Insecure (3 page)

The CEO. Her father. “Daddy's girl.”

She tossed her shoes, bag and coat on a chair that was some kind of freaked out exploded
Honey I Blew up the Kid
size. “Only when he feels like it.”

“Selective parenthood.”

“He's not my natural father.”

She wandered into the space and he followed. He might need breadcrumbs, string, to find the way out again. That wasn't common knowledge and so much about her was.

“He's my ugly stepfather.”

Beautiful daughter.

“I don't do this often, but when I do it's always a hotel.”

She wasn't too drunk to make things clear. He wasn't too drunk to wonder why she'd brought him here. “We do this and then I leave.”

“Perfect.”

It was perfect, just the sex; clean, pure then done. Worry about any weirdness Monday. He wondered briefly how this was going to work. Who was doing the seducing? He didn't have to wonder long.

She walked into the lounge room. “You're so fine, so not like the geek you are.”

He trailed her, watching her narrow hips shift. “You're exactly like the princess you are.” But she wasn't anything like he'd expected.

She laughed. “Want to watch while the princess gets dirty?”

Like nothing else
. There was music now. She made it happen by clapping her hands, smooth jazz, rich sound. And she danced.
Jesus
, how she moved, all hip and shoulder, all slow shake and low grind. He found his way to a leather sofa and collapsed into it to watch his private show. She took her hair down, shaking pins everywhere, cascading mahogany softness; waves of it, around her shoulders. She stole the beat and made it thrum through her body and pulse in his.

“I hate my stepfather.”

She moved like a tabletop dancer, like sex shot through with rum and set alight. Like she'd forgotten he was there.

“He hates me too. Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” But more to her body than her words. Her body was a blockbuster he'd only seen the previews of.

“You shouldn't. I'll say things I don't mean.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You're so easy.”

“You didn't pick me to be hard.”

Her brows shot up. She went to her knees on the floor laughing, arms wrapped around her middle. He should've kept his mouth shut, but it was funny. He hauled her up and kissed the shrieks out of her. He'd kiss the butter soft of her, the spice of her all night if she'd let him.

“You're lovely, Mace.”

“You're drunk.”

“I am drunk, but not blind.” She deadpanned, “I'm hysterical!” She draped herself on him and he held her upright, this completely other person to the one he'd agreed to come home with, this viscerally real, surprising woman. “How'd you get to look like this?”

“Magic.”

“No. Something you do. No pizza and coke.”

“I work out. Punch a bag, run.”

“Why?”

“My brain works better if I work my body.”

She raked up his chest with her short square nails. “Nice body.”

He grunted. Her hands on him made him thirsty, but not for more to drink, to drink her.

“Dance with me.”

He grinned. “You can't stand up.”

“So hold me. No one ever holds me.”

He lifted her—she weighed nothing—and spun her around. She braced her elbows on his chest. It wasn't dancing by any stretch of the definition; it was stumbling, swaying, hands roving, grasping, and long, deep eye contact that made him forget he was wearing clothes.

“Take me to bed, Mace.”

“Got any more instructions?”

Her expression changed. She shook her head, pushed away, struggled out of his arms. He let her go.

“You can leave.”

He wasn't going anywhere. “Why doesn't anyone hold you?”

She swayed, her weight shifting hip to hip, her eyes on her feet. “I don't want them to. They only want to hold the money. I said you should go.”

“I want to hold you.” Had he not proven that?

Her head shot up and she pointed at him. “You're like everyone else, you only want the money.”

He frowned at her. “I couldn't give a fuck for your money.” His voice was two octaves too threatening. He backed it off. “I'll make my own.”

She didn't shift. “Big dreamer.”

He should've known she was hard to intimidate and he'd sound like an idiot. He reached for her, but she stepped away.

“Don't hit me.”

Her words did. He dropped his arms and stepped back. “I...”

“Play nice.”

Was this some kind of kink code? Not his scene. If that's what she wanted, he was out of here.

“You can do anything, but don't hit me.”

