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  ‘You missed your calling,’ she says with a soft sigh. ‘You should’ve been in comedy.’

  ‘The only thing I hear calling is the need to be between your legs.’

  Something changes in that instant, and comedy hour is over. We’re all about business now. She can see it and so can I. It’s in the languid way she parts her legs. It’s in the softness of her sighs. It’s in the way I strip out of my pyjama pants, procuring a condom with shaking fingers from my wallet on the end table.

  I’m no prostitute, and I’m no teenager either, but I can’t ever recall wanting something as badly as this. The way she appeared in my bedroom—her near constant verbal push to my shove. If I had to think about it any longer, I’m sure I’d convince myself she’s not fucking real. Because who gets this lucky? I think, staring down at this gorgeous, unexpected gift.

  ‘You know what I always wanted to do?’ Her voice is husky as I look up from tearing the condom open. I can see the effort it’s taken her to speak up.

  ‘Go on,’ I answer softly.

  Her neck moves as she swallows, but I almost miss it, distracted by the movement of her hands at her breasts.

  ‘To have sex in front of a fire.’

  My gaze slides to the fireplace and the cast iron stove that sits there, the embers of peat still glowing red. ‘You’ve never . . . ’

  ‘Not even in a kitchen.’ She laughs a little then, her eyes falling away.

  ‘Darlin’,’ I say, moving towards her, ‘I’m going to fuck you so good, you won’t remember the bad times.’

  She rises to meet me, taking my cock in her hand and causing me to hiss. My knees almost buckle as she immediately feeds me between her lips. If I was turned on before, and I fucking was, I’m now fit to burst as she tongues me as though I’m the best thing she’s ever tasted. And she makes these noises—these needy, wanton noises—that almost make me blow my load. And I swear on all that is holy, when she looks up at me through those thick dark lashes, her mouth stretched wide and her eyes as dark as the night outside, I lose all sense of reality.

  ‘Jesus . . .’ The word slides into a groan and, before I know it, I have her hair in my fist, though not to fuck her face. It’s to better watch her. To watch her lick and lave, to watch the sheer pleasure on her face. And those noises? They don’t stop. They only intensify. But this can’t continue, no matter how fucking perfect this feels.

  All good things must come to a blinding end.

  And as her hand drifts once more between her legs, one word floats to the surface of my mind.

  Mine.

  I pull back, her lips coming off my cock almost reluctantly before I bend over her, mashing my lips against hers. It’s not a tidy kiss, but the best kisses aren’t. Same goes for blow jobs, my mind unhelpfully supplies. I can taste us both—the musk of myself and the earthy taste of her.

  I feel fucking delirious—in the kitchen, I’d imagined going slow, teasing her to her peak as I’d whispered sweet filthy nothings in her ear. I’d expected nothing this intense. I need to be inside her like I need nothing else.

  My mouth still on hers, I press her back against the sofa and quickly sheath myself.

  ‘That’s so hot.’ My gaze flicks to where she’s still touching herself. ‘But don’t you fucking start without me.’ The second time, the words come out in a growl, and in a heartbeat, I’m over her, balanced on my knees and my forearm. We breathe in unison, once, twice, our moans hitting the air as I rub my cock through her wetness, pressuring her slippery clit with the tip. My whole body vibrates with need and tension, every fibre of my being screaming for relief, and as her body begins to accept my flesh, I realise I’m not the only one shaking.

  I close my eyes, and with a thrust of my hips, we collide, need and desire in the flesh.

  ‘You’re gonna make me come so hard,’ I groan as her body pulses around me. My arms on either side of her head, I try to hold on to the sensation. Try to hold on to my fucking load.

  ‘Yes—yes. I want that,’ she whimpers under me. ‘Please, give me—’ Her words draw out into a moan as I pull back and, with a snap of my hips, drive into her again.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You like that, do you?’

  ‘Yes, God, yes! Again, please.’

  ‘Like this, you mean?’ This time, I pull back and slide into her inch by slow inch. ‘Or do you mean like this?’ My hand hooked under her thigh, I spread her wider, driving into her body hard and fast—one, two, three times. The change of angle alone alters the depth of my thrust, the power in my movements slapping skin against skin.

