Tainted Touch Page 36

  “I need to grab my bag from the changing room,” I tell him. “Meet you in the lobby?”

  “Ditto. And yes.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “Cait?”

  “Mmm?”

  Art’s a slammer. I’d forgotten this, almost, but now he pins me against the wall with this savage brand of grace, and the cold plaster is delicious on my sweat-warmed skin–his mouth, even more so, tasting faintly of Pepsi and all of him. Our hips ripple together, the push and shove of desire frothing forth.

  “We’ll be home soon,” I complain, swatting at him.

  “Not soon enough,” he says gruffly.

  But we manage to part, and gather our things. When we meet in the lobby, an amused Hazel pretends to fiddle about on the computer while she watches us from the desk. She prods a sly tongue inside her cheek.

  “Still eating that cake, hmm, McCoe?”

  Art puts an elbow on the counter. “Now Hazel. I hope you’re not being rude to my girlfriend…are you?” He cocks an eyebrow at her, teasing.

  She drops her eyes to the computer screen, but can’t salvage the remains of the shit-eating grin that crawls across her face. “As if, Lyons. As if.”

  “Hazel’s only ever been sweetness and light to me,” I say. Though I can’t keep a straight face.

  “Glad to hear it.” He takes my hand again. “Car. Now.”

  No music fills the car while we drive. Instead, we stuff long minutes with sweeping breaths and little smiles of anticipation. Rain mists the outer skin of the windscreen, and imagined smoke and sparks dance inside, dapple my cheeks, throb in my open palm. Art keeps dropping the gearstick to grope my thighs.

  “You have a very nice car.” I told him as much the first time I rode in it.

  He grins back. “It’s a vice of mine.”

  I bring a finger up to the mark he left on my throat. “I like your vices.”

  “That’s not what you are though, Cait. A vice is a weakness…you make me feel incredibly strong.”

  An epic blush creeps across my collarbone. “Huh.”

  “Physically, I mean.” A thoughtful tone curves his voice. Brings it down to husky depths. “Like I don’t have to worry about my own strength.”

  “Or whether something’s hard or deep?” I give him a playful nudge.

  “You have a preference?”

  “Both.” The word comes out in a gush of breath. “Both, when the moment takes you.”

  “Looks to me like the moment’s taking us to an empty house,” he says as we pull up. The engine hums and dies, and he leans aside to unclip my seatbelt, dropping kisses along my shoulder.

  “Let me guess. This is like the cathedral, and you brought me here just to talk.”

  He finds my mouth again, his kiss softer. Slower. “Is that what you want?”

  I stroke a tuft of dark hair from his slow-burning eyes. “I know a lot more about you than the last time I saw you. You–you trusted me…”

  “I did,” he says into my clavicle.

  I need to choose my words well; he deserves that. “And if you wanted to talk about it all, that’d be okay. I’d understand.”

  “When I need to talk,” he whispers, “it’ll be with you. But right now, I’m quite keen on the not talking. Or the talking with a side of you, naked, probably on the first hard surface we encounter. Just FYI.”

  I throw a cursive glance toward his door. “Duly noted.”

  Is there time to drag my mind out of the gutter on the way into his house? Or shall I leave it there, let it ruin me? I spend the short walk to his door trying to remember exactly what the first hard surface will be. The coffee table’s a bit of a no-go due to the fact it has a habit of coming undone before we do. The stairs will give us carpet burn. Kitchen units, maybe…?

  I get my answer. The door is barely back in its frame before I’m dragged toward the kitchen and its smooth wooden floor. He breaks my fall with strong arms, lowers me down, climbs over me. Drags my hands up over my head. We begin to talk in our own language of bitten-back moans and delighted sighs. The combined heat of our bodies only lends the climate around us a chill; it blows against the raised arch at the small of my back, scrapes along my uncovered arms. Art ushers my thighs apart with one sweep of his knee. Here, he settles, as if my hips are a cradle made for his. The stretchy fabric of his shorts is no match for his cock. He feels huge–I want to tell him so just to hear his sharp intake of breath, but I make do with moaning into his mouth because it seems we can’t stop kissing.

