12. Raif
“Regret your choice of bride yet?”
“It’s barely been twelve hours.”
I follow her out of the house and watch as she wobbles her way across the terrace, her laughter floating on the fragrant night air.
She’s a little buzzed, true, but not roofied. Self-medicated against nervousness would be my guess as she navigates the furniture, pausing to peel off one unlaced boot, then the other. Socks follow, all thrown haphazardly behind her. She makes for the pool and, when I think she might jump in, traverses the edge like a circus tightrope walker instead.
She veers off to the right, in the direction of the glass fence, tipping onto her toes to look down at the rock face. Limestone graveling underfoot, chickweed, bitter orange trees, and buckthorn bushes I’d tear my shirts on. It’s a land that’s familiar to me.
I grew up not far from here, in a neighborhood much less salubrious, running through the scrub and generally getting up to no good. When I was a kid, this area was the pinnacle of wealth to me. I’d sworn that, when I was older, I’d buy my mother the biggest house on the hill.
She just didn’t live long enough.
As she lowers to her heels, I realize I’d checked out while staring at her ass. There are worse things to look at.
She leans back against the glass, her elbows hooked over the edge. The scent of neroli and jasmine perfumes the air, the night sky twinkling behind her, the sea a shining oil slick in the distance.
All this beauty and her at the center of it.
My wife. That shouldn’t make me feel good, but the things that aren’t good for you usually do.
“You know, it bugs me how some people only count their relationship from the point of marriage,” she announces, picking up where she’d left off. “Like that’s the pinnacle—the be-all and end-all. As though what came before wasn’t also a significant commitment.”
“I stand corrected, but given that our commitment to each other hasn’t yet reached the twenty-four-hour mark, the answer is still no. I don’t regret you.” After stubbing my cigarette out on the wall, I flick the butt into a nearby plant pot.
“Much better.” Her eyes fall over me as I cross the terrace and pull out a chair from the dining setting. Turning it to face her, I take a seat, propping my heel on my opposite knee.
“I should imagine that’s long enough to decide whether it’s worth putting up with me.” She crosses her legs at her ankles. Fuck, those legs. Those toned, tan legs. I want them wrapped around my head again, even if tonight isn’t that night.
She’ll say when. She’ll say where. And I won’t give her space for regrets.
“Comfortable, princess?” My voice sounds husky as she arches her back a little, her thighs pushed tight together.
“Yes.” In the low light, her cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Why?”
“No reason.” I glance down to hide my smile, picking an invisible piece of lint from my shirt.
“I swear the shirt you went out in was white.”
“I don’t regret you, and this shirt wasn’t white.”
“Yet. You don’t regret me yet.”
“You’re hoping to drive me to the edge of my sanity?”
“It’ll be too late for you to change your mind, then. Your darling wife will have emptied your bank accounts and shoved you in a lunatic asylum as quick as that.” She clicks her middle finger and thumb together. “One with barbed wire fences and doors with padlocks.”
“Gothic. You like to read?”
“Mostly romance novels.”
She seems almost to dare me into commenting, but we just stare at each other instead.
“It’s beautiful here,” she says after that pleasant pause. “So peaceful.” Her chest rises as she inhales a deep breath.
“That’s because I bought the neighboring properties and knocked them down.”
“Really?” She sounds amused. “Do you always just… do what you want?”
“Not always. Sometimes I do the right thing, and other times…”
“You do the wrong thing?”
I nod.
“For the right reason?”
“Not often,” I say, reaching back to link my fingers behind my head.
She angles her gaze away. “Do you spend much time here?”
“Not these days.” It is beautiful. The view. The house. The stark ruggedness of the peninsula. But the country is small. Too small. And the memories are not so good. I have other bases in far lovelier places.
“Is Gibraltar a tax haven?”
“Why, are you looking for one?”
“Maybe I’m thinking ahead,” she replies.
“I think you’d prefer Monaco.”
She laughs softly as her gaze falls. “You’re funny. And you can dance,” she says as though these make her unhappy.
“I’m good at other stuff too, princess.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“So much truth. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink.”
“I hope not. Drinking for twelve months straight seems like a poor fall-back plan.”
“I guess so,” I answer with a chuckle.
“I’m sure I’ll find some other way.” Her gaze flicks over me. Critically or with consternation? Probably both. But there’s interest in those blue eyes, too.
“So tell me, why are we in Gibraltar?”
“A quick marriage.”
Maybe she rolls her pretty blue eyes, but it’s a little too dark to tell. “Story checks out, but I meant why do you have a house here?”
“I have houses in lots of places.”
“Okay, so you have a house in Gibraltar… just in case you needed to get married in a hurry. Wait, have you done this before? Am I wife number eight, Raif?” She turns her head over her shoulder, glancing down at the rocky hillside. “Did wife number seven meet a nasty accident down there?”
