13. Katy
Chapter thirteen
Katy
I spend most of the week after the beer festival at Amie’s house, alternating Maisy-duty with Ruth while Amie and Cam are both working. Amie’s home now, in the shower, and Ruth and I are sitting in her living room, waiting for her to emerge for an overdue gossip session. Ruth met a man in a cowboy hat on her recent work trip to New York, and while she’s already told me all about him, we’re both keen to hear Amie’s take on it.
“You okay, Roo?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She nudges my shoulder, not-so-subtly pushing me further along the sofa as she squeezes in beside me.
“You just seem a little bit… not your usual self. You know I’m here, right?”
“I know.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into her side, tipping her head to rest it on mine. “I’m okay, Sweet Thing. Promise. Jay said you helped him get a new job, though.” She peers around me, smiling softly at our goddaughter who is snoring softly. Maisy and her beloved stuffed dinosaur, Roger, are sprawled out on one side of the two-seat sofa, taking up far more space than a tiny girl has a right to. It’s a good thing she’s cute. Upstairs, the roaring sound of running water stops as Amie turns off the shower.
“Oh—oh, yeah, I just passed the details along. Kev—you know, the manager? Well, his dad owns Charltons, the casino chain, and he mentioned they were looking for someone to head their security team. It just sounded ideal for him, so I let him know.”
“Well, thanks.” Ruth leans her head against my shoulder. “And thanks for being his friend. I worry about him sometimes.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I say. But I’m not. Not really. He’s definitely not fine , in that sense at least, and the worst thing is seeing the battle in his eyes and not knowing how to stop the war. And he still hasn’t told Ruth the real reason for leaving his previous job—about being attacked. As far as she knows, he left that job because he was bored. It’s not my story to tell, so I keep my mouth shut, but keeping secrets from Ruth is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“He just doesn’t have many friends,” Ruth says. She pops a Malteser in her mouth and offers me the tray. I take one for myself. “He’s been gone for so long. He’s lost so many people. If he didn’t have you dragging him to your weird beer place, he’d probably never leave his flat.”
“Weird beer place?” I raise an eyebrow in playful indignance.
“You know what I mean.” Ruth nudges me again. “I like that you’re friends. He needs friends. What he really needs is to loosen the fuck up and get laid, but—ugh, please god, no, I don’t want to think about my brother having sex. Especially not with my best friend. You’re too nice in the streets and kinky in the sheets. He needs—I don’t know what. But there’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near him. He’s too fucked up; he’d absolutely ruin you. You’re far too sweet. I’m not letting him date. He needs time. A lot of it. Maybe decades.” She shudders dramatically.
“I like being his friend,” I say quietly. I’m not sure if Ruth’s short monologue was an insult or a compliment, so I ignore the rest of it, choosing instead to focus on stroking Maisy’s soft curls as she shifts in her sleep and rests her head against my thigh.
“Someone has to,” Ruth chuckles.
Ruth is my best friend. I tell her everything, and we’ve been together through every big moment in our lives. But I don’t know if I can tell her about the impure thoughts I’ve been having about her big brother. I don’t know what I’ll do if she ever finds out.
Jay and I have been working our weekly lunch dates around my shifts and his, trying to find times that suit both of us with different shift patterns, but since leaving his cash in transit job, he’s been able to come and meet me whenever I can make it. I spot him waiting outside the door and jog over, already apologising as I tuck myself into his waiting embrace.
“I’m so sorry, I got called into work to cover for a couple of hours and—”
“Don’t sweat, Princess, it’s fine.” Jay pulls out of our hug but leaves one hand resting lightly between my shoulder blades as he holds the door open with the other. I duck beneath his arm to step inside and his cologne mingles with the warm bakery smells, leaving me horny and hungry all at the same time. We find a table and I clench my thighs as I sit.
“So, tell me about the job,” I say, sliding one menu towards Jay and one to me. I don’t even need to look at it at this point. We’ve almost worked our way through the entire thing now, and since the beer festival, we’ve started to keep lists of our favourites on our phones so we can come back to them.
“What do you want to know?” He shrugs off his jacket and a blur of ink peeks out below each sleeve of his T-shirt. It strikes me that I’ve never seen him in short sleeves. I didn’t even know he had any tattoos. His forearms are thick, corded muscle rippling with every movement as he grasps the menu booklet and flips it open to the first page. My mouth is suddenly very dry, and I swallow thickly before realising he asked me a question.
“Everything, obviously,” I respond cheekily. Fuck, stop looking at his arms . “You’ve started, right? How did it go?”
“It was fine,” he starts. “It’s nothing especially exciting at the moment. A lot of learning about the company. You know they’ve got fifteen casinos just in the UK? And there’s talk of a North American expansion, too.”