  This time, Isobel doesn’t answer. At least, not with words. But her body speaks for her—her cries—as I begin to alternate my movements between slow slides and solid fucks until I’m not sure what day it is anymore.

  Under me, Isobel’s cries change in intensity, her hands grasping my backside in that tell-all way. I change the tempo, thrusting firmly again and again, my body undulating against where she needs me—where I want to be.

  ‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’

  But she fucking can, and she will. My pace is so unyielding, the leather beneath us begins to protest and squeal.

  ‘Give it to me, darlin’. Give. It. To. Me.’ I growl the words in time with my thrusts as her cries reach a crescendo. Her body pulses its release around me as she throws her head back, my name on her lips like an appeal.

  Job done. Job fucking done. Satisfaction fucking guaranteed.

  My own release suddenly barrels down my spine, the sensation like lightning bolts. My body reacts, my mind no longer in charge, flexing and arching as this thing, this experience, fucking unravels me.

  Undoes me.

  With one final pound, I grind against her flesh, riding my high out just a little more. Then to fulfil a final request, I pull out my cock, whip off the rubber, then pinch the fat crown of my cock between my fingertips. My whole body screams in protest as I scramble upwards, my knee almost sliding from the leather. Underneath me, this gorgeous creature looks, in truth, a little alarmed. And, in truth, her looks makes this moment all the sweeter. But then she gets it and realisation dawns as she palms her creamy tits, allowing me to paint those pink pebbled nipples in lashings of cum.

  Chapter 10

  IZZY

  ‘That was . . .’ I don’t even know what that was as I blow out a breath, disturbing the stands of hair sticking to my face. I’m lying across the sofa, the tartan cashmere throw covering me like a holiday makers towel from boob to knee, clasped tight to my side by my arms. Meanwhile, Greg is on the floor, the sofa seeming to have deposited him there. It’s for that sweaty reason I’m trying not to move in case the thing starts to farty-squeak.

  ‘I hope you’re going to say it was better than wine and chocolate.’

  Oh, that man’s voice is like sex on toast. ‘Just don’t tell me it was nice.’

  ‘Nice? Nice?’ Apparently, I’ve turned into a parrot. But nice is so not an appropriate adjective. I’ve never experienced anything like that before in my whole life—naughty, nice, or otherwise. I touched myself in front of him!

  I have definitely been missing out if this is what sex is supposed to be like. Are all orgasms supposed to momentarily rob you of sight?

  Dear me, one good shag, and I’m suddenly a nymphomaniac. Take that, those boyfriends past, those who said it was obvious I just wasn’t “that into” sex. Because that’s always a valid excuse to go off with someone else.

  Maybe it’s the intensity of the setting—two strangers, stranded in a remote cabin. Maybe we’ve abandoned our inhibitions since we’re likely never to see each other again. Or maybe I’m the only one with inhibitions. Regardless of the reason, because of the snow, maybe we can do this—it—again. And again.

  ‘Do you think this is what sex is like in prison?’ Beside me, Greg’s shoulders begin to shake. ‘What’s so funny?’ Apart from where I actually said that out loud.

  ‘And you think I’m the funny one. Maybe
we should form a double act.’

  But that’s not going to happen. We don’t even like each other. Do we? But as he turns his head over his shoulder to smile at me, I realise that can’t be right. Anyone who can smile at a girl like that and turn her insides to goo must like her at least a little bit. And as for me liking him, I think he must be like fungus because he’s certainly growing on me.

  Note to self: orgasms make me a nicer person.

  ‘While I’m no’ in the habit of imagining what inmates get up to while detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I think they don’t refer to it as banged up for nothing.’

  ‘Well, no,’ I answer quietly, twisting the fringe hem on the throw. ‘I didn’t mean that, exactly—’

  ‘But we can try that exactly, if you’re into it.’

  ‘That?’

  ‘Aye. I don’t have any lube, but I do have a stick of butter in the fridge.’

  ‘You are an opportunist. I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about how intense it was.’ But also, thanks for making it obvious you’d be up for a sexy-time repeat.

