Chapter 2

 

‘Jesus Christ,’ I reply, coughing and trying to wipe both the coffee and the smile from my face. ‘That’s some offer. But I only came in to grab a coffee.’ I pass her a paper napkin from the dispenser as her expression falters, the smile quickly slipping from her face.

‘You mean you’re not . . . ’ Her words trail off as she pats her face dry, bending at the waist to swipe the electronic tablet on the table, the action causing the front of her dress to gape. Full, soft breasts, and a barely there black bra. I drag my reluctant gaze away but not before I get another eyeful as the tablet lights up.

‘Oh, fuck,’ she mutters, and somehow, this doesn’t sound as harsh in her soft, American accent. She flips the thing upside down, snapping ramrod straight.

‘That’s not me, and that’s definitely not my dick,’ I answer, chuckling as she turns suddenly and begins rifling through a bag the size of Sicily hanging on the back of her chair.

And the rear view is as fantastic as the front.

‘Antonio Uccello!’ she calls in the vein of eureka! as she pulls a battered white envelope from her bag. ‘I’m looking for Antonio Uccello.’

‘I’d say you were just looking at quite a bit of him.’ Even in the low lighting, it’s easy to see the two distinct spots of pink colouring her cheeks. Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms across my chest, feeling a certain satisfaction at her flustered expression. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to flirt—even this little bit. It feels good. Gratifying. ‘And that’s not me.’

‘Hell,’ she breathes out softly. ‘Your accent should’ve been my first clue. You know, with this name.’ She waves the envelope as she takes her seat again.

‘Not really. I went to school with a lad called Aldo De Luca. And you couldn’t find a more Scottish sounding fella.’

‘You can never tell a book by its cover, huh?’

‘Looking at you? I’d say that’s especially true.’ I let my eyes deliberately wander over her again. A navy blue dress printed with tiny birds, the kind of dress I’ve heard Sadie, my mate’s wife, describe as vintage. ‘You don’t look like the kind of girl who works for a porn company.’ She looks like she might work in an art gallery or something. Then again, one girl’s art is another man’s porn, I suppose.

‘Erotica,’ she replies, a touch defensively. ‘Visually artistic with an emphasis on seduction, romance, and sensuality.’

‘And fucking. I bet there’s plenty of that going on.’

I regret my words the second they hit the air. I’m usually much more circumspect around the fairer sex. Even those who work in porn. That thought, of course, leads to another. Does she do porn? While gorgeous, she doesn’t look the type—not just because of a lack of platinum hair, or long fingernails, or silicone rack. Maybe she stars in the girl-next-door type scenes. All startling blue eyes and pink lips . . .

Sir, you want to put that where?

I shake my head, dislodging the inappropriateness again.

‘There’s nothing wrong with sex,’ she says, her spine straightening again. And the front of her dress pulling a little too tight . . .

Unless you’re not getting any, I don’t say. And I’d know because I’m not. Getting any, that is. And I haven’t for a while. A conscious decision, I remind myself.

‘True,’ I answer, uncrossing my arms. ‘But I’m not likely to be starring in porn at this time.’

‘Yes, well, I’m sorry for the confusion,’ she replies as I stand, tilting her head to indicate the offending tablet on the table between us. Next to it is an empty cappuccino cup plus a dainty plate with a dollop of cream and a slice of strawberry abandoned on it. ‘Apologies for the, er . . . ’

‘Full frontal nude?’ I supply. She nods her head rapidly, big blue eyes blinking back at me. ‘Well, here’s to hoping he rocks your world when he does arrive.’ At odds with the tightness in my belly, I offer a bawdy wink as I pull myself away.

 

‘What are you smiling about?’ Flynn, my assistant, asks as I walk back into the office.

‘What? Am I not allowed to smile now?’

‘Doesn’t happen fucking often,’ he says, his Aussie accent as thick as the peanut butter he has spread on his toast.

‘What have I told you about that mouth?’

‘I’m on my lunch break,’ he protests, picking the last square of toast balanced on a tea plate on his chest.

‘Remind me why I keep you around again?’

‘Because you couldn’t find your way out of a lunch sack without me. And also because I know where the bodies are buried.’ He kicks his feet down from his desk. ‘Come on, what’s put that smile on your face? You went out for coffee looking about as happy as a bastard on Father’s Day. And anyway, where’s my Frappuccino?’

His words piss on my mood immediately, reminding me why I was in a foul mood when I left.

‘Who in the hell schedules a business dinner on a Friday night?’

‘Ah, there’s my little ray of sunshine. Didn’t we already establish someone hoping to get you relaxed enough to screw up? Just drunk enough, just sloppy enough, to promise them something you don’t want to deliver. Whether it be a signed contract or a night in your bed.’

‘Joe’s not my type,’ I grumble. ‘Beer bellies don’t do it for me.’