“Wow.” I nod, impressed. “I thought it was just a couple across London, I had no idea it was such a huge deal.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty big fish. And as head of security, I get to deal with any issues. Oversee and implement security policies. They all have local management, but that local management now reports to me.”
“Are there many issues?”
“Nah,” he says. “Not really. Worst is someone getting a bit too wankered and being escorted out, or trying to count cards. I just have to review the camera footage, confirm, and sign off on any paperwork.”
“So, you’re babysitting the CCTV then,” I say.
“Eh, mostly. I get to wander around with an earpiece looking important, and I’ll be involved in any big changes to the buildings or procedures, but mostly I’m just dealing with the security guards. Sometimes I get to travel to other sites, assess their processes. Liaise with local management. It sounds a lot fancier than it is.”
“It’s always nice to have a big title for little work,” I tell him. “Getting paid the big bucks to put my feet up and stare at a camera feed for the evening? Oh, the dream.”
“Not quite all it’s cracked up to be, Princess,” he chuckles. “Pretty boring, really.”
“Tell me you’ve never read a good book without telling me you’ve never read a good book.” I wink at him and his eyes flare, darkening to a rich espresso shade, whilst the green rings around his pupils flash from clover to forest. Laughing with Jay is so easy, when he lets it happen. Times like this—when he lets those walls down—being with him is easy. And the little tug in my chest says I might want to do it more.
His throat works hard as he swallows, and I find myself wondering what the heavily stubbled skin would taste like under my tongue. I want to trace those tattoos where they disappear under his shirt.
This is a really, really bad time to develop a crush on my best friend’s brother.
We spend the rest of our lunch trading work gossip: me telling Jay about some clandestine affair I overheard in the staff room last week, and Jay telling me about his ragtag team of security guards who need whipping into shape. The way I’d like him to whip me into shape. By the time we stand to leave, an ominous cloud layer has descended over West London, and both Jay and I opt for a bus rather than walking. Our homes, though relatively close together, are on different routes, so we part at the bus stop with the promise of another lunch next week, and I head back home with a smile on my face.
There’s nothing quite like an overcast Saturday afternoon with no plans. When I was in college, having no plans was my worst nightmare. It meant that Ruth and Amie were off doing something else, and I’d end up spending the time alone. That’s when I found myself with a book in my hand, learning to lose myself in my imagination. And now, having no plans never means having no plans. It just means I have time to visit one of my favourite fictional places.
I carry a steaming mug of coffee and a snack plate into my living room, setting them on the wooden tray on the footstool. I have a delicious assortment of small snack cheeses, olives, tiny crackers and a couple of chocolate truffles, along with two homemade cookies left over from a baking afternoon with Maisy earlier in the week. Outside, it’s chilly, and I haven’t bothered to put the heating on, so I tuck my feet up on the sofa and pull a fuzzy pale pink blanket over my legs. I reach for my e-reader, and then change my mind.
An afternoon like this calls for some nostalgia, and a real, tangible paper-and-ink book in my hands. I throw the blanket off me and pad over to the bookcase, selecting an old favourite romance novel. The pages are worn and slightly fluffy from having been read so many times, and there are hundreds of coloured tabs peeking from the edges. I pick up a small case and take it back to the sofa, opening it to retrieve more tabs, a pen and a set of coloured highlighters. I snuggle under the blanket again and crack open the book.
I lose myself to a fictional ranch full of sexy ranch hands and beautiful damsels, where the weather is perfect until a storm rolls in, and the horses are always ribbon-winners. Four hours later, my coffee is gone and the snack plate is almost empty. I’ve added plenty of new notes and highlights to the book, and I’m clenching my thighs as I read the steamiest, most delicious scene in which the cowboy finally gets his girl and the enemies finally become lovers. Because, of course they do. Because who wouldn’t want a love like that, with a man like that?
I want a love like that.
I don’t need him to be a cowboy. I don’t need him to ride a horse or work on a ranch; I don’t need him to fill out a pair of Wranglers, although I certainly wouldn’t complain if he did. I just want him to see me. To believe in me. To support me and lift me because he wants to, not just because he should. I want him to respect me, trust me, love and protect me, let me make mistakes and be there to hold me. I want him to be himself with me, to share everything—the good, the bad, the exciting, the mundane. I want him to be the first one I want to call when I see something dumb on the internet. I want him to be the first one I call when someone cuts me off in traffic. The first one I think of when I wake and the last one before I sleep.
I think I want a man like Jay.
Oh, Jesus Christ. This is bad.