  Item by item, our clothes comes loose. Soon the floor around us is scattered with heaps of dark fabric, and every time my gluey skin his the floor, it sticks–has to be peeled back up with his firm fingers. Cue Art’s splayed palms under my buttocks, yanking them up so he can wrap my bare thighs around the expanse of his naked waist. There, he reaches down between my legs to run his thumb into the slippery mess I’ve made.

  “Fuck,” he says in a rush of hot breath.

  “Do that again.” I shove my hips up to greet his thumb, and mewl as he lets it linger on my clit.

  “Maybe I’ll just stay here,” he murmurs. “Let you use me.”

  I buck up into his entwined fingers, rub myself on to them. Coat them with the sticky evidence of my want. I feel ripe and ready to swell around him, drunk on the scent rising up from between my thighs and the fleshy, wet slaps of his fingers.

  “You want more?” One knuckle finds the open lips of my pussy and corkscrews into it, forcing a yelp from my throat. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He peers down. Smiles to himself at the pink vulva so open for him. Then in one swift move, he drags himself back up my body and covers my mouth for a tongue-laced kiss.

  A second later, he holds my hips down and sinks into me with a single, blunt stroke that makes us both cry out. I wait for the next thrust, but it doesn’t come, and instead his eyes widen, ready to tease. In an effort to coax movement, I grope at his buttocks. Spank him.

  Nothing.

  Bastard.

  “Fuck me,” I whimper.

  Still, nothing.

  The stillness makes me realise how acutely I feel him inside. He stretches into fine tissues and prods up to the tender spot below my clit. Without even thinking about it, I roll my hips against the firm hold of his hands; I can barely move, but my pussy pulls at him anyway, muscles rippling to suck. I know by the faint dip of his brow that he feels it, and when he gasps at my deliberate squeeze, I find myself moaning.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says in a hoarse voice, “but fucking hell, that’s good.”

  “Ah, I know.” I bite my lip, tipping my head back as I arch up again. I’m so eager to feel him moving inside me that I can’t keep still. “Art, please…” I draw my nails along his spine, then run my fingertips along the soft score marks I’ve left. He trembles again, wincing harder–but holds himself steady. This is his ultimate act of trust, only touching me when I beg him…the most intimate touch of all.

  So I change tack. If he won’t give me what I need, I’ll make it impossible to resist. My hands make their way to the nape of his neck, where I brace them to bring myself up. There, I lick the sweat from along his collarbone and take a pinch of flesh into my mouth to suck, just as he did to me. I stay until I feel the skin give, until I feel tiny capillaries throb against my tongue–Art begins to pant and curse, and as I draw back to inspect the mark I’ve left, he finally pulls out of me…to thrust himself back inside.

  Time blurs in thick bursts of adrenaline. Seconds ride in and out–I feel each one acutely, feed them to the ribboned aches inside me that bear their teeth and snap. He brings my thighs further up, presses my knees to my ribs, and fucks me so deep and so hard that I can only submit. There is nothing else for me. No other place, man or time.

  He has always made me work for my orgasms, either by sitting me atop him or just trying to keep me quiet. Not so tonight. That helpless bloom of desire rolls through my belly in coarse shudders, my clit crushed and swollen from the vigorou
s scissor of his hips. I let out a long, low yelp.

  “I’m coming,” I tell him, breathless and desperate. “Art, please, I’m coming…”

  A hard kiss buffers the rest of my words, and then he joins me, swearing aloud as his body stutters to climax. We echo around the kitchen together, sweating and sticky and full of each other. My little death becomes me. It’s all I can do to return his kiss.

  “Christ,” he mumbles, face pressed into my shoulder.

  I lick along the smooth curve of his ear. “Mmph.”

  “Hmm,” he replies. That gorgeous, satisfied sound. “So yeah…totally brought you here just to talk.”

  I quiver with laughter. “You’re an excellent conversationalist.”

  The low rumble of his voice warms my neck. “I smith hard, right?”

  “And deep. Cocksmithery.”

  “I’ll change the name on my business cards.” He joins me in laughter, and the sound balms my skin. “Art Lyons, Qualified Massage Therapist and Epic Cocksmith.”

