CHAPTER FIVE
LUX
I wake clawing sleep dust from my eyes. I half expect to find Deacon standing by the door watching me, but the room’s empty.
Shame.
I throw the covers off and swing myself into a sitting position. I find jeans on the floor and drag them on. The clock beside the bed shows it’s 10am. I haven’t slept in this late since I was sixteen and dreamy-eyed over Justin Bieber.
I stand and walk to the door, legs heavy. I open it slowly and look out. The place is way too quiet. “Hello?” I call down the hall.
No response.
Arms wrapped around myself, I head down the hall into the lounge. No one’s here. There’s toast on the table, evidence the brothers were awake.
I notice a hastily written note on the fridge door: SURFING. BACK LATER. FLAPJACKS ON THE BENCH.
I am hungry.
I take a flapjack and stuff it unceremoniously into my mouth. Not bad. I could get used to this.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help having a little look around the place. It’s more or less what you’d expect of three alpha males living together, what with the random porn and discarded bottles and cans on every flat surface. The surfboards are missing from the walls, but there’s Sex Wax on the table and spare wetsuits hanging from an old chandelier in the hall. It’s my kind of home—lived in, a little chaotic. A home, not a museum.
I walk past Razor’s room.
Don’t do it.
I can’t help it. I enter, arms folded, and look around. There are a couple of surfing mags on the tableside fighting for space with Playboy and Hustler. There’s also a framed picture of the three brothers together standing at what has to be a Californian beach. They look happy.
I pick up a pair of pants, lord knows why, and sniff, soon discarding them when the smell threatens to overwhelm me.
In contrast, Bo’s room is clean and neat, the bed made and everything in order. The same picture is pinned to the wall and below it another with who I can only imagine are their parents. The picture is old, a Polaroid from the nineties maybe.
Finally, I stand in front of the door to Deacon’s room. I don’t know why, but I’m more nervous about entering his space than any of the others. Perhaps it’s because we share a connection now, something I can’t really put into words, but I know deep down it’s more than that. All the brothers are attractive, the kind of brutish bad boys a girl would think twice about taking home to Momma, but Deacon… He’s different. I sense there’s more going on in his head than he’s letting on.
I creep inside slowly and close the door softly behind myself. What the hell are you doing, Lux?
I want to leave, but curiosity has me caught in a vice. The room’s large, far larger than my own. It must be the master.
It’s surprisingly barren given how long the brothers have been here. Still, there’s nothing that immediately hints of something sinister going on.
There’s the same picture of the three brothers stuck to the wall. Below it is another of what appears to be Deacon and a girl. She’s got stark blonde hair like myself, blue eyes. We could almost be twins.
The plot thickens.
I pat down my pockets and find my phone. There doesn’t seem to be any reception around here, but the camera works just fine.
I don’t really know why, but I zoom in on Deacon’s face and take a snap. For posterity’s sake, I tell myself.
A sound. The front door opening. Footsteps outside.
Shit.
I jump to the door and peer out.
It’s Deacon, surfboard under his arm headed in this direction.
Shitty shit shitballs.
How the hell are you going to explain this?
I look around, frantic. The wardrobe door is slid open. It’ll have to do.
I manage to slip inside and pull the slatted door across right as Deacon enters.
Now you’ve done it.
I peer through the smallest of gaps between the slats. It’s dark in here and bright out there, I’m safe for now.
Until he comes hunting for a shirt.
Deacon’s in his wetsuit, standing in front of a mirror on the far side of the room.
He reaches behind himself and pulls the zipper of the wetsuit down, peels out of it until it’s winged out around his hips, his torso, chest and arms bare and exposed. My stomach clutches, but it’s with a different kind of hunger now.
Oh crap.
This is not good.
If he comes over here. If he catches you…
I push the thought away, the slat in front of my lips beaded with condensation from my breathing.
He takes hold of the wetsuit and presses it down his thighs, no underwear, no nothing but for ass and cock and plenty of the latter, the bulbous head of it swinging between his legs heavy and large.
I actually cover my eyes for a moment, unable to comprehend this, but yep, it’s happening alright.
Wetsuit puddled around his ankles, he steps out of it and watches himself in the mirror. He doesn’t flex or smile or gaze at his body. He simply stares, looking for something.
I’m surrounded by shirts and jeans, the smell of his masculinity, of male, thick around me.
I crouch back as far as I can, watch as he takes hold of his member, lightly stroking it.
Oh no. No, no, no. Don’t do that.
He collapses onto the bed on his back, his cock growing hard in his grip.
I’ve never seen a man masturbate before. It causes an unexpected wave of warmth to rush into my body. My nipples tighten against the cotton craters of my bra, tender.
I arch forward for a better view, my chest brushing against the slats of the door.
My mouth goes dry watching his fist pump up and down, his cock climbing higher and higher, growing thicker and thicker until it’s monstrous, obscene even in his hand.
His head falls back to the edge of the bed, his huge thighs spread wide and his fist beating harder, faster, eyes closed in quiet supplication at the act.
A thought occurs to me. What if he’s thinking about you?
I smell my own sex, musky and damp, the scent of it mingling with the occupants of the cupboard, closing in around me. This is what it would smell like if you were together, you on him, him on you, in you.
I shift uneasily as he continues to stroke his shaft long and slow.
His cock’s magnificent, completely erect now with the foreskin stretched back, the rosy head of it uncovered.
He groans and I feel it in my groin, primal. My thighs begin to ache, a strange and yet exquisite pressure growing between my legs. I press a hand between them to ease it, my labia swollen against my panties, the crotch soaked through.
