Chapter 13

 

Send me something sexy.

‘You are a cock of the first order,’ I say, draining my pint as I shake my head. ‘She’s going to think I’m a total knob for sending her that.’

‘You should never leave your phone unattended around him,’ Mac cautions, lifting my phone from the bar to read the text.

‘Aye, well, I notice you didn’t stop him,’ I retort.

‘Light-fingered Larry had sent it and was chuckling into his drink before I’d even noticed.’

‘Light-fingered?’ Will begins, aggrieved. ‘Those are some scurrilous accusations. Once upon a time, they’d have landed you in the Tower.’

‘You’re a lord, not the king,’ Mac retorts. ‘And you’re a thieving one at that.’

‘It’s in my blood,’ Will replies with an amiable shrug. ‘What can I say? The landed gentry have been getting away with murder for centuries. Besides, she works for a porn company. I’m sure she’ll have heard much worse.’

‘Her job has no bearing on this,’ I say, pointing my index finger at him. ‘Separate Paisley from whatever dirty smut is going on through that cesspit of a mind—’

‘Paisley is not a name; it’s a tie or a pair of curtains.’

‘Grow the fuck up,’ I find myself snarling in response.

‘Oooh, Keir likes a girl.’ The expression Will’s face suddenly adopts is one that could be solved by a punch.

‘Leave off,’ I growl, turning back to my drink.

‘I think it’s cute. The unflappable Keir has a crush.’

‘I’ll crush your head, you total—’

‘Now, now, lads,’ Mac interjects. ‘I’m sure Lord Travers here can grow up a wee bit, if he really tried. Maybe you should leave it to him to apologise.’

‘Or maybe you’ll apologise to me when you get a little something back via text.’ At almost the same time as Will stops speaking, my phone chimes. ‘You’re welcome, by the way,’ he says smugly, lifting his whisky glass.

‘And fuck you very much still,’ I reply, holding my phone like it’s a small incendiary device. Do I want to look? Of course, I do. Does that make me as bad as him?

‘As charming as that offer is, I’m off the market these days.’

‘Christ knows how,’ I answer, still staring at the unopened text. Fuck it. It’s not like I’m not going to look. She’s pretty much all I’ve thought of since I left her in bed in the wee hours, all tangled hair and sheets, a heady perfume filling the room. The clean scent of her sweat and sex.  

The recollection is so real; it’s like I can almost reach out and touch her. Taste her still. The thought causes my cock to throb, and though I should probably wait until I get home, I’m kidding myself. My impulse control has been shot since I walked her to her hotel room.

I tilt the phone to my chest a little, surreptitiously raising my head a wee bit, though both Mac and Will seem to have purposely turned their attention to the corner of the room where a football match plays out on the large-screen TV.

‘Hurry up and have your dirty wee peek,’ Will complains without turning his head. ‘I don’t even like football.’

‘Wrong shaped balls,’ I murmur.

‘That what you get for not shagging for so long.’

‘For the love of God,’ Mac protests. ‘Shut your mouth and give your arse a chance.’

‘Agreed,’ I add. ‘He does talk a load of shite.’ As I speak, I unlock my phone, open my texts, and physically recoil.

‘Well . . . that’s something,’ I say, distaste and a morbid sounding chuckle filling my tone.

‘Are you done?’ Will asks, turning back to face me. I hand him my phone, and like a true bloke, no matter what his heart tells him about being settled and loved up, his brain tells him to look at the dirty pictures. And so he does. His face morphs through a myriad of expressions—enquiring surprise, to abhorrent disgust, and everything in between. ‘You’ve shagged a chick with a dick?’ His voice echoes through the bar.

‘Keep it fuckin’ down,’ Mac growls.

‘This is your fault,’ I say, laughing at his abject horror. ‘And you’re still lookin’ at it.’

‘It? Why? Why would she send you a picture of a manscaped dick?’

‘On account of your stupid first text,’ Mac says, snatching the phone out of his hand and plonking it face down in my palm. ‘Go sort this out. We’ll need to leave soon.’ To get back to Ella and the kids.

I nod, the stab of guilt resurfacing, though I turn and make my way outside as the call connects. It’s begun to rain while we’ve been in the pub, the grey roads now slick and shiny.

‘Hello?’ Over the patter of the rain overhead, I hear how her voice brims with laughter even in that one spoken word. The tightness in my chest seems to loosen almost instantly.

‘How are you?’ Alcohol softens my tone, my enquiry warm.

‘I’m as hot as hell.’ 

‘That’s maybe a little conceited but also very true.’

