“No, like this.” She threw a leg over his hip and climbed onto his lap. He sucked in a breath. Their bodies were flush and there was no way she couldn’t feel his hard-on.
“KitKat—”
“I know.” She slumped into his chest. “I know you don’t want… but just wanna be close to you, please? I jusssunnabeclosetoyou.”
“I want that too.”
“Yay,” she mumbled, pressing her lips into his collarbone. So, they stayed that way, her dozing, him frozen to the spot as the car sped through the streets of Melbourne. He kept his palms flat on the seat beside him, barely able to breathe. The weight of her, the feel of her hair on his neck. It stalled his brain. No lap dance, horny dream, or porn had ever gotten him this hard. It was hell. Pure, scorching, end of the human race, hell.
“Pat-trick?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t feel so great…”
He sat up straight, checking to see if the driver heard. “Do you think you might throw up?” he whispered.
“Nooo. Can you touch my head?”
“Of course.” He rubbed a hand through her silky hair, and she moaned. “That feels soooo nice.”
He kept going, rubbing her scalp and down her neck, making all the stiff little muscles pop. Cheryl was always locked up. She needed a remedial massage, but no matter how often he said it, she never went. Money, maybe. She was saving for her own apartment. Maybe he’d buy her a voucher. Rubbing her shoulders and thinking practical thoughts relaxed him. He eased back into the leather seat. “How are you now, KitKat?”
“Better,” she breathed. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he said, meaning it the way he always did. That she was the one. That there was nobody else. “Close your eyes. We’ll be home soon.”
4
Three years before the yacht party
“How’s it going?” Patrick asked, trying not to sound worried. Cheryl had turned her ankle an hour ago and her hiking pace had slowed to a limp.
“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “How long to go?”
“Ahhhh?”
They were still forty minutes from the top of Mount Featherstone and the climb was only getting steeper. What was he supposed to do next? Find her a walking stick? Call a medivac chopper?
“Sssssshhh,” Cheryl hissed. Not ‘shit’ but close. That was enough. He stopped and turned to look at her. “Your ankle’s killing you, isn’t it?”
“No!”
He raised his brows and her fierce expression flickered. “We’re so close to the top!”
“You’re also close to an amputation.”
She rolled her eyes but her face was sweaty, her mouth pinched. “We’ve been planning this for ages! I’m not going to stop!”
“Well, could you at least admit you’re lying to me about being fine?”
“I’m not lying to you. I’m lying… at you. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Okay, yes,” she burst out. “My ankle is killing me! And I’m lying about being fine!”
He grinned. “Big of you.”