“That would be number five. Number seven met a watery demise after a mysterious fall from my yacht in San Tropez.”
“That’s good to know,” she says with a nod. “Note to self, when Raif offers to take you aboard, bring arm floats.”
“I never repeat my crime. Where’s the art, the creation in that?”
“So… how are you going to deal with me?”
“Very carefully.”
She nods. “I think I like the sound of that.”
“What about me? How are you going to deal with me?”
“Oh, I think you should sleep with one eye open.”
I chuckle. I won’t be able to close them in case I miss one inch—one moment of her.
“You’ve got a funny accent. It’s American one minute and a little bit Spanish the next. And that language you were speaking before. What was that?”
“Llanito. It’s the language of Gibraltar. At least, it was.”
“Oh, so you’re from here?”
“I was born here.”
“In the club, you spoke a bit of Arabic.”
“Is that a question?”
“Are you a bit of a… what’s that word again?” She glances at the sky as though the answer might be written there. “Polyglot!” she announces happily.
“I speak Llanito because I grew up here. Same goes for Spanish.”
“Makes sense. They’re part of the same landmass.”
“I also speak Arabic and a little French.”
“Show-off.”
“Not really. They’re languages gifted to me. Ones I grew up with that took no effort to learn.”
“But Arabic isn’t spoken here, is it?”
“There’s a Moroccan community. My mother was part of it.”
“Wait, is that why the registrar said your name like he did? Have I been saying it wrong?”
I shake my head. “I like the way you say it.”
“How mortifying. Believe me, I know the pain of a name.” She scrunches her nose adorably. “If I’ve been mispronouncing—”
“I won’t be able to hear you say it any other way.”
“Oh. Sweet.” Her expression softens.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“We wouldn’t want to spoil your reputation.”
“What reputation is that?” I ask smoothly.
“I’m not sure yet,” she says, her eyes falling very obviously to my shirt. Antonio’s shirt. Blue when mine was white. It’s not handmade and fits too tightly across my shoulders. “If I look up multicultural in a dictionary, will I find a picture of you?”
“If I look for trouble—”
“Then you’ve found it!”
“Hang on, what about your American accent? Your dad?” she tacks on.
“British. American high school and college.” Regardless of whether I wanted it or not. But I guess it was far away from him and his new life. As well as too far from my mother and my old life. At least the bastard left me some of his money. I hope he’s rolling in his grave at how I’ve used it. Multiplied, diversified.
“Is that why you live in London?”
“No. He’s dead. They both are. I don’t really live in one place…” Or at least, I didn’t until this year.
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“My turn.”
“Fine,” she answers, though her tone makes it sound like the opposite.
“You’re too far away. Come closer.”
“Was that an order?”
“A request. Always a request.”
Her brow quirks haughtily. I stifle my smile. Fuck, this girl. My heart seems to beat in time with the beat of her heels until she’s standing in front of me.
“Closer.” My fingers reach for hers, and she steps between my legs. “Closer.”
“If I get any closer, I’ll be a broach or a pin.”
“I can cope with that.”
I put my hands on her hips, and she bends from the waist, her lips brushing mine. “You taste like whiskey and smoke,” she whispers.
“Disgusting habits.”
“I know. You make me sick.” Her words are just breath, her tongue caressing the seam of my lips.
“You make me hard.”
I tug, and she climbs. I hiss out a curse, her tits briefly in my face.
She drops into my lap, and I groan.
“Story checks out.” Her voice is husky, her hand curling around my nape. “Unless that’s a really large… knife you have in your pocket.”
I don’t answer her taunt—I can’t. The words I have in my mouth aren’t fit for her.
My hands slide up her mostly bare back, curling around her shoulders, holding her against me. There. There.
She hums, pressing her nose into my shoulder, when she shakes her head as though it’s distasteful. “This isn’t your shirt. It doesn’t smell like you.”
“Take it off.” I bite back a groan as she sits back.
“Sorry.” Her husky whisper of an apology means nothing as she rocks her heat over me again.
“Liar.”
“I know.” Her eyes shine liquid as her hands move to the buttons. Her fingers are nimble, the buttons quickly loosened. Lavender slides the cotton from my shoulders, her fingers curling, holding as she undulates over me.
“Fuck, yes.”
“You like that?”
“Yeah. Torture me, princess. I can take it.”
The heat of her body, her scent. Her breath on my face. The moment is sublime. Heavenly as she begins to kiss her across my chest. A kiss here, a suck there. A graze of teeth that gives way to a sucking bite that will surely mark.
God, I hope so.
With a groan, I tip back my head as my pelvis tilts instinctively. She makes a noise, pleasure-filled yet inquisitive, pressing it into my neck.
She slides from my lap, coming to her knees between my spread legs.