‘Conceited? This from the man asking me to send intimate images. Via text, no less. Classy, Keir. Real classy.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’ I blow out the words on a long, regretful breath as I rub my hand against the back of my head. ‘But you really showed me, didn’t you?’

‘I sure showed you something,’ she replies, giggling.

‘I’m impressed—horrified but impressed.’

‘Was it the size of the schlong that did it for you?’

‘Ah, no.’ I chuckle. ‘Though that was also impressive. Horrifyingly impressive.’

‘Like you don’t compare,’ she scoffs.

‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting. Maybe a line up? Tape measures at the ready?’

She giggles again, a light, carefree sound. ‘I just meant, you know, you have nothing to be shy about.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I return, smiling into the rain-washed street. A car passes by with a hiss of wet tires, kicking up moisture into the air.

‘You totally should,’ she answers, her voice a touch lower now.

‘Is it strange that I can still feel you in my hands?’ I should regret the admission because I shouldn’t be leading her on. But all thoughts of impropriety, guilt, or remorse disappear with her next words.

‘I sort of still feel like I’m in your hands.’

‘How so?’

‘I feel them. Feel your mark all over me.’

My responding chuckle is low, an image from last night reverberating in my head. Paisley, naked and beneath me. Skin sliding against skin. My hands on her. My tongue inside her. My cock . . .

‘Are you still there?’ she asks softly.

‘Yeah. I’m just . . . Can I see you?’ The words come from nowhere, but out in the air, I have no wish to take them back.

‘If you mean in a text message—’ Humour colours her tone, but I cut her off anyway.

‘That wasn’t me. It was my arsehole mate. Can’t leave your phone anywhere, it seems.’

‘So define see me.’

I rub my lips together to stop the images in my head from turning to spilled words. My wants. My desires. The things I’d like to do to her but didn’t get the chance. Sordid things. Fun things. More than fucking in the dark.

‘Dinner. Coffee. A walk in the fucking park,’ I say instead. ‘Whatever tickles your fancy.’

Her laughter warms me from the inside out.

‘Oh, I think you’ve already discovered how my fancy likes to be tickled.’

‘Are you suggesting I know how you like to be fucked?’

Her breath hitches as the door to the pub opens, and an old man in a grey cap steps out into the rain. He heard me—heard the uncharacteristic thing I said to Paisley—I know he did. The look that passes between us isn’t hard to define. Life is short. Make hay while the sun shines. Have sex with the lovely girl.

‘Do you want to skip the niceties and go straight to a hotel room?’

Was that an invitation or a trap? I mentally berate myself for the sudden thought. Not all women are like my ex. ‘I didn’t say that.’ But fuck if I don’t want to. ‘I’m not easy, Paisley. I’m gonna make you work for it.’

‘You’re what?’ she says, giggling.

‘I don’t dole out my favours to just anyone.’

‘Oh, I believe it,’ she replies, still amused.

‘This isn’t Halloween, and my sexual favours aren’t M&M’s.’

‘So what does a girl have to do to get you into her bed again?’

‘I think we should start with dinner on Friday. How are you fixed?’

‘Fixed?’

‘What’s your schedule look like?’

‘I get back from Barcelona midweek, so that could work.’

Her hot as hell comment suddenly makes more sense—though she absolutely is hot—as I recall our initial interview.

‘How is Antonio?’ My enquiry is not without a touch of chagrin.

‘Oh, Antonio’s hanging,’ she responds airily.

While I’m not overly pleased to imagine her surrounded by swinging dicks, I can’t help but be a little confused by what she means.

‘You’re hanging with Antonio now?’ I say, attempting to keep the strain from my voice. And mostly winning.

‘No.’ Static sounds over the phone as though her hair is brushing against the speaker. ‘Antonio is hanging,’ she adds almost in a whisper. ‘On the set. Hanging as in the text I sent.’

‘Jesus, woman,’ I say, chuckling, her meaning becoming suddenly clear. ‘Is it not enough that you nearly blinded me in the coffee shop wi’ pictures of him!’

‘He’s not blinding anyone today, let me tell you. At least, not by poking anyone’s eye out.’ In the distance, someone calls her name. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I have to get back. Text me where and I’ll see you next week?’

‘Sure. I look forward to it.’

With warm goodbyes, we end our call, and I go back into the pub.

‘See,’ Will says, taking in the splashes of rain on my shirt. ‘Even the heavens are weeping with joy because you got your dick wet yesterday.’

‘You’ll be pleased to know it isn’t an unsalvageable mess, no thanks to you.’

‘You’re going to see her again?’ The surprise on his face hits me like a kick in the nuts. Swift and painful.

‘That’s a grand idea,’ Mac says, downing the rest of his drink. ‘Are we ready to go?’