He jerks faster, lifting from the bed, the muscles in his arm coiling and releasing, his tattoos alive.
Fuck it.
I draw the crotch of my panties aside, can feel my clit engorged, my own juices slippery and hot falling through my fingers.
I stifle a moan, holding onto a hanging pair of jeans with one hand while the other presses harder against my crotch, my hips searching and moving for friction, my body opening and responding.
He grunts again and I almost lose my balance, teetering and only catching my lurch at the last moment. He’s really getting into it, his cock a blur in his hand, shoulders straining.
I can’t settle. I shift from one foot to the other, constantly wondering whether my movements will give me away. I slip two fingers inside myself, press them deep into the hot mouth of my pussy.
Saliva floods my mouth as I watch, spellbound. I let my thumb slip over my clit, the feeling of being filled unbelievably satisfying. I haven’t masturbated since I was a teenager, have never felt the urge until now watching this private act. I quiver thinking what he would do if he caught me, opening the door to find me with my knees spread and the space between them open and wet, stuffed full of my fingers.
He might replace them with his own, with his tongue perhaps.
I shudder again.
God, Lux. You’re losing it.
I adjust my hand, match him stroke for stroke, my fingers quietly sliding in and out my steamy hole.
His breathing comes labored. He’s close, pearly desire leaking from the tip of his member, whisked away by his hand as it rises and falls.
He lifts from the mattress, levitating and pumping with everything he has, thrusting his hips to meet his hand. I do likewise caught in the cupboard, the tension growing in my core ready to explode.
I build, forced to close my eyes as I lift towards climax, my chest heaving from the effort, my muscles tight and tense.
It arrives and my eyes snap open just in time to catch the gush of semen over his hand, my climax crushing in its intensity, convulsions kicking me back and forward in the small space, quivering, out of control.
I press my teeth together tight lest I scream aloud, wave after wave of ecstasy washing over me until I half-collapse against the door, removing my slippery fingers as I buck and twist through the final throes.
Limp, exhausted, I watch through the slats as Deacon rises from the bed, cleaning himself with a towel from the corner, his cock still proud and hard, not even his own completion causing it to fall.
The door creaks and for one horrifying moment he looks straight at me.
I freeze. This is it, fingers still caught between my legs, no way to explain this.
He looks away and opens the top drawer of a dresser by the wall, pulling out clothes and tossing them onto the bed before leaving the room completely.
I hear the shower come on at the back of the house. Now. You have to go now.
So I do. I gently push the door open and stand, brushing my nightshirt down and peering around the corner, steam billowing out from under the bathroom door.
I reach for the knob of the bedroom door, turn and pull, rushing back to my room and pressing myself against the far wall breathing hard, the damp between my legs cooling fast.
*
I’m still tingling at work. I came prepared for a nightly weekend rush of patrons, but the pub’s as empty as it’s been every other day. Maybe Sarah’s right. Maybe the boys’ brawl money really is paying the bills.
“Is it always this quiet?” I ask her, continuing to polish glasses, a seemingly endless task.
“Afraid so. My father owned this pub, passed it on. It holds sentimental value, you know, but as for a retirement fund?” She laughs. “I’ll be working here ’til I’m six foot under. Hell, I might still be working after that.”
The door opens and in walks the sergeant, making his way up to the bar.
Sarah smiles in his direction. I get a quick visual image of the two of them and almost puke all over the counter.
Sarah nods towards me. “Pull the sergeant a beer, Lux, on the house.”
I pull a beer and slide it over to him. He takes a swig and leans back. “Ah, much better.”
For a cop, he looks mighty out of shape, not that I can talk coming from country where half the police force spends their time hunting down donuts instead of criminals.
“Sergeant Wilson, was it?” I offer.
“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”
Sarah takes an armful of beers over to a table at the back where I’m imagining a group of elderly men are discussing the finer intricacies of lawn bowling or how to maximize shaving-blade usage.
“Busy, Sergeant?” I continue.
He laughs. “‘Busy’ and ‘Finke’ don’t really go together. Then again, ever since your boys moved into town things have picked up. The ol’ cell’s not so lonely anymore with them around.”
I act surprised. “Oh?”
“I know you’re staying with them,” he says, matter of fact. “It’s your business, I know, but you should really choose your boarding buddies a little more carefully.”
I try to remain neutral. “Why do you say that?”
“Look,” he says, “you seem like a smart, intelligent woman.” Is he flirting with me? “So, I’m going to give it to you straight.”
Here we go.
“The Hunt boys are bad news.” He sniffs the air. “They reek of trouble. It follows them around like a filthy stink, and trust me, you have to be looking hard to find trouble here, but they do. If I actually put any paperwork through it’d stretch the Great Wall of China.”
“I see.”
He takes another sip of his beer. “Say, how long will you be staying in this fine town of ours?”
Almost automatically, I pick up a glass and start cleaning. “I’m not sure. I was hoping to get some more surfing in.”
He laughs. “Sharks in and out of the water around here these days. Be fucking careful, love. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I will.” But I can’t help myself. “Sergeant, when you say the Hunt brothers get into trouble, what do you mean?”
He leans across the bar. “I mean they use their fists instead of their heads when a problem arises, and that’s never a smart way to solve problems. I suppose if their brains were in their head instead of between their legs it wouldn’t be such an issue.”
I smile, can’t help but visualize what’s between Deacon’s legs again. Easy now. “I suppose so.”
As I say it I notice the same guy who was here the other night in the booth at the back. He’s not drinking. He’s not doing much, in fact, but staring in my direction.