THIRTY-TWO
Gigi
I think I’m in love with Oliver Lark.
He’s the perfect father figure to his little boy, and it’s seemingly the cherry on top of the cake. Watching him like a lovesick fool, I press my cheek into the palm of my hand as he talks with his heart on his sleeve.
“He’s a little terror, but I love the little rascal.”
“How old is he again?” I ask.
“He turned five a few weeks back. He just started primary school, but the wife and I are taking him to Disneyland in the school holidays.”
My heart swells with warmth as I insist, “He’ll love it!”
The corners of his lips lift into a smile, the apples of his cheeks reaching his eyes with the movement. “A few more months and I’m out of here. I’m ready to be the best husband and father possible—”
“Thomas!” someone bellows.
It takes me a second to recognise the voice shouting at me. When I crane my neck to look over my shoulder, Harry’s storming through the food hall. He has a gym bag slung over his shoulder, and he barely spares me a glance as he says, “Meet me in the gym in ten minutes.”
Blimey, what’s got his knickers in a twist?
The door bounces on its hinges as he leaves the room, and I stand there in a huff.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave.”
“Go ahead. You don’t want to get on the wrong end of St. James – especially on one of his bad days.”
“Trust me, I know,” I say, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the insinuation in my voice.
I’m in one of those private rooms – the kind with mirrors covering every wall – that Harry and I have been using for our sparring sessions. I’m thankful for the privacy, yet the glass door won’t stop wandering eyes from noticing my blush as he gets all alpha during training. While I’m in the middle of tightening the straps on one of my gloves the door swings open.
“Take off the gloves,” Harry orders, storming over to the corner and dropping his bag. “We’re changing things up today.”
There’s no comfort in his voice. He speaks with the authority a teacher would use with their student. I catch his true reflection in the mirror and notice harsh lines etched between his brows as if he’s fighting his true feelings.
I grin and pull the gloves off. “It’s about time.”
With his back still turned, he says, “You want hand-to-hand combat, I’ll give it to you.”
I walk to the centre of the room and jump around on the tips of my toes to psyche myself up. Yet nothing can prepare me for the way he pulls his T-shirt over his head and discards it on the floor. As he approaches me in the centre of the room I take a step back warily, my eyes dropping down to his naked chest. Have his muscles grown since the last time I saw him? My eyes dart back to the glass door, feeling as if what I just witnessed was illegal.
I fight the desperate urge to spare him another glance and ask, “Is that really necessary?”
“You wanted this, remember? I won’t hold back.”
Are we talking about the hand-to-hand combat still? Because I’m certain there must be a catch. After he caught me snooping in the basement, there’s no way he’s willing to give me what I want.
My eyes flicker back down to his chest and the tattoos stretching to his muscled abdomen.
I’m ripped from my trance when he demands, “Hit me.”
Right, he’s having me on. Hilarious.
A flicker of amusement washes over his eyes, causing the edges of his lips to twitch into a grin. While I’ve thought about punching Harry more times than I’d like to admit, I doubt he’s suggesting I hurt him out of self-satisfaction.
“Tempting.”
“I’m being serious.”
Hmm.
Well, that changes things then …
“It’s your funeral,” I say.
He laughs, and the sound goes straight through me, rattling my bones. Does he not trust that I’ll hurt him? As anger helps the precision of my shot, I protect my thumb in my curled fist and aim it right at the idiot’s irresistible fucking mouth.
He shoves my forearm away before I’ve even made contact.
“Again.”
My legs stumble from the missed shot, but I shrug my shoulders as if I’m brushing off the failure. “This is stupid.”
“Is that what an attacker will say when you’ve been tortured and held captive? Will he tell you it’s fucking stupid that you’re trying to hit him? ”
I thought we were training for my initiation – why’s he throwing real-world scenarios into the mix? Where has all this come from? Captive? Attacker? Torture?
“What’s gotten into you?”
Ignoring my question, he insists, “Again.”
Refusing to argue, I draw my arm back and aim to punch him once more, but he blocks the move, catching my attempt before I’ve even come within a few inches of him.
“Again!”
My lungs tire as I try again.
He grabs my fist, halting my movements.
So I try again.
He blocks and exhales a sigh. “Again.”
My rage increases. With each attempt I feel my throws getting slightly stronger, and now I really want to hit the bastard. Heat starts to prick the back of my neck, and I can feel the hairs at my nape sticking to my clammy skin.
Catching my breath with yet another hit, I throw my arm out. It’s the closest I’ve come to making contact, but he blocks the hit with ease.
“Better. Now try again.”
I suck in gasps of air, resting my hands on my knees, my eyes travelling over his naked torso. The exhilaration of the workout and the thick determination of wanting to hurt Harry completely distracted me from his muscular chest. It’s light work for him, but regardless, his skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat—
A palm hits the side of my head.
“What the fuck!” I pant.
“You’re distracted.”
“That’s unfair.”
He tilts his head to the side like the cocky bastard he is. His smirk is as clear as the trail of hair leading from his belly button to the waistband of his shorts as he asks, “How so?”
“You got shirtless on purpose!”
And suddenly I’m pushed against the wall of the gym, my arms caught in Harry’s strong grip on either side of me. He presses his body to mine, his bare chest flush against my bra-cladded one. We’re caught in a hot and sweaty mess of flesh and panting breaths.
Is that … hunger in his eyes? I’m tempted to second-guess the emotion, but it instantly solidifies when he firmly presses his hard cock against my stomach. All butterflies are preparing to jump ship, sensing he’s just seconds from screwing the rules and everything we’ve worked for.