“That wasn’t a hint.” It was mostly reflex.
“Wasn’t it?”
“Princess…” I say, all conflicted groan. I want, but I shouldn’t as her teeth press over my abs. I almost levitate, groaning as I twist under her.
“Hush. I want this.” Her lashes are a dark sweep as she keeps her gaze from me. “Just this.”
“I don’t think you should…”
“You aren’t a very accomplished liar.” Her eyes flash bright as the stars. “You know you want this. Want my mouth on you.” She reaches for my belt.
“Wait.” My head and my cock are at war. “It’s late.”
“Pass me a cushion.”
“Not when you’ve been drinking.”
“Are you playing hard to get, or do you expect me to believe you don’t want me to suck your cock?”
I blink as I try to process all of that… attitude.
Maybe this is why some men get off to women holding a cane.
“I want it.” Fuck yes, I do. “But I don’t want it thrown in my face tomorrow.”
She sits back on her heels, her expression mildly pensive.
I’m expecting a lecture, some don’t tell me what I want feminist bullshit. But I must’ve forgotten that Lavender is a one-off.
“That’s a phrase I’ve never put into a porn search engine. ‘Man throws cock in his own face.’ It conjures up some interesting images, though.”
“Lavender,” I grate out, trying not to laugh. I don’t want to laugh. I want to fuck her.
“But then again, I don’t understand why porn depicts men slapping their meat in the woman’s face. Cock slapping,” she adds, her gaze catching mine. “That’s a thing, right?”
I blink and try to sit up. “You are drunk.”
Her hands tighten on my thighs, nails digging into the fabric.
“Did you or did you not just watch me negotiate the pool like a sobriety test?”
“You planned this?”
“You danced with me. And you were good.” Her palm slides up my thigh, curling over the girth of my swollen cock. “I felt this. And now I want it, Raif. I want to put you in my mouth. To suck your cock.”
I groan, tipping my gaze to the dark heavens…even as I reach for the seat cushion from the nearby chair. Her fingers are quick on my belt, the slide of fabric to my hips a joint effort. She peels back my underwear, her face expectant, then—
She sits back on her heels, her gaze lowered as she stares. Just stares.
“Princess, what are you doing?”
Her eyes lift, but not her head. “Addressing the elephant in the room.”
I chuckle, and my cock bobs. She wraps her hand around the base and presses her lips to the very tip.
“Holy hell.” Her lips are soft and warm, her hair brushing my stomach and making the muscles jump.
“I’ve never seen one this big,” she whispers, running her index finger up my length. She bends forward, following the path with her tongue. “Not that I’ve seen that many,” she adds, sucking the head again. “I mean, I have four brothers, but—”
“Grip it,” I grate out. “Hard.”
She rolls her lip in, releasing it pink and glossy. “Bossy.” But she wraps her hand there. Cool against hot. Pale against ruddy. I close my eyes at the sight. The tickle of her breath brings them open just in time to see—feel—her mouth closing over me.
Down, down she slides.
“That’s it.” I brush my knuckle across her cheek, and my heart is fit to burst with gratitude. She’s so beautiful, all big eyes with her pretty lips wrapped around my cock.
“I like your commentary.” Her lashes flutter, her tongue swiping out. “Hot.”
“Put it in your mouth, princess. Suck it good and hard.”
Her head obediently dips as I curl my hands around the chair arms, hoping to hang on to my sanity.
Such a tight little suck, her tongue flicking over my glans. More then, as she takes a little more of me.
“That’s it.” I swallow hard, my fingers turning white. “Don’t be gentle with me.”
She hums, fucking hums, as though she likes the sound of that as she seals her lips tight around me. Her teeth graze my shaft, and I levitate, my hand feeding into her hair as her eyes find mine, seeking reassurance.
“You’re doing so well, princess. Taking me like such a good girl.” Because everything feels so good. Her hand grips my base, her avid eyes and hot, wet mouth.
My hand follows her rhythm, holding her tenderly as she sucks and swirls and drives me to the edge of ecstasy, only to bring me back. Our eye contact is a layer of pleasure so intense, the vibration of her enthusiasm and enjoyment makes my hips jerk to meet her.
“Oh God, that’s it.” Pleasure swells under my skin, my balls contracting as I tighten my hand in her hair and thrust up. Two hands now, guiding her, showing her what I need. “I’m so close, sweetheart. I know you can take it.”
My thigh tautens under her hand, my stomach muscles tensing against the coming onslaught.
“Oh fuck. Coming, Lavender. Fuck, I’m coming.”
With one final, torturous suck, she presses farther, taking me deeper into her mouth, her hands working my shaft messily and rough.
I love it. I fucking love it. Even as she pulls back to watch my cock erupt, ribbons of thick, white cum streaming between us.