  For once, he doesn’t answer with a joke. In fact, he doesn’t much answer at all, not with actual words. It’s more like a rumbling noise from the back of his throat—a noise not unlike a growl as he stretches, engaging and contracting the muscles of his shoulders and arms. Like I needed the reminder of how he looked and sounded as his body worked over me. He turns to face me then, certain organs of my own contracting as his hand comes to rest just below my breasts.

  ‘Isobel,’ he says as he studies the finger stretching out to caress my nipple. ‘Intense doesn’t even cover it. And if people thought they had to be incarcerated to experience such a thing, I’m sure the prisons would be full.’

  Well. So not everything he says is annoying.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  From his position still on the floor, temptation personified looks up at the sound of my voice. Okay, Greg looks up. Also, he’s not still on the floor but sitting on the floor again. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel a little awkward facing him, following our spot of afternoon delight, but I think we’re over the worst of it. Or maybe not, judging by the way my stomach reacts at the way he’s looking at me.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ he asks, his smile is wide, his dimple out and proud.

  ‘These?’ I glance down. I’ve showered and changed and dressed for bed. Or for sleeping. ‘They’re base layers. I wear them when I go skiing.’ Or rather, I wore them when I went skiing that one time a couple of years ago. Learning to ski was not for me. Leaning forward while hurtling down a hill? Nope, not for this girl. It turned out that I’m more of an après ski kind of girl, so there really wasn’t a point to pay a fortune for a week in Verbier when I can just wear furry boots and throw back Jägerbombs while dancing on a table to Swedish House music at home. Or better still, I can just eat chocolate and drink wine with Mo, which is much more my speed. But I digress. ‘And these,’ I say, plucking at the T-shirt of my shorty pyjamas I’ve worn on top, ‘are nightwear.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ He laughs, and that phrase belly-licking warmth suddenly resonates. ‘But it’s’—he turns his wrist to where he isn’t actually wearing a watch—‘only about five o’clock.’

  ‘And it’s already dark.’ And I’m conserving clothes. I didn’t expect to be snowed in last night, or I wouldn’t have worn so many items. There isn’t a washing machine here, and it’s not like I can walk around the place naked. Even if it’s a very real temptation after this afternoon’s activities.

  Avoiding his outstretched jean-clad legs, I make my way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the draining board to fill with water from the tap. Not because I’m thirsty but because I really need to cool down.

  Bare feet aren’t sexy, Izzy, even if the way his Henley clings to him is like a second skin. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I know he feels as good as he looks under those clothes. And, boy, do I know. I know the way the ladder of his abs ripples when caressed, and I know how he likes his nipples touched. His hair is a little wet from the shower he’d taken just before me, making him look all kinds of fresh and delicious. And I know he’ll smell as good as he looks because I’ve just used the same bathing products. The bottom line is, the sight of him all squeaky clean just makes me want to straddle his lap and dirty him all up again.

  So I opt for glass of cold water and a little space. Plus, if I’m not mistaken, I saw the edge of a board game peeking out from under the sofa. If I’m going to play any kind of game, I’m going to win, so I need a moment to get my head right.

  ‘I understand the jammies,’ he calls after me.

  I don’t turn. Instead, I keep my eyes on the window. Not that I can see anything in the darkness apart from the new batch of snowflakes splatting their opaque selves against the glass pane. I’m not sure how I feel about the continued weather. Conflicted, I think is the phrase.

  If we have sex again, we’re likely to melt the snow within a mile radius.

  ‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘I’m totally digging them.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t you?’ I reply, glancing down at my vivid ensemble; neon pink base layers covering me from neck to toe with a T-shirt worn over the top, the front of which bears a cartoon of a bright green fruit driving a motor vehicle, the image repeated on the shorts like little fruity polka-dots. But it’s the T-shirt caption that’s the absolute best thing about my nightwear.

  He may be small and green, it reads, but he does ava-car-do.

  ‘Fancy a beer?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  The darkened kitchen brightens a little as I pull out a couple of bottles, snapping off the tops with the opener stuck to the silver door.

