Chapter 29
Chapter twenty-nine
Amy
Ivan and I burst through my apartment door, unable to keep our hands off each other. He rips my winter coat from my body as he walks me backward into the living room, the dogs scrambling around our feet in greeting.
“Where’s the bedroom?” he asks, breathless between kisses.
“Second door on the left.”
He grips my butt cheeks, lifting me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We continue a slow descent down the hallway. Every so often, he pins me against the wall, and his mouth claims my neck. Each kiss hotter than the last, I know there’ll be a mark there in the morning.
Eventually, we land in my bedroom, my dress bunched up around my waist as he deposits me on the bed. My body sinks into the soft cotton covers. He stands above me, staring down, eyes wild with arousal.
“Fuck, you look hot,” he says. “I think I want to fuck you with that dress on.”
I draw my knees up, opening my legs just enough for him to see the silky red thong. His eyes darken, and he adjusts himself in his jeans.
“Are you just going to stand there?” I purr. “Or are you going to get on with the job? I’m here, wet, and willing. Don’t tell me you’re all talk, no action.”
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving mine, then lifts the black sweater over his head, exposing ripped muscles and a broad chest. A dark trail of hair runs from his navel into his waistband.
He sees the stray of my gaze and smirks.
His fingers move to his belt, and slowly he pulls the dark leather free.
The hiss of it snaps something inside me. Something raw.
He drops the discarded item on the floor then removes his jeans and socks. Socks-on sex is such a turn-off. Ivan just won a few bonus points.
Standing over me in nothing but black boxers, he’s simply…
breathtaking. All perfectly carved muscles, taut beneath his tanned skin.
For a man nearing fifty, he’s unfairly perfect.
The thick outline between his legs leaves little to the imagination, and judging by the smirk on his face, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
He drops to one knee between my legs and lowers until our chests brush. Our lips meet, and he kisses me, slow and coaxing. My skin tingles with every pass of his hand as he explores my flesh.
He slides a finger inside the neckline of my dress, freeing my breasts. Warm lips replace his hands, transitioning to a perfect blend of tongue and teeth drawing gasps from my throat.
The wet heat between my legs grows unbearable. He grinds his cock against me, teasing. The friction sparks pleasure through every nerve.
His mouth continues its assault on my breasts, his hand moving between my legs, fingers drumming on the silk of my underwear. He pauses, glancing up.
“Amy,” he says, “are you sure about this?”
I laugh, open mouthed. “Are you really asking me that? I’m flat on my back with my dress around my waist.”
He chuckles. “Just making sure.”
One finger slides inside me, then another. The rhythm builds until I can barely breathe. I moan, loud.
“Hell, that’s the sexiest sound in the world. Do it again.” He bites down gently on my nipple, and my body obeys. An incoherent rasp slipping from my lips, a mixture of pleasure and his name.
“I want to sink myself inside you now,” he says, voice like gravel. “Are you ready? Fuck, you feel ready.”
My reply is incoherent. Nothing more than a murmur of consent. He sheds his boxers in one swift movement.
“I want you to ride me,” he whispers against my mouth, then lies back on the bed. Surprised, I just stare at the ceiling, heart hammering. “Shit, you want me on top?”
“Fuck, I do. Hurry up, sweetheart,” he says darkly, thick fingers readying his cock. “Don’t let this go to waste.”
My breath catches. With no grace whatsoever, I scramble up, push my underwear to the side, and lower myself down. The stretch burns, my body opening with both pleasure and a pang of pain.
“Eyes on me,” he grunts. His hands guide my hips, slow at first, until our rhythm makes him curse. Greedy fingers dig into my thighs, demanding more. My confidence grows. And I’m bouncing up and down as if my life depends on it.
All that matters now is him, me, and what we’re chasing. The high. The sound of warm wet flesh on flesh, ragged breaths, and moans we don’t bother to hide.
“Keep going,” he orders, as the pressure inside me breaks. I cry out. He holds on tighter. “It’s my turn.”
I move again, matching him thrust for thrust. His body tenses beneath mine, and I push him harder until he lets out a low guttural sound from somewhere deep in his chest. We both collapse onto the mattress.
After, we lie tangled, his arm around my shoulders as I play with the dark hair on his chest.
“Thank you,” I tell him, softly, “for making tonight so special.”
His eyebrows knit together.
“You’re my first time since…” I trail off, embarrassed. “You’re the first person I’ve slept with since my husband left me.” He doesn’t speak, just kisses my forehead and squeezes a bit tighter.
“Merry Christmas,” he says. “I’ve got a little something for you.”
He disentangles himself from me, slides out of bed and lifts his jeans off the floor. He pulls a folded piece of paper from the back pocket and passes it to me.
“What is it?”
“Open it, and you’ll find out.”
It’s a simple note written in plain black ink.
4th Jan 2022 – I’ll pick you up at 8 a.m. Bring your bikini.
“Thailand,” he says, “it’s booked.”
“But,” I stammer, “the dogs, the apartment. We’re not even dating.”
He lifts the duvet and returns to my side, wrapping me in his arms.
