Page 63 of Two Wrongs
‘God!’Mine is less plea than hitched breath as Dylan hooks a finger under the crotch of my knickers, rubbing himself through my wetness, once, twice, before sliding into me in one smooth thrust. It’s a motion that pushes the air out of us both, our sighs simultaneous. We still for a minute, lost in the other, just marvelling in our fit. And as Dylan rotates his hips, grinding against me, the sigh this time is all mine.
I whimper at the loss as he pulls back, tearing my knickers down my legs, demanding I spread.
He moves back, and on camera, I’m suddenly exposed. Wet and bare. In profile, with one knee still planted against the mattress, Dylan’s dick bounces in anticipation, hard and glistening as he looks at me with such want and need, that even today, it creates a knot in my chest.And makes me weak at the knees.
‘Mio Dio... This. You. Will be the death of me,’ he growls.
Leaning forward, he sinks into me—sinks into our kiss and my body. My hands are in his hair as he lifts my knee, his hips pistoning, spearing me again and again, while here, today, my insides today clench emptily, recalling the thick fill of him and the weight of his body against my skin. God, I’m close, both then and now, pleasure threatening to overload. My fingers slide harder, faster, as I focus on the screen—focus on the tension in his thigh and glutes as he drives into me.Again and again.
Tension builds between my legs, the sheet a weight too much—I push it off, away from my damp hair and skin. My mind focuses on that bare inch of need, the place where heat and sensation gather until fit to burst. Pleasure expands, my fingers working faster and faster as the edges of the room begin to blur. The sounds coming from my laptop are no longer the focus; rather, they are the soundtrack to my current pleasure. Dylan’s curses and grunts drive me higher; need and nature overtake me bodily, lifting my hips from the bed.
It’s such a cliché, but we climax together—the past and present me. We climax with his name on our lips.
My heart pounds and my thighs are at their twitching-foal phase when I lean over and flip the screen closed. I can’t listen anymore. I can’t deal with the sound of my name coming from him. I lie back on my pillows, spent and suddenly cold, reassuring myself it’s an itch scratched. That it means nothing.That I haven’t come so hard since we were together the last time in LA.
A thought crosses my mind, and I being to laugh. Nothing manic; I haven’t gone completely nuts. At least, not yet. It’s more an empty chuckle, one to deny the lump of emotion in my chest. A laugh, yeah. The irony. I’ve just realised I’ve joined the leagues of women all around the world, lying in bed and getting off to the movie star Dylan Duffy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivy
‘You’reaff ya fuckin’ heid!’
Off his head drunk would be my guess.
It’s not unusual to hear a couple of drunks brawling on the streets of Auchkeld on Saturday night—yes, we live in a village, but it’s a village with three pubs, two liquor stores, and, well, we are Scots, after all—but it’s a wee bit more odd to hear drunks going at it on a slow Wednesday afternoon.
I don’t give a flying fuck what you want—you’re an arsehole. If you think you’re getting anywhere near her, you’re dreamin’, pal!
‘The language!’ Junetsksas she ties a floral scarf over her newly set perm. ‘They’re starting early the day, no?’
At the reception counter, I continue to study a minuscule slice of dark hair stuck under a layer of my thumbnail; one of the downsides to cutting hair is that the stuff gets everywhere.Yes, between layers of nail, between toes—in my bra!I don’t look up from my examination and don’t really answer more than a vague hum.I’m not ignoring June, just warding off the inevitable argument we have every time I do her hair—she wants to pay, and I’m not going to allow her.
‘Drunk at this hour,’ she mutters. ‘Plain scandalous.’
‘It is a bit early to be traipsing the streets blootered,’ I eventually agree, sensing her opening her shopping bag to search for her wallet. ‘Who is it this time?’
As a diversion, it works; June turns to the large window behind.
‘I expect it’ll be old Tam and his pal. I hope they’re not hanging about,’ she says, pressing her cheek almost up to the glass as she strains to see the direction the shouting is coming from. ‘I’ve the messages to get before the shops close.’
I smile.The messagesare something my granny would send me for when I was wee; usually a loaf of bread and a newspaper. Though it’s a sort ofone word fits all,encompassing anything from a trip to the corner store to pick up a pint of milk to a full shopping trip.
‘Sweet creeping Jesus!’ June jumps as Natasha appears behind her, resting both hands on her grandmother’s thin shoulders. ‘You’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.’
‘That’s the plan, oldie,’ Natasha replies. ‘Then the house is mine!’ June doesn’t deign to answer, pursing her lips instead. ‘Did I hear old Tam’spishedagain? That friend of his is properbogin,’ she says, wrinkling her nose as she stares down the street.
‘That’s no way to speak of your elders, even if he is wee bit smelly. And a drunk,’ June chastises as she fastens the top button of her coat. But Nat doesn’t appear to be listening as, outside, the yelling draws nearer.
‘Oh, look it’s—oh!’ Nat recoils from the glass as though slapped. ‘Missed him by a baw-hair!’ she exclaims.
Junetsksagain louder this time. ‘And that’s an awful thing to say. Can you no’ call it what it is and say pubic hair?’
‘This from the granny who delights in saying cock.’ Nat frowns down at her gran. ‘Anyway, it’s not that old bugger fighting his own shadow this time. It’s someone much younger.’
‘Youngsters these days. Brawling in the streets. What would their mothers say?’
‘Maybe when Ivy’s ma calls next, she can ask. Can’nae imagine it’ll be as bad as catching him on her mother’s sofa with his boabie in his hand.’