  ‘Come on.’ He pats the space next to him on the rug as I make my way back. ‘Sit yourself down next to me.’

  ‘Normal people sit on the sofa,’ I grumble even though I’m inwardly thrilled. Given my experiences with sex and relationships, this might have gone a whole lot of other ways. Yawns and complaints of it’s-too-hot-to-cuddle. A demarcation or invisible line down the centre of the bed. A partner who showered away the scent of sex immediately. One or two others whose appendages had to still be wet as they slipped on their boxer shorts.

  God, what a mess. Am I really that bad at choosing men?

  ‘We can sit on the sofa if you like.’ Greg’s words pull me from my miserable musing. ‘But I thought we could cuddle up and warm our toes by the fire.’

  Something, and it’s not the fire, sets of a warmth inside me. Don’t get too comfortable, my mind offers. This is just a brief interlude in the relationship winter that is your love life.

  ‘Normal people also have TVs,’ I grumble, while secretly wishing he’d pull me down on his knee. Instead, I fold myself on the floor next to him, mirroring his position by pressing my back against the sofa, though I bend my legs in front of me. And there was method in my madness in dressing this way because not only am I not flashing him, but I’m also warm. And unlike last night, it’s not quite the equivalent of a clothing chastity belt.

  ‘A telly would spoil my solitude,’ he deadpans, taking the proffered bottle from my hand.

  ‘Is that why you came here this weekend? Yet somehow got lumbered with my company.’

  ‘It’s peaceful here away from the rat race.’ Fingers hooked around the long bottle neck, he tips back his head, exposing his tanned and lickable throat.

  ‘That was a question nicely dodged.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why else anyone would want to stay here if not to be alone. That’s not to say,’ he adds, looking at me now, ‘that, having had you here, I’d want it any other way.’

  ‘Having had me here, hmm?’ I repeat with the edge of taunt.

  ‘Ocht, that’s not what I mean. Though I wouldn’t say no to having you again.’ My insides heat and pulse at the images his words create. ‘And there’s still a stick of butter in the fridge,’ he adds as he winks lewdly before b
ringing the beer to his lips.

  I’m still experiencing little tingling aftershocks even as I laugh.

  ‘Good to know we’ve moved on from the discussion on the love that dare not speak its name, otherwise known as bum sex.’ Beer suddenly sprays his jeans as he coughs up his most recent mouthful.

  ‘You can’t say things like that!’ He wipes his mouth with both the palm and then the back of his hand, reminding me of his actions earlier. Earlier when he tasted me.

  ‘Why not? You brought it up. It’s not like I said anal.’

  ‘I alluded to it—you brought it up—twice—blatantly dragging it out into the light, kicking and screaming.’

  ‘There’s nothing shameful about bum sex,’ I answer primly. ‘Not that I’ve ever partaken.’

  ‘No, nothing shameful,’ he agrees. ‘Nothing shameful at all. So long as you don’t mind me thinking about it.’

  ‘Your thoughts are your own,’ I reply in the same tone.

  ‘You’re right. Even if I am picturing you in them.’

  ‘Really?’ My head does one of those comic double takes. ‘Really?’

  Greg’s answer is a provocative half smile and the rise of his brows.

  ‘It’s something I’ve never really understood.’ I glance down at the furry rug. ‘Have you . . . done it?’ I ask, chancing a glance at him. But he just looks back at me like he can’t believe I’ve asked that.

  ‘Oh, so now you choose not to talk.’

  ‘Darlin’, I’ll need something a bit stronger than beer to have this conversation. Besides, a gentleman never kisses and tells.’

  ‘Hah! Gentlemen went extinct with the dodo.’

  ‘I think you must’ve been hangin’ around with the wrong men.’

  Maybe I have. Now that I think about it, Greg has been nothing but a gentleman since I arrived. He’s cooked for me and made me coffee and liquor-laced hot chocolate. He even let me sleep in his . . .

  ‘Like men who don’t give up their bed? Not so perfect now, are you? And for the record, when we get to the bottom of this whole who-belongs-here thing, if I find out it wasn’t your bed, you’re in deep trouble.’