Page 85 of Rafferty's Rules
‘That was... fuck me, that was hot, Lis.’ The words fall in a desperate tumble. Probably because my cock is robbing me of blood and sense. ‘So hot. And the pole of truth says—’ we both glance down at my swollen package ‘—that was a fucking winner.’
‘Oh! Another one!’ She points out of my side window as we’re overtaken by a silver Ford this time.
‘And then,’ she says, getting straight into that sultry, bedroom tone, dragging me and my cock metaphorically along with her, ‘when I’ve licked you nice and clean, I’ll let you fuck me like you own me.’
A hot pulse shoots through my balls, my boxers suddenly like a tourniquet. The image she paints is so vivid, it’s hard not to go there in my head because I’d fuck her like I owned her, all right. My little Lis, who looks like a doll already. My little fuck doll.
Jesus, what are you doing to yourself?
‘You’ll be so hard, ramming into me again and again and in that raspy, sexy voice of yours you’ll tell me; be quiet,’ her voice rumbles, affecting a deeper tone. ‘Be a good girl, youtakethat dick.’
My cock twitches and pulses, my mind wholly accepting that we seem to have veered into filthy story-verse
She suddenly throws herself against the seat, arching her back. Without speaking a word, she stares at the roof of the car, her hands sandwiched between her legs as though to stop them from wandering. She sighs, the smooth expanse of her throat exposed, and I’m surprised the car is still in the same lane, never mind the road, because then she sighs deeply, just like I’ve heard her do in bed. The soft cotton of her T-shirt moulds to her breasts with the breath, the whole effect like a fucking peep show.
‘What did the pole of truth think?’ she asks, turning only her head my way.
The pole of truth is leaking at the tip and throbbing with need, but if he had a brain, he’d agree with me. This was a terrible idea.
‘Stop. I can’t not touch you when you’re saying this shit.’
‘Somebodydidn’t think this game through,’ she trills.
Chapter 25
ALYSSA
I know he said his family owned a winery, and I know, or I’ve sort of guessed, he’s solvent, bordering on wealthy. But I wasn’t expecting this.
From the winding road we’re driving along, Rafferty pulls the car to a stop at an imposing gate, flanked by two brick pillars way taller than I am. He presses a code into an electronic keypad on a stand, the black iron gates swinging open. The driveway ahead is winding, a house or a building visible in the far distance at the top of a hill as a veritable sea of green vines fan out either side of the drive, undulating upwards like the ripples of a wave.
‘Home,’ Rafferty says, his brilliant blue eyes cutting to me. His smile is small but there all the same.Thank goodness.About thirty minutes ago he’d fallen quiet and I’d began to worry about what lay ahead for him. For us both.
We pass a creek festooned with feathery trees, a pavilion sitting over it with rustic looking tables and chairs made from old wine barrels. There’s also appears to be a coffee shop, the absence of people indicating it’s currently closed, and a small carpark beyond, another road leading off behind.
‘That’s Amber’s new business,’ Rafferty says as we pass. ‘It’s a bakery, I think. A French style patisserie.’
‘And Amber is Byron’s intended, right?’
‘Yep. I’ve only met her once. She flew out to London with Mum and the twins for Flynn’s little one’s birthday.’
‘When was the last time you saw Byron?’ He’s talked a lot about his brothers collectively but has said least of all about the oldest of the brood.
‘Last time I was home.’ So two years ago. Wow. Something tells me there’s more to this story.
‘I’ve been too busy, and Byron runs this place pretty much twenty-four-seven.’
And that isn’t the story, I’m guessing. Not one bit.Too busy to drive the extra couple of hours from Sydney when he’s been in town?I almost ask. Good job I’m keeping my tongue between my teeth because this is none of my business. But I wasn’t lying when I told him I’d love to meet his family. I want to support him in whatever he feels he needs in bringing me along to his brother’s wedding as his fake girlfriend, and of course, I want to help him like he’s helped me. But the bigger truth, the one that I’m keeping to myself, is that I just want to be with him for the time I have left in Australia. I know it’s not healthy and I know it isn’t right, but it is what it is, and it’s happening.Regardless of how it’ll hurt to part.
‘Look, you have a cellar door.’
The large creamy-coloured stone barn looks like it might have been there for centuries.Or recently built and made to look old.Outside, there are tables and chairs and an A-framed chalkboard, presumably for listing the day’s wares.
‘Can’t have a winery without tastings,’ he replies, amused. ‘Don’t fret. Wine runs through this place like water. There’s no shortage, believe me.’
‘Are those wallabies?’ I ask, my squirrely attention turning to something else on my vacation list. For the record, I am absolutely excited to catch sight of the head of something small and grey popping out from the vines in the distance, especially if it’s a wallaby. ‘Are they like, pets?’
‘Don’t let Byron catch you asking that,’ he answers, laughing. ‘Swap the letters around.’