Joe Shelby is in construction, the same as me. I pass a decent amount of work his way. Mainly subcontracted. I’m currently trying to buy a disused convent from the local archdiocese, and the sly fucker thinks I haven’t realised he’s trying to get into bed with me. Figuratively, at least. Not so figurative is his daughter, Amelia’s, interest. But I only have time for one female in my life, and that’s my own child, so neither of those scenarios interest me. But in business, you’ve got to play it canny.

‘The daughter, though? She’s hot.’

‘Aye, hot like a stolen car. And just as much trouble.’

‘I’d still do her.’

‘And that, right there, is why I’m the boss and you’re the PA.’

‘Boss or not, I’d still go for a piece of that.’

‘And I wouldn’t screw her with your dick, so let’s call it a difference of opinion and move the fuck on.’

‘You’re the boss.’ Flynn picks the iPad up from his desk. ‘And I am the lowly serf. So you’ve got the conference call in fifteen, and the plans for the Barclay job are on your desk. The architect for Ullridge is waiting on a callback and . . . ’

Flynn’s voice suddenly becomes background noise, the afternoon’s demands no longer of importance as I notice a tiny coffee stain on the cuff of my white shirt. I can’t resist examining it, my mind roaming back to the pretty girl in the coffee shop.

I wonder if she really does porn?

 

It’s late in the evening when the cab drops me home. It’s been a long day, and I’m in a bastard of a mood, but it’s my own fault. I should’ve said no to dinner. A dinner that dragged more hours into my workday. But truthfully, where work is concerned, I find it hard to draw the line. I suppose it’s a healthy kind of fear that keeps me powering along, but it’s also tiring. While I might now wear a tailored suit to work rather than a hard hat and steel toe-capped boots, my days are no less taxing. The difference is, these days, the things that drive me aren’t the basics of an existence; food in my belly or a roof over my head. I won’t ever need to worry about where my next meal is coming from, or how I’ll pay my bills.

Yet I’m still jogging on that treadmill.

Like tonight. I could’ve said no—should’ve said no. And now, I’m pretty pissed off that work has once again eaten into my me time. I know, me time sounds a bit gay, but Friday nights are the only time I get to myself.

I spend my days working my arse off—five days a week, often fourteen-hour days. Outside of that, I’m all about Sorcha, my little girl.

The life of a single parent is absolutely rewarding but sometimes hard.

I’m lucky I have Agnes, Sorcha’s pseudo granny, to help. Though I pay her well to head up our home, she’s really more like family. She’s more of a mother to me than my own ever was and loves Sorcha with the fierceness of any grandmother tied to a child through blood. You might say that little girl is the central hub from which the spokes of both of our lives turn.

There’s nothing like bringing a child into the world to set your priorities straight, I think as I close the front door with a quiet click. And nothing more compelling than being the sole person responsible for that life. As a parent, you’d chop off your right arm for your little one if that was the only path. Forfeit your life for the sake of theirs.

I walk through the darkened house until I reach the kitchen where I pour myself a generous couple of fingers of whisky, before taking the stairs to the first floor at a swift pace.

I’m tired; the bone-aching kind. But it’s another kind of bone I’m concentrating on now. After I’d closed my office door this afternoon, I went straight to my computer to Google the names of women-centric porn companies with bases in the London area . . . because I couldn’t remember the hot girl’s name or who she worked for. I remember it had something to do with bad girls, but of course, I’d remember that. Because bad girls used to be a favourite of mine, B.D. that is. Before divorce.

I remember her face as clear as day. Deep blue eyes and discomforted pink cheeks. The way she twisted the strands of her long, dark hair between her pale fingers. And that soft, American accent. But as I was pondering some of her very obvious charms . . . her name came back to me in a blinding flash.

Paisley.

Who calls their kid that? May as well have called her herringbone, or polka dot, or something equally as ridiculous.

And then I found it—Fast Girl Media. Funny, I used to be fond of fast girls, too.

So I did what any man shielded by a closed door and a PA would do. I watched a few highly curated cinematographic images in search of the lovely Paisley. Or, to put it another way, I spent more time than I had available on my calendar watching high-end women-centric porn.

And what a glorious afternoon it was.

Unfortunately, though—or maybe fortunately—Paisley wasn’t in any of the shots. And I paid good attention. She definitely wasn’t featured having her pussy licked or licking pussy. Like I said, women-centric. And fucking fine with me.

But I digress because my me time is calling.

I push open the door to my darkened bedroom, toeing off my shoes as I take a mouthful of my drink, relishing the smooth slide of it down my throat. Tomorrow morning, Sorcha has a ballet class, then we have a million other things planned. Sunday, I’ll play rugby with the lads, then we’ll all go to lunch. So I’d better make this next hour count.

I put down my drink and pull off my tie, flipping the light low before making quick work of the rest of my clothing.