“You’re distracted,” he repeats.
“I want a new trainer,” I demand, feeling my composure withering.
His face melts into a buttery smile. “Not a fucking chance.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Hit. Me. Again.”
Fuck this.
I kick out my leg, hoping the element of surprise will shut him up and hit him right where it hurts. Instead the fucker grabs the underside of my knee and pulls it flush against his hip. He thrusts his hips forwards once, pulling a high-pitched whimper from the back of my throat as he rocks his hard-on against my core.
My eyes squeeze shut, feeling my underwear quickly dampen with arousal.
“Again, baby.”
“I … I can’t.”
“You can’t …?” he repeats, cooing sympathetically. “I thought you wanted this?” Torturing me, he hikes my thigh up higher against his hip. His other hand slips up my chest until he’s gripping my throat, his thumb and forefinger squeezing my pressure points and lightly constricting my airways. As I struggle to inhale a breath he grinds his stiff cock torturously between my legs .
“Open your eyes,” he demands, his voice rougher now.
I squeeze them closed even harder, shaking my head. If I don’t look, I’m denying how good it feels to be touched by him.
“Someone will see,” I say, panicked.
He slips his hand underneath the waistband of my leggings, and when he starts to drop his touch lower, to where I crave him, my eyes shoot open. His long fingers run over my damp underwear, and a groan vibrates his throat as a moan falls free from mine.
“Do you feel that?” he asks.
My eyes flicker over to the door as someone walks past, oblivious.
“You’re worried that people will see how your body weeps for me?”
“H-Harry,” I plead, not entirely sure what for.
From the angle of the door, Harry’s body is blocking mine so no passers-by will see what’s happening, but that doesn’t decrease my fear. As if he’s trying to prove his point, he runs his fingers tortuously over my slit covered in cotton.
“What is it, baby?”
When I turn back to him, our faces are just centimetres apart, and I can practically taste him on my lips. While a part of me begs to catch his mouth against my own, an even bigger part screams that this could come with the biggest of punishments.
“You want me to play with this”—he presses his thumb tightly against my enlarged clit—“pretty pussy until you come?”
He pushes my underwear to the side, slipping a finger into my entrance and eradicating all sensible thoughts. With my legs shaking, Harry puts further pressure on my neck, forcing me to arch my back and thrust my hips into his touch.
“I’ll give it to you if that’s what you want. No holding back.”
He’s punishing me.
He’s fucking punishing me .
But I shake my head, perhaps wanting the torture.
My walls clench around his finger, my body betraying me as it aches to kidnap his touch so he never leaves. His fingers on my throat flex, warning me he’s about to tighten his grip, and I suck in a breath. He squeezes and my hips stagger, meeting the thrust of his finger as he pumps it in and out of my entrance.
He thrusts in a second, curling the pair into me and creating a swarm of heat in my lower stomach. I throw my head back, a strangled moan releasing from my throat as he catches my chin between his teeth and nibbles.
My vision is dazed with stars.
Fuck, I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I’m not sure from what first.
Harry thrusts his fingers into me in a deep, torturous impalement, practically pulling an orgasm from me at lightning speed. His fingers are knuckles-deep, and he hooks my leg over his forearm to fuck me deeper.
“You’re fucking soaked, baby. Is that all for me?”
I whine.
He raises his head, bringing his face just inches from mine to stare at me intently. I try to look into his eyes, but the feeling is too strong, the intimacy too intense. When my head starts to lean backwards to break the trance, he releases the hand from my throat and brings it to the back of my neck, forcing me to face him.
He presses his forehead to mine, maintaining eye contact.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
A whimper shakes my lips, pleading for him to break the physical and mental hold he has on me, but my fight is pathetic, my stomach tightening with liquid flames. I can feel myself nearing the crest of my orgasm, only moments away from coming undone.
“I want you to come all over my hand. Can you do that for me?”
His thumb strokes my clit, and my walls tighten around his digits as he pumps them faster.
With how his stare scrutinises mine, I can’t bear to say the words aloud.
Please. Please. Please.
Just like that.
“You’re going to do as I say,” he says. “And you’re not going to stop.”
Hips vibrating under the pressure, I feel the tightening in my stomach expand to my chest as my whole body prepares for the inevitable crash.
Throwing my head back, my skull meets Harry’s hand, and my jaw drops open in a silent cry as I reach the peak of pleasure. His eyes drink the look on my face and his lips part as if he can physically taste my bliss. He wraps an arm protectively around my waist, concealing this moment in the privacy of our cocoon.
But he doesn’t stop there.
“You’re going to come again.”
I shake my head.
Harry grins, amused.
He pushes a third finger into me, thrusting it in harder and without remorse. As he curls his fingers upwards my hand squeezes his wrist.
It’s too much—fuck, it’s too much.
My body shudders with aftershocks and my legs threaten to give way beneath me, yet my stomach curls with the intent of chasing another dose of unfathomable pleasure as the next orgasm nears.
“H-Harry!”
He growls in response to the sound of his name, slapping a hand over my mouth to conceal the moan, but even his palm struggles to stifle the sound. I grind and come on his fingers, drenching his hand as he continues to work my body through my orgasm.
I continue to come with every thrust of him inside me, feeling a build-up of adrenaline that refuses to stop. Vibrating as if under the influence of a harsh drug, I fight myself to catch Harry’s lips and drain the life from them like he just did to me.
But that’s not who we are.
We don’t kiss.
And we most certainly don’t get each other off for pleasure.
What have I done?