He watched her eyes. She could negotiate her way out of bad weather, was this a game? She blinked, her guard open, her jaw clenched and chin dropped. This was real.

“Fuck, Jacinta, who hit you?”

“No one.”

“Someone.”

“Someone. Not now. A long time.”

He sat. Gave her space. “I promise I won't hurt you.”

“I trust you.”

He looked up at her. A fierceness in her eyes. He'd never knowingly hurt a woman in his life and he wasn't going to start now.

“Hold me.”

How could he not. “Yeah.”

“Kiss me.”

He didn't hate the instructions.

“Stay till morning.”

He never did that, but okay, one time, how bad could it be?

She turned her back, watched him over her shoulder with one wary eye. He stood again, two strides his hands were on her. The jazz was still there, in his head, in his hands as he unzipped her, as he peeled her out of the dress. Her skin was cool, and smooth like the petals of the tulips Buster loved so much. What would Buster make of her, this girl on fire for what they could do together?

She stepped out of the dress and took his hand; thigh-highs, midnight blue satin underwear, silky, satiny expensive. She led him through the kitchen, handed him a bottle of Perrier and two fluted glasses. Then he followed her down a corridor; doors, one she flung open: a bathroom, sunken tub, the world could look in the glass walls and watch you soak in it. Maybe it was treated glass. Maybe she didn't care.

Her bedroom. Part of the ceiling was glass. Clouds and stars. The bed was enormous. She ran and jumped on it. Standing, peeling off her stockings and flinging them at him, then bouncing like a little kid. Gorgeous. No longer severe but still a princess in this palace of steel and glass and class. His for the night.

He toed his shoes off, ditched his socks. “Didn't your mother tell you not to jump on the bed?”

“My mother died and left me with Malcolm.”

Snap. That was something they shared, being left behind by dead mothers.

She stopped bouncing. “Is your mother proud of you?”

That stopped him, cut through the alcohol buzz. He blinked at Jacinta in surprise. Would Mum have been proud of him? She'd rarely noticed him, except as an audience for her paranoia.

“Is she dead?” No fake sentiment. She might've been asking if it was raining.

He nodded. “I have Buster.” For now at least, though the disease had more of her than he did. She didn't like to talk on the phone anymore, got too nervous about being heard, got too breathless, and her hands shook too much to text. He'd forgotten to ring her and it was too late now.

He poured two glasses of water, guzzled his and repoured. Handed Jacinta a glass. She took a sip, watching him. “Who's Buster?”

“My grandmother.”

“Grandma. She brought you up?”

“She wouldn't be called that, or Nanna. It's a joke name but it suits her.”

“A woman called Buster brought you up.”

“Yeah.”

She shook her head, beckoned him closer. “I like it.”

He put his hands to the back of her thighs and she tipped her water on him. He copped it in the chest. He had to tackle her now. Bring her down. He grabbed her behind the knees and she fell back on the bed, laughing, and squirming. She dropped her glass to push on his shoulders, trying to get her knees up between them. He braced down on her, his length against hers, his wet shirt on her hot skin. He swamped her, stilled her. It was no contest, but she didn't give in, she changed tactics. She relaxed and wound her hands around his neck. “You're wet.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I'm getting my own back.”

Christ, was she telling him she was wet, from this, a little mucking around? Wet and still on fire. “Are you now?”

She tore at his shirt and he pinned her hands at her sides to stop her, sat astride her, both of them breathing heavily. “Yes.” She hissed it between clenched teeth, rocking her hips against him.

“Equal opportunity.”

“It's not equal, you're still dressed.”

He pinned her arms by her body with his knees and dragged the strap of her bra off her shoulder, exposing her breast. When he closed his hand over the swell of it, she jerked and her skin erupted into goosebumps. He stroked his thumb over her nipple, furled and rosy pink, her eyes closed and an audible breath punching out of her.

“You like that.”

She arched her back, trying to press against his erection. “You're not playing fair.”

He pulled his hand back. “You don't want fair.”

She tried to sit. He let her struggle, strain against him. He unbuttoned his shirt and she stopped.

