonder if Sofia has undies from Europe? Wonder what size dress she is?

  ‘Thank Martha,’ I answer, almost panting between his kisses as Kai runs a finger between the lace cup and my breast; my nipple pebbling in an instant.

  ‘Martha?’

  I shake my head. ‘Never mind. Tell you later.’ Laundry. Who gives a stuff now.

  I melt in his hands as he grabs my arm and marches me across the hall, turning and pushing me down against the table, simultaneously pulling the delicate cups of my bra down. My nipples harden further against the cool wood, the deep throb of my pulse pounding everywhere.

  ‘I love fucking you,’ he rasps, threading his hands over mine, covering my body with his. ‘Love fucking you and fucking love you.’

  ‘Quite a way with words you’ve got there.’ It sounds like pure encouragement. Wonder how many times he screwed Sofia. Wonder how long it went on.

  ‘My wife loves dirty talk, almost as much as much as she loves my cock.’

  His words snake through my insides, his lips and teeth trailing my shoulder, catching my skin in sucking bites.

  ‘No marks—my dress,’ I pant. ‘My wedding dress.’ She’d better not be there. Kai chuckles from behind me, beginning to lick his way down my spine, using his teeth next and causing me to gasp. ‘Be nice.’

  ‘Nice is for pussies.’ His tone is low and husky as his fingers find mine again, curling them together. ‘But I’m always nice to what’s mine.’ He drags both hands down my arms, my sides, and down the cheeks of my butt, moving the delicate lace to one side. I cry out as he impales me on his fingers, twisting his wrist as his fingers stroke inside. ‘Remind me, sweetheart, whose pussy is this?’

  Smiling into the wood, I tell him exactly. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘Is that so?’ His reply has a hard edge.

  I groan as his fingers withdraw; now trailing my legs from knee to thigh, damp against one side. Kai grasps the ruffled edges of my knickers in his hands, sliding them slowly down my legs, his breath blowing over my skin.

  I step from the pool of lace.

  Maybe he fucked her over a table.

  Wonder if he used the chair in his hotel suite the same way with her?

  My heart plummets, but at the metallic clink of his buckle and the rasp of his zip, a frenzy of pulsing and anticipation starts between my thighs.

  One knee between mine slides my legs further apart.

  ‘Let me remind you,’ he rasps, his hands all over my skin. ‘All this is mine. The smooth curve of your hips and the soft swell of your arse.’ As he pushes himself inside me, one hand clasps the delicate column of my neck, his long fingers cradling there. ‘And this pussy. All mine.’ My cries of pleasure mix with his words, vibrating against his hand.

  ‘Good, kitten?’ As best as I can, I nod. ‘Want me to make you come?’

  ‘Yes.’ I lick my lips. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Then tell me what the fuck is going on inside that head of yours.’

  My insides pulse emptily as he draws back, his cock now lying between the cheeks of my behind. I’m almost calcified against the wood, but it’s not his action that has me panicked; it’s the whispers inside my head.

  What if—is she—did he—what about?

  ‘Was it as good with her?’

  ‘What?’ Kai’s hand tightens against my throat, and I swallow in reflex.

  ‘With her.’ I can’t bring myself to say her name. ‘Did you enjoy fucking her?’

  Kai’s laugh is almost cruel. ‘You’re much more of a masochist than you seem.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I growl.

  With a flex of both his hips and hands, I find myself widening my stance, almost working myself into the wood. Mortification, or as some sensory demand, I can’t be sure.

  ‘Oh, you want to, sweetheart. Maybe you want to fuck her, too?’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to see that.’ Now it’s me who sounds harsh.

  ‘A th
reesome, kitten? Why, I’m almost amused.’ His wet length slides down my cleft causing me to shudder. ‘I think our marriage bed is a little too new to be introducing others into the space.’

  ‘So you would?’ My heart aches. ‘You’d fuck her again?’

  ‘Why do I get the impression you want me to hurt you?’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘I would not,’ he says thrusting inside me once more. I bite my lip to stop myself from calling out, my nails scratching the wood. Suddenly, his mouth is near my ear, the momentum of his body crushing me to the table. ‘Because for me, there is only you. How many times must I say it?’

  As Kai pulls back, I teeter on the pointed tips of my toes, my arse thrust upwards and his grip on my neck almost tight enough to bruise. It’s not a comfortable position, but that isn’t a priority—for either of us—as he begins to move, each controlled thrust lancing deep in my belly, each flex of his hips delivered with his whispered words.

  That I’m a fool.

  That he craves me.

  That he loves to hold me down and hear my cries.

  That I love it as much as he.

  Because what we are is a duet, not a duel.

  A hungry arousal licks its way through me as my hips clash with the table top, each promise of ownership tightening my insides

  ‘Tell me. Who does this belong to?’ he demands, punctuating his point with a collision of flesh.

  Incoherent, I can’t answer as he continues to pound into me.

  ‘Answer me.’ His hand on my neck tightens, pulling back my head another inch. I cry out his name, his next thrust so deep the table’s feet screech against the floor, my fingertips pushed against the smooth surface to steady myself.

  Fast, punishing and deep, and I love it. His absolute control of me is like shedding skin. My thoughts were live wires, uncontrolled and dangerous, and what it takes to counter this is more than his reassurance or words. It takes these moments to ground me. To ground me to him.