I work bloody hard. Take care of my family. Look after my body. I eat right and drink plenty of water. Go to the gym when I can. Self-care, they call it. I read that in one of those glossy women’s magazines in a dentist’s waiting room. 

But it’s the other kind of self-care I have in mind tonight. The kind that has my hand sinking into my boxer briefs as soon as my slacks hit the deck.

I let out a groan, long and low, as I take my cock into my hand, my body relaxing with a distinct bone-melting kind of relief.

Today has been a long day.

Fucking Joe, I think, tightening my grip on my dick. Did he really think bringing his daughter was going to make the difference? And did she really think, as she slid her shiny red fingernails up my thigh, that I’d give in—to either of her suggestions?

Mutually beneficial relationships, my left bollock.

Because I never mix business and pleasure. And Joe is a cock of the first fucking order. And Amelia, his daughter, reminds me too much of my ex-wife. Hard-on killer right there. But I persevere, bringing my semi back with a swift squeeze even though I feel like a deviant.

Joe’s daughter isn’t the reason I feel conflicted. Nor is it because I have my cock in my hand because come on, I’m a bloke—and a single one at that. A red-blooded, sex-starved, heterosexual fucker.

Self-inflicted sex starved, but still.

Celibate, I almost hear my mate Will spit from behind. But it’s not Will I’m thinking about. My deviancy doesn’t swing that way. I’m not even thinking about the women I’ve watched on screen today. Because I’m thinking about Paisley. Or rather, thinking about fucking Paisley. And I have been since she’d jumped up from her chair when I’d sprayed coffee over her and she’d flashed me more than just her shocked expression.

Shiny black stocking tops. A flash of frilly garter belt.

‘Eungh.’

I slide my hand over the head of my cock, gripping it a little tighter on the backslide as I imagine flipping that flirty little dress up and over her round arse to find out what kind of knickers she was wearing.

Lacy, I’ll bet.

At the thought of my fingertips trailing the peachy crack of her backside, my body bows. One hand falls to the mattress to support myself while the other begins to slowly jack.

Fuck, she looked like she could’ve been a handful. Enough tits and arse for my hands. As she’d reached for her electronic tablet, her dress had pulled just a little too tight over her breasts, the space between the buttons gaping and flashing a little black bra and a delicious swell of soft flesh.

But fuck, she was too young for me. She only looked about twenty-three.

I’m not usually interested in younger women. Well, not especially.

Okay, so no more than the next straight, celibate bloke with a cock in his hand.

‘Jesus, fuck!’

My grip is firm as I slide my hand along my length, twisting just the right amount at the head. Lube would help, but I’m too close. Yes, already. Besides, I doubt my knees would operate if I took a step towards the nightstand. Instead, I slide the precum from my tip to work against the drag as I imagine her sitting in front of me on the bed. Imagine her there in her dark, gossamer underwear, her hair curled around her shoulders, looking so innocent and pristine.

Innocent. The girl who works for an adult entertainment company.

Fuck, fancy that.

I work myself harder, my hand sliding from root to tip, my knees connecting with the mattress as the point of no return hits me, liquid heat shooting from spine to tip. I close my eyes as Paisley pants, opening her mouth as I prepare to defile her with strands of milky—

‘Daddy?’

The door handle rattles, and I almost give myself whiplash as my head snaps in response to the sound.

Big head, little head. Who’ll win the battle now?

‘Daddy,’ Sorcha’s voice calls a little louder. ‘Why is the door locked?’

‘B . . . because I need a moment,’ I call back, my voice a touch hoarse.

‘What? I mean, pardon?’ she asks, correcting herself.

The handle rattles again, and this time, I really do feel like a deviant as, up against the clock, I begin to wank furiously.

‘Come on, you fucker,’ I mutter.

‘Daddy, I can’t hear you,’ she calls, frustrated. And she’s not the only one.

‘Go back to bed, darlin’. I’ll be out in a minute,’ I say louder before going back to muttering again. ‘What the fuck happened to the sleepover? Oh, fuck!’

My knees do buckle now as the fire turns white hot, building at the base of my spine this time.

‘The handle won’t turn,’ she whines, ‘it’s too hard.’

Hard and aching and almost ready to blow.

‘Go back to bed,’ I grate out harshly.

‘I can’t. Agnes is in my room, and she’s snoring. And I have a tummy ache.’

‘And I’ve got fucking ball ache,’ I mumble, past the point of rationality—too far past the point of no return.

Or so I’d thought. The image of my scantily clad Paisley evaporates like the dream as reality comes crashing back in.

‘Dad-deee-bleurgggh.’

Yep, that is the sound of my daughter vomiting.

And the sound of my cock retracting and my balls crawling away from my hand.

‘Daddy,’ comes her pitiful wail.

Me time, I think, dropping my head. Being a parent is so hard sometimes.