‘Yep.’ I nod. ‘The way I see it, you’re either kicking it, kissing it, busting it, or trying to get a piece of it.’
‘Aye, and we know which one you’re doing tonight,’ taunts Mac.
‘I don’t kiss Keir’s arse,’ I retort. ‘I already got my pay raise this year.’
‘If you’re not kissing my arse, you’re not busting it for me, either.’
‘Mr McLain, I’ve told you, I don’t swing that way, no matter the price.’ I clutch a set of invisible pearls. ‘Talk about harassment in the workplace.’
‘What workplace?’ someone jeers.
‘You know, this one,’ Keir continues, hooking a thumb in my direction, ‘wouldn’t work if his arse was on fire.’
‘You employ him.’ Will laughs. ‘So which of you is the stupid fucker, eh?’
‘Piss off,’ Keir retorts before turning back to face me. ‘According to my calculations, that leaves kicking it, and I don’t fancy your chances,’ he says, comically flexing his shoulders. ‘Or trying to get a piece of it.’
‘And we’re all spoken for, y’ken,’ roars Mac, clearly delighted by his own half-drunken wit.
‘All spoken for out here, but not in there.’
We all turn to the bank of windows at the back of the house where the sensible people sit. And that would be the female contingent. And of more interest to me, where Chastity sits. I know I was a bit of a cock to her in the kitchen, but she seems to bring out that side of me. I want to pull her pigtails and snap her bra strap just so she’ll look at me. And when she does look—really look—I see the real her. The shit she can’t hide as her breath hitches and her pupils dilate, her fingers flexing like she wants to pull me closer rather than push me the fuck away.
Beyond the glass, the fire is lit and the lights are low, Chastity is curled against the arm of the sectional sofa, holding a glass of something pale in her hand. She throws back her head, laughing at something one of her companions has said, and the light from the fireplace catches the gold in her softly curling hair, giving her a goddamned halo. Fuck a duck, I want to storm inside and chuck her over my shoulder. Drag her back to my lair and screw her for weeks. I’ve been avoiding thinking about her and that night for six long months, yet I still wake some mornings to the spectre of her curls dragging across my chest. And the smell of her floral perfume lingers on sheets she’s never lain in. It’s the most bizarre thing, but I think I might be formulating a plan to get my life back, especially after hearing what theladieswere discussing when I stepped inside earlier to syphon the python.
See, I reckon these feelings I have are like a holiday hangover, and that’s why I can’t get her out of my head. It’s like, I had the greatest holiday—only substitute holiday for sex—and I can’t get the fun of the experience out of my head. So what do you do when you come back from a fabulous break to grey skies and normality? You start planning your next little trip. And I think I might just have a plan . . .
‘I think you missed one.’ Keir pulls me from my thoughts, my gaze turning from the window at the sound of his voice.
‘Missed one what?’ I ask, my mind a step behind my mouth.
‘Life is like arse; you’re either kicking it, kissing it, busting it, trying to get a piece of it, or in your case, acting like a total arse.’ He tips his bottle towards the window again. ‘Any fool with eyes can see she’s got you tied up in knots. Question is, what are you gonna do about it?’
Well, that’s for me to know, and Chastity to find out.
Chapter 5
CHASTITY
Aunt Cam:What’s new on the website?
Me:I loaded a new sequence yesterday calledAnal Adore?
Aunt Cam:Darling, anal doesn’t interest me. Not since my first husband left me for a man.
I look up from my phone, my pink running shoes almost screeching to a halt at my garden gate. Not that I’ve been running. I don’t. Run, that is, unless I’m being chased. But I do like chocolate biscuits, so I walk most mornings, weather permitting. And that’s where I’ve been this morning, and I come back to . . . this. To him.
Flynn bloody Phillips.
‘What are you doing here?’
Is it not enough that he taunted me at Paisley’s barbecue last week—that he made comments and poorly veiled references to the night we’d shared at the wedding?
That afternoon, I had a plan to play nice—to not bite—to invite him back to my house and make him give me a good seeing-to. A night where he could return my orgasm to me, proving a that the problem was all in my head. That it was nothing to do with his stellar bedroom skills.
Butnooo. It was too much trouble for him to behave nicely—I couldn’t bring myself to suggest a hookup. Not when I’d spent the night glowering at him. Not whenhe’dspent the night getting on my tits. So like a scaredy cat, I’d left. Left before my wave of wine bravery swept me away.Or threw me at him.He was still in the garden when I snuck out, so I didn’t even say goodbye.
And now he’s here. Inmygarden, if you can call this postage stamp of space such a thing. Sweat slicking his black hair back, he’s holding a garden spade in his hand. At my exclamation, he smiles, slices the spade once more into the barren flower bed, then props one foot on the metal and his weight on the handle.
