Page 26 of Hard
‘I said no such thing!’ she retorts, her cheeks turning bright pink. She still has her garters and stockings on, though the latter are, quite frankly, fucked. ‘What are you smiling about?’ she chastises, crossing her arms over her ample chest.
‘Pretty sure you said something like that.’ I try not to smile, the corner of my mouth quirking as I pretend to weigh up my answer.Pretend not to look at her tits.‘I remember now. Your cock. Your cock is so fucking good. That was what you said. No worms were mentioned as you came around it, milking it for all its worth.’
‘It’s worth a lot,’ she murmurs, watching as I wrap my fist around my cock. ‘Because that is no worm.’ It’s at home there in my hand. You might say well acquainted, especially during our allottedme time.And her watching? I’m A-fucking-okay with that.
‘Less worm... more like an anaconda.’ The second half of her sentence is delivered much later as she watches as I run my hand along my shaft, engulfing the end. ‘You still have your boots on,’ she whispers.
‘I do.’
‘You look so hot, with or without the kilt.’
‘You like the kilt, eh?’
‘It makes me want to get Chastity to make a littleOutlanderporn.’
I’m somewhat familiar with the TV show; romantic tales ofThe Risingand buff Scotsmen in kilts.
‘Why ask your friend when you’ve got the real thing in front of you?’
‘Will you let me call you Jamie?’ she says, giggling softly.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply, kissing her temple before thickening my accent for my next command. ‘Wench, get thee to thy bed.’ She sets off running, and fuck, if the sight doesn’t make my dick twice as hard.
I gather our clothes from the floor and follow her at a more leisurely pace, arriving just in time to see the bathroom door close.
I place our heaped clothing on the bottom of the bed, then switch on the bedside lamp to reveal a room tasteful in creams and pale blues. The Art Deco accents carry on in the form of square lamps and etched mirrors and retro wood. A long, padded bench sits at the end of the bed, and a minimalist chaise sits in front of the large window.
Taking a seat on the bench, I pull my phone from my jacket, feeling a twinge of guilt at the thought of calling home. It’s not so late, just a little after nine p.m., but I hope she’ll be asleep all the same.
The line rings just once before her wee voice squeals, ‘Daddy!
My guilt deepens. How can I not want to hear her wee voice? ‘Hiya, darlin’.’
‘Why aren’t you on the camera?’
‘Because, er, there are too many people about.’ I mentally kick myself for calling her wee iPod rather than the home phone because we always FaceTime.
‘Are you no’ in bed yet?’ I ask, which is a ridiculous question as far as questions about the obvious go.
‘Agnes said I could stay up and see the end of the film we’re watching on Netflix. Agnes and me are Netflix and chillin’.’ She giggles, though I know she’s too young to be winding me up. At her age, she isn’t aware of the connotations in that pastime.
‘Well, be sure to get yourself to bed afore too long.’
‘I want to wait up until you’re home,’ she says, her tone changing from sweet to petulant.
‘No, it’ll be too late for you.’ My eyes flick to the bathroom door, hoping to get off the phone before Paisley comes out. One-night stands don’t need to know the ins and outs of my life. Even one-night stands as lovely as her.
‘But I want to,’ she asserts. ‘And tomorrow is still the weekend.’
‘Be that as it may, you’re to go to bed once the film is done. Do you hear me?’ Sorcha doesn’t answer.She’s getting awfully good at dishing out the silent treatment. I sigh heavily, wondering, not for the first time, if playing mind games is part of her DNA. She hasn’t seen her mother since she was tiny, but the older she gets, the more worrying things seem. And what’s more, because she’s ill, I can’t even use tomorrow as bribery; I usually play rugby while she hangs out with Louis, my friend Mac’s wee boy. But illness means quarantine, and quarantine is no fun for anyone.
‘Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, you’d better put Agnes on.’ A tiny huff sounds down the line along with an equally huffily muttered, ‘Fine.’
‘She’s crabbit—just miserable,’ Agnes says in answer. ‘And it’s past her bedtime. Pay her no mind.’ As usual, Agnes is quick to jump to my daughter’s defence.
‘I know. Chickenpox is enough to make anyone miserable, I’m sure.’
‘You’re not to worry. Just you enjoy your night,’ she adds, her words pregnant with meaning. See, Will isn’t the only one who worries I don’t get enough sex, though I’m sure Agnes would argue she only means female companionship.