  “See, you put that kind of thing around and it won’t be hard for anyone to see why I’ve fallen for you.” It rushes out of me without a thought, and then I stiffen against the cool floor. Because what if I freak him out with it? I don’t want to spoil what we have–this blossoming, brilliant burn of a thing. “I mean, I like you. A lot.”

  “Well.” Kisses, all up the lithe tendons of my neck. When he reaches my bottom lip, he sucks on it. Lingers, just as he does inside me–because he’s still there, making lazy little thrusts. His eyes meet mine, and then his tone drops to a lush whisper. “I like you a lot, too. Maybe more. I think they call it…what’s the word? The L word.”

  Here I am, naked on the floor of Fist Candy’s dark kitchen, about hand him my soul in a basket. “Love,” I say quietly.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh.” There are no other words, really.

  “Cait.” He brushes his lips to my temple, and strokes a damp palm down to cup my cheek. “I fell for you the moment you put that red lipstick on.”

  For the fourth or fifth time that day, the image fills my head: Art the first time, with his back to me, throwing the punches like he spewed raw smoke. I hadn’t even seen his face, but he showed so much of himself–too much skin, too many edges. The bonfire dwarfed the boy.

  “I loved you first,” I tell him.

  And he melts into me like candle wax, sighing, smiling.

  Coming home.

  EPILOGUE

  Two weeks later

  On the long summer days when my grandma took me and Mills to the beach, she’d pack sandwiches and juice cartons and traditional iced cakes. I’m pleased to announce that Art and I are now the proud owners of a certified Proper Picnic Basket–our very first joint purchase–and it’s stuffed with things Grandma would approve of, warming slowly in April sunshine from its perch on the back seat of the car.

  Today is also our first Proper Road Trip. Art drives, and Aidan sits beside him in the passenger seat; Mills and I occupy the back. More importantly, a bag of Haribo strawberries lies open on the box in front of the gear stick, within easy reach of hungry hands.

  “Are you going to tell me exactly where we’re going yet?” Mills asks.

  “Nope,” I say cheerfully.

  “Because I’m not dim, y’know. I can read the road signs.”

  This is Mills’ first real outing since she got out of hospital last week. She looks a little thinner, and she hasn’t bothered with the eyeliner and lipstick that were her trademarks just a short time ago, but she looks healthy enough with her skin flushed pink and clear. Probably all the Creme de la Mer, heh.

  “Did you hear that?” Aidan throws Art an elbow. “They can read. Do we call Professor Xavier?”

  “Dude, I have no idea who that is,” Art says dryly.

  Mills shifts about, grinning to herself, because she evidently does know and is impressed by the reference. She’s beautiful when she smiles, but utterly gorgeous when she’s smug and clever.

  It took Art four days to read The Waves so we could talk about it properly. I knew it was significant to Mills and her misery; I also knew that books don’t convince people to kill themselves, as tempting as the accusation might be in circumstances like hers. Together, he and I talked about what we could do–I need to show her that there’s always hope. Another way.

  So here we are at Littlehampton beach in West Sussex: the place Grandma always took us in the summer. This is Mills’ cathedral. It’s where she finds peace. And there are no lighthouses, which is always a bonus. Soul-sucking bastards that they are.

  The car pulls to a stop in a grassy, stone-strewn clearing on a quiet side of the beach. It’s cool but still sunny, and a pale blue sky thrums with the slow jog of clouds. Mills stares from the passenger window, a faint crease appearing between her brows as the location becomes clear.

  “God,” she mumbles. “It’s been a while.”

  We haven’t been back since Grandma died. This will be bittersweet, too.

  With the Art carrying the picnic basket and Aidan slinging the blanket over his shoulder, we head down to the gritty sand of the coastline. Low, broad waves lap at the shore with dirty white teeth; seagulls circle overhead, calling to each other in shrill grunts. Wind pulls cool at our exposed necklines, and we yank up our collars to keep the heat in.

  “It still smells the same here,” says Mills as she stumbles down the rubble path.

  “What,” says Aidan, “like a bad blow job?”

  “I was going to say salt air, but…ew.”