“Amy,” he says, “please come with me. Let’s enjoy spending time together. I’ll sort someone to look after the dogs and here.” He waves his hand around, signaling the room. “You were with me when I bought it; I want you to enjoy the vacation with me. We can figure out the details later.”
He looks at me with what I think was hope. Ivan Harley is known for breaking women’s hearts. I’ve gone further than I ever planned to. I’m falling for him. And that terrifies me.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, and his face falls. “Let me think about it, please.” He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Of course,” he says. “You have until eight in the morning on January fourth to decide. I won’t be taking anyone else.”
My heart stutters, betraying me. I want this.
He disappears below the covers. “Now, what can I do to convince you to say yes?”
***
“Kids, has anyone seen Aunt Amy?” Ben asks as he passes me the brussel sprouts across the table. “Because this woman here certainly isn’t her. File a missing person report.” They all chuckle at their father. Four sets of teenage eyes land on me.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Language,” he scolds. “Not in front of the children.” He waggles his eyebrows. “It means,” he pauses, “you look like you’ve had an enjoyable Christmas so far.”
His gaze flicks to the bruise on my neck, which I tried and failed to hide. The purple welt bleeds through the beige concealer as subtle as a neon sign.
“Fuck off,” I mouth at him. “Can we change the subject, please?”
“Aunt Amy,” my nephew Liam interjects, and I look at him. A cheeky smile spreads across his face. “Did it hurt when your boyfriend bit you on the neck?”
Ben chokes on a sprout, clutching the edge of the table. The offending vegetable shoots from his mouth, landing in the jug of gravy. There’s silence for a beat before the table erupts into hysterics.
“No, Liam,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I didn’t feel a thing.” The two teenage girls snort into their napkins.
“Too wrapped up in the moment, Aunt Amy,” Rose pipes up.
“But, Rose,” Liam interrupts, turning to his older sister, “when you had one on your neck, you covered it up with a scarf so Dad wouldn’t see it.
” He smirks, and she pales. “You said it was so he didn’t worry about you being hurt.
That if he saw the bruise, he would take you to the doctor.
Which makes no sense because Dad is…a doctor. ”
Poor Rose stares at her plate like it might swallow her whole.
“When was this?” Ben snaps, no one speaks. “Rose,” he warns, “who sank their teeth into you?”
“It was a while ago,” she mumbles. “I’m not seeing him anymore.”
Oliver decides to pour salt into Rose’s gaping wound. “The first time was Halloween, but you had a hickey on your chest last week.”
Ben’s head whips toward his daughter. “On your chest. What the fuck is a boy doing sucking your chest?”
I’m so tempted to fill in the blanks for him, but I stay mute. This is going downhill fast. I’m too sober for it.
“Dad, I’m old enough to have sex,” she says flatly. Ben’s jaw opens, then snaps closed. When it opens again, no sound comes out.
The room dissolves into chaos. Rose jumps up from her chair, grabs her glass of water plus her sister’s, and dumps them over her younger brothers’ heads.
“Assholes!” she screams before storming off.
The two teenage boys laugh, shrug, and pick up their forks, to continue to eat their meal. Ben drags a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Bloody kids.”
“She’s not really a kid anymore,” I whisper. His gaze lifts to meet mine. “You were probably the same at her age.”
“Don’t fucking remind me,” he grumbles, but there’s a reluctant smile.
Later, when the house is quiet, Ben and I lounge in the living room, polishing off another bottle of wine.
“So,” he says, swirling what’s left in his glass. “Who is he? This mystery man.”
My hand instinctively rises to my neck, brushing the embarrassing blemish.
“You don’t know him,” I say, lightly. “It’s early days.”
“Does he treat you right?” His tone softens, and the teasing disappears.
I nod, a small smile tugging the corners of my mouth. “Yes, Ben. He’s a gentleman.”
“Good, you deserve someone who adores you, Amz,” he says. “Enjoy it.” My phone rings, interrupting the Christmas film on the TV. Ben’s snoring softly on the opposite sofa, an empty wine glass balanced on his chest.
The screen glows in the half-light, an unknown American number calling. My stomach drops, immediate dread hitting hard. Katie.
“Hello,” I say, “Katie?”
“Hello ma’am, I’m sorry to call you on Christmas Day.”
I glance at my watch, seeing that it’s actually now Boxing Day. “Do you know a Katie Clark? You’re listed as an emergency contact. My name is Henry Turner. I’m with the New York Police Department.”
The words drop like a stone in my stomach. “Yes, she’s my friend.”
“Can I confirm your name, please?” he asks.
“Amy Corrigan.”
“Ms. Corrigan,” he says gently. “Katie’s been in an accident with a vehicle. She’s in New York Community Hospital receiving emergency treatment. Are you able to get here?”
“Um,” I stammer, the haze of wine and headache burning away. “I don’t have a passport.”
“Is there anyone who can travel here immediately?” he prompts.
“Yes,” I say, “I know someone.”
“Good, please get them here quick. She needs support. It’s touch and go.”
The line goes dead.
Did that actually happen?
I sit frozen, clutching my phone, the enormity of my friend’s condition pressing on my chest. Then, with shaking hands, I dial the only person I know who would travel to the other side of the world for her…
Her ex, Lance.