Hours later, I sink down into a hot bath, dropping my shoulders below the waterline and pointing my toes, stretching out as many muscles as I can. One of the best short girl perks is having plenty of space in bathtubs, and one of the things that drew me to this house when I bought it was the spacious bathroom with its enormous, freestanding tub.
A thick layer of foam covers my chest, filling the air with the scent of more warm, spicy fruits, much like the eight lit candles placed strategically in various nooks and corners, flickering and glowing around the room. On the wooden tray across the top of the tub, a stemless wine glass holds half a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. My e-reader is also on there, three pages into another new romance novel.
I can’t focus on the words. I only manage a sentence or two before my brain gives up, and floods me with thoughts of Jay. Of his haunted eyes, his stony glare, his set jaw. But it also offers the almost-dimple when he smiles, the deep rumble of his laugh. The way electricity zaps through my body when his skin touches mine. The warmth in his gaze, those brown eyes with a hint of green, like spring. The very last eyes in the world that I should be thinking about as I slide a hand over my breast, slowly pinching my nipple and rolling it between my fingers until it’s pebbled and hard.
He’s my best friend’s brother. He’s off-limits, and Ruth told me as much. So why can’t I get him out of my head?
I run my hand over my wet skin to my other breast, pinching and rolling again. My breathing quickens, blood rushing through my ears and crashing like the water around me as I shift in place. Warmth pools low in my belly as I close my fingers around my breasts, squeezing them, imagining hands much larger, more calloused, more experienced in their ministrations.
My left hand slips further beneath the water, fingertips ghosting over the soft curves of my hips before dipping between my legs. Despite the bathwater, I can tell how wet I am already, just at the thought of him, and at the thought of hands that aren’t mine roaming my body.
“Oh, fuck, please,” I grit out as his fingers probe at my folds. He presses them to my flesh, testing and teasing, but never fully entering.
“Begging for me, Princess? Is that how desperate you are?”
His breath is warm against my skin. I can feel the movement of his lips against the shell of my ear, feel his tongue as it darts out to trace the curve. I shudder involuntarily as a sweat breaks out over every exposed inch of skin.
A whimper falls from my lips as he continues to tease at my entrance, before filling me all at once with three thick fingers, twisting and curling and pressing against every magical, mythical spot I never knew existed. I moan out loud, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles and mingling with the splashing of the water as his fingers slip easily in and out of me. If this is what his fingers do to me, his dick might just end me. I’m scrambled. I’m falling, panting and practically feral with my knees bent and feet braced against the side of the tub as he works me expertly, like he’s been doing it all his life. Like he was born for it. My body is no longer mine. It is no longer under my control as my hand joins his, fingers strumming against my clit.
“That’s it, Princess. Touch yourself. Make yourself come.”
“Oh, god,” I whine, stretched full with fingers flicking and twisting inside me.
“The only name on your lips is mine, Princess, you hear me?”
“Oh—god—fuck—”
Movement ceases, and the water sloshes, clusters of bubbles splashing over the sides as the inertia plays catch up.
“No gods here. Only me, you hear me? You only come with my name on those pretty pink lips, Princess.” His voice rumbles like a warning before his fingers push all the way in again, somehow even deeper than before. And fuck, it’s almost too much. Almost. I circle my clit hurriedly, two fingers pressing against my swollen, sensitive flesh. Water sloshes over the sides of the tub as my hands move hurriedly beneath the surface.
“Are you ready to scream my name?”
“Yes, fuck.” The words come out short and sharp as my breath comes in quick, heavy pants. Heat coils in my core, winding up tightly, and with one last curl of his fingers, I’m pushed over the edge. The fire in my belly unfurls, spreading throughout all four limbs and my hips buck wildly, spilling bubbles and bath water everywhere.
“Jay, oh, please, fuck, ffffuuuuck!” My orgasm might have built slow, but it hits hard, and I writhe in the tub, stretching and twisting, seeking reprieve from the sensory overwhelm of his continued ministrations.
My breathing slows and I pull my legs back into the water, shivering as the warmth envelops me and soothes the chill that had blanketed my exposed knees. I’m alone in my bathroom with my ears ringing, blinking against the flickering candle flames, three fingers deep inside my pussy and the other hand still pressed against my clit.
Fuck .
I’m no virgin. I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve had plenty of fun on my own, too. I’m no stranger to a little self-care with a hot fantasy, either in the bath, or anywhere else. But it’s never been so unbelievably hot, and a fantasy has never felt so real. I close my eyes again, trying to regain my composure, and I swear I can still feel his warm breath on my ear.
Fuck, this is even worse than I thought. Because not only does he sound, look and act like the perfect man, I think the imagined version of him might have ruined me for any other sexual encounter. And he’s the one man in the world I can’t have.