  Art stands back to take my hand. We let Mills and Aidan wander on ahead–they’re already chattering between themselves.

  “You okay?” I ask. Today will be difficult for him because of Priya, but I hope it will be cathartic, too.

  “I’m holding up.” He rubs his thumb across the back of my hand. “Although I probably won’t be joining you in the water. Looks bloody freezing.”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t make that part of the metaphor.” I shield my eyes and gaze out over the ocean, a roiling mess of petroleum blue. “You think this’ll work?”

  “Depends what you’re expecting. One day isn’t going to fix her, lovely.”

  “I know.” They think she’ll need months of psyche treatment. She probably won’t be taking her exams this year, though we all think that’s for the best. “I just want to start something. Make a change.”

  The beach is damp with the tongue of the tide, and spongy beneath our boots. To the east, the shadow of a funfair makes bold shapes against the skyline: a motionless big wheel, the comic twist of a helter skelter. It’s not holiday season yet. Cobwebs kiss along the switched-off signs.

  “Not really sunbathing weather, is it?” Aidan says.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “My apologies if it isn’t the Seychelles.”

  “Five days to go. You have no idea how many gloaty photies I plan to send you.” He folds the picnic blanket into a neat square before laying it on a wooden bench. “Just need to pack my grass skirt.”

  Art drops the basket down beside the blanket with a rather sweet amount of care. Bea, who was with us when we bought it, is desperate to take it home for tea parties. Of course I’ve promised to make accompanying cakes.

  Now, I watch the breeze take Art’s dark hair in little fistfuls to scrunch and tease. Amber eyes catch me staring and widen with delight. Earlier this morning, he showed me exactly how to work his shower…and kept me there until the damn thing ran cold. I can still feel the warm water dripping down my inner thighs, the way he chased each droplet with his fingertips.

  He beckons me with the tilt of his chin, and I wrap my arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. The mark I left on his collar bone has faded to a violet shiver of a bruise–just an echo against his skin, barely visible. His tongue tastes like Haribo and the sea.

  “You go do what you need to do,” he murmurs in my ear. “I’ll make sure Aid doesn’t raid the cookies.”
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  Aidan perks up at this. “Cookies? Where?”

  “Soon, my pretty.” I gesture to the picnic basket. “I made cherry bakewell ones. They rule.”

  Mills lets out a little groan. “I’ve missed your baking! Haven’t had any in ages.”

  “We’ll break them out once we’ve been in the sea,” I tell her.

  She glances about the cool, soggy beach. “Whuh?”

  “You and me,” I say. “Get your boots off and roll your jeans up. I need a paddle buddy.”

  “You want me to walk into a freezing cold ocean. For cookies.”

  “For my cookies. And yeah.” I feign a pout. “Go on, for old times’ sake.”

  She turns to Aidan, who’s already pilfering through the picnic basket, much to Art’s chagrin. “What are you two going to do?”

  “I dunno.” Aidan yanks his hand back as Art smacks it. “Ouch! Meanies. Huh. Look at this big ol’ space, eh, Artemis? We could take our tops off. And make spears. And run around like twats shouting This is Sparta!”

  Art presses his lips together in a sheepish smile. “I’m going to give that one a miss, funnily enough.”

  “Bah. You’re no fun.”

  “I’ll be a Spartan with you,” Mills promises. “Just let me get the water torture over with. Seriously,” she mutters to herself. “It’s bloody April.”

  “Come on.” I’m already leaning against the bench and tugging off my black ankle boots. “The sooner we’re in and out, the sooner we can stuff our faces.”

  “Your priorities are skewed.” She says this with a glare, but her eyes are bright and mischievous. Mills isn’t stupid; she knows why we’re here.

  The sand is, frankly, cold and uncomfortable on my bare feet. Tiny stones are sharp as gravel, scraping into the gaps between my toes. We wince our way down to the shoreline–not without a few swears.

  “I can hear you, you potty mouths!” Aidan yells after us. “I’ll have to wash your mouths out with soap!”

  I glance back at Art, who sits on the bench with his legs wide and arms folded. His mouth curls upward in a silent, secretive half-smile.

  Mills and I approach the very edge of the sea.