“I want you.”

He dragged the shirt off, got rid of it. “I'm a sure thing.”

She shook her head, her hair all spread out around her like squid's ink on the white bedcover. “I only have the idea of you.”

He undid his belt and pants. “Then you know I'm a bad one.”

She tried to free her arms and he pressed his knees into her sides to stop her. She howled in frustration and he bent forward to run his nose over her jaw, her cheek. She turned her head looking for a kiss and he sat upright denying her. He wanted to be skin to skin with her. He wanted the taste of her under his tongue. He had to let go to get rid of his pants but he didn't trust her. She had wildfire running through her limbs and chaos in her eyes.

He captured her hands and raised them above her head, grasping them both in one of his and she bucked underneath him, slamming into his hips in a way that made him tense and his breath come hard. He slid a hand around her back and pinched her bra open, pulling it off her shoulders and she stilled momentarily, her lips parted, as his eyes went to her breasts, small and high on her chest.

He curled forward to take her wet bottom lip between his and she fought to free her hands. He gave her teeth, enough pressure to make her moan. He ran his tongue along her top lip and she snatched a kiss and there was no more teasing her, he got focused on the warmth of her mouth and the sounds she made.

He wasn't conscious of releasing her hands, only that her fingers were digging into his skull. The flower petal softness of her, the scent of her, expensive perfume and a fragrance of the long, disappointing day and the seedy bar filled his head.

He did what he promised, he held her and kissed her and undressed the rest of her, carefully, slowly, making her tremble. That was a shock, a buzz. Whatever they had together was shredding her control. It was testing his, almost unbearably. His whole body felt strung out like a faulty code. He'd thought she'd be reserved, contained, the sex efficient, pleasant enough but routine, forgettable. He wasn't prepared for her to shed her skin and let him see into her heart. He hadn't been sure she had one, but now he saw it, bright and deep and filled with longing.

She wasn't going through the motions. She wasn't riding the alcohol, the hormone high, she was stripped down to her most basic programming and inviting him to overwrite her. He saw it in her eyes, blown wide and clear. Her open abandon, the radiance of her, spun him out and he couldn't tell how much of it was the lack of food, the shock and disappointment of the day, or the woman, and he didn't care. He let go too, buried himself in her and took the drag of her nails down his back and her sharp gasps as confirmation she was getting what she needed from him.

She was rigid and liquid, straining and tremulous, and he was the same until the glass ceiling disappeared, and the room went away, and her fire went out and they were drunk on each other floating in the stars and the clouds.

Whirring woke him, or was it the sun, or the crazed woodpecker in his head? He opened his eyes to see the glass wall turn opaque and block out the sun and the skyline. A fancy bit of window tech that beat curtains. He needed water. He needed a pistol for the woodpecker, and the bathroom.

Jacinta was curled on her side, with her back to him, but close enough he could feel her warmth. Her breathing had an exhausted quality to it, like a length of sighs strung together. Gingerly he launched an experiment in sitting upright without disturbing her and found it disorienting. The room wobbled, his eyes wouldn't open past slits and his tongue had become a pineapple overnight.

Technically it was morning, a squint at his watch confirmed 6am. He could wake her, say goodbye and go. He could leave a note and disappear. Practically, it felt like it should be the middle of the night and he didn't have it in him to do more than stumble to the bathroom, guzzle water, find his bag and hope there were headache tablets there, then flake out for another couple of hours.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tested the floor. Felt solid even if he didn't. Standing produced stumbles, then sharp pain under his instep and involuntary hopping that flooded his head with seasickness, but not enough to drown the woodpecker or stunt his curses.

She rolled over and he froze as though she might not see him if she woke and he was standing still instead of lurching about. There was a pool of blood under his foot. Last night's glass embedded in it.
Shit
. He wasn't equipped for a bleeding emergency. He snagged his briefs off the floor and hobbled into the corridor leaving a blood trail. In the bathroom he pulled a piece of glass from the fleshy part of his foot and dripped into the bath.