Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3) Read online

She stretched, appreciating for a change, the dark, grey mornings and the lack of her native shore’s sunlight piercing her conscious state. The blinds were drawn but gauzy, and though the light was filtered, it still was offensive to her eyes. Wasn’t the room usually darker than this?

  Maybe she’d left the blinds open, collapsing onto the bed in a half stupor last night?

  She’d been in London for three months now, and living in the city was still new. She found she liked waking to the noise from the shop on the corner and the muted sounds from the café next door. It was almost comforting, a sort of urban acoustic backdrop, as well as proof of how far she’d come. Quite literally.

  But why was it so quiet today? Was it a long weekend? What did they call it here? A bank holiday? She couldn’t recall. A singular car trundled along the road, and she could hear kids playing outdoors. This was in itself unusual as the houses in her street had all been converted to flats, the square of grass preceding the front door hardly constituting gardens. These were familiar sounds, mostly. But not quite right. A passing bus sounded too distant somehow, too far away from the usual Saturday morning traffic drifting beneath her bedroom window.

  Stretching out, she drew her body out along the length of the bed, glad that the heating was on. London hadn’t quite agreed with the spring calendar as yet, and her bedroom was usually cold. Back arching, she wriggled her toes to the cooler part of the sheets before stilling, quite suddenly mid-motion, as she realised something wasn’t quite right.

  The sheets: Egyptian cotton. Thread count in their thousands, like the ones her mother used back home. The sound of her phone on the nightstand banging against solid wood, not glass. The fact that the bedroom was warm.

  Eyes screwed tight, she almost groaned.

  She wasn’t at home and she wasn’t alone. The previous evening coming back to her suddenly, jolting her consciousness like a slap.

  The club.

  Laughing.

  Drinking.

  The man.

  Slowly, Louise turned her head over her shoulder to where a thatch of dark hair peeked from the depths of a white pillow. One pale shoulder rolled a touch and her heart missed a beat, her thoughts beginning to crystalize.

  She’d gone out straight from the office; a celebration, a deadline met. As much as she hadn’t wanted to, there were only so many times she could say no. And she had started to feel quite dull. So tequila became loosened movement, loosened movement became loosened resolve. Which in turn, became a need from deep within, one she’d ignored far too long.

  When one of the finance guys with a gleam in his eye had mentioned a particular club, a place where dominance and submission and sex may or may not have been the thing, Louise’s heart had practically skipped a beat. Sure, why not? she’d answered, with a nonchalance that had surprised herself.

  Shaking her head and the recollections away, she spotted her bra hanging from a chair on the other side of the bed, which also happened to be very close to her companion’s head. Slowly, so as not to disturb him, she crept around its edge, stepping over a torn condom wrapper, thank God. Gingerly lifted the offending item and unravelled the straps from his shirt. Louise fought the urge to look at him as she turned, but not because she thought she’d be disappointed. In her mind he was handsome; it was maybe it was better to leave it that way. A vague impression of this dark haired anonymous stranger. And she might’ve managed it, had not that moment Flo’s words rang in her head.

  I’ve never been to bed with an ugly man, but I may have woken up with a few.

  But the cold light of day wasn’t the only reason for her reluctance; this wasn’t just vanity. Looking might validate her recklessness. If she didn’t look at him, maybe she could ignore the fact that she’d spent the night with a stranger doing things that, in the light of the day, she’d prefer to forget. Even more than that, the stranger had pushed the buttons she’d thought she’d hidden well, ringing responses from her she’d never before felt, but knew were buried somewhere.

  For all her brain-based reasoning, her eyes were unable to resist as she turned, sliding towards him as though drawn by a force greater than her will.

  She recognised him then from last night, flashes of his likeness more complete.

  Dancing. Drinking.

  In his arms. In his hands. Under him.

  His eyes were still closed and creased in the corners. His hair, neither black nor brown, hung over his forehead, causing an itch in her fingers with the desire to brush it away. His torso was bare, his skin porcelain to her gold. One arm lying still across the bedding showed suggestions of defined muscling at rest; one taut buttock now peeking from the sheet across his hips hinted at someone who kept very fit. His profile, though still chiselled, was softer than in her head, sleep blurring the edges, perhaps. A sensual mouth above an incongruously dimpled chin, darkly stubbled. Much heavier than last night. Louise felt heat crawl across her face, remembering the bristling sensation at her shoulder, the echo of it between her legs and found her fingers absently tracing the path.

  She shook her head. She needed to get out of here before he woke and the inevitable awkwardness set in.

  Slipping on her bra, she had a sudden flashback of removing her shirt and skirt in another room. Picking up her phone, her heart filled her throat as she reached for the handle of the door and he spoke. Swallowing past the lump, she sensed he wasn’t awake; these were unintelligible sleep ramblings. Without turning again, she slipped from the room as the echoes of his sleep roughened voice brought back more memories and tying her stomach in knots.

  He’d ordered a bottle of tequila and smiled when she’d told the waitress to take away the limes and salt. Serious tequila didn’t need embellishments, she’d told him, and all bets were off after a couple shots. Curled into his damp shirt, both sets of friends were quickly forgotten as more tequila was poured.

  He was the strong, almost silent type, though what he did say, hit her almost viscerally. Like a sign from the universe, she’d thought. It wasn’t long before tentative flirting became hesitant advances, developing into hot and heavy kisses, right there in the club. And, oh, could the man kiss.

  Louise found her fingers at her lips as she recalled his tongue emancipating her reasoning. It was after one such kiss that she’d asked if he wanted to go someplace else, hoping he understood that what she’d meant was did he want to go fuck.

  The stranger’s answer she’d never forget. Not even in a million years.

  He told her he’d love to, that he’d take her home in a heartbeat, but that his tastes were rather hard-edged. She sensed that he’d sought to shock her as a pulse beat between her legs. Louise swallowed, then lowering her gaze, quietly asked him to elaborate.

  So he did.

  He said he got a kick out of marking beautiful skin. That he liked nothing more than to see a woman’s body tied, every line in her body taut with elegant distress. That, for him, this wasn’t just a prelude to sex.

  Acknowledgements

  If it takes a village to raise a child, then I need to move to a village. Thanks you to my children for being okay with being told ‘in a minute’ and discovering the inevitable . . . minutes are sooo long in this household. Thanks also for not being too loud in your flouncing off after receiving a series of hmm’s and whassat? in response to your need to talk.

  Thanks also–but not limited to—Kelsey from Kelsey’s Korner Blog. It’s funny who you find on your doorstep! To Natasha (and her Ralph) for being so supportive and honest, even if her first instinct is to bite her tongue. (Don’t do that. Never do that!) Francessca for all her arty stuff. Nan for being my very first sounding board. Jess for allowing me to pick her brains, and Kathie for her awesome eagle eyes in editing.

  Finally, my thanks to you, the person with this in hand. Shukran, merci, and ta very much. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed.

  Thanks also to M x

  About the Author

  Hailing from the North East of England, Donna is a bit
of a Bedouin, moving houses and continents more times than she cares to recall. A bit clueless, rather than stateless, she once worked at a school like the one Kate works in. Alas, there were no Kai-a-likes floating about there . . .

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Epilogue

  Authors Note

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Peak

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Playing Games Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author