Page 42 of Rafferty's Rules
Beneath me, I can feel the bud of her nipple hardening. My cock twitches, and my mouth twists as she wriggles a little under me.
‘You’re not helping,’ I whisper, lowering my mouth to her ear.
‘Maybe I’m not comfortable.’
‘You, bite-sized, are far too comfortable.’ As though to prove my point, I rock into her the tiniest amount, causing her breath to catch.
‘This is about as much fun as the year eleven camping trip when two of the kids in my class thought they could root without anyone actually seeing,’ Roman complains.
‘Do you never knock?’
‘Not when I have a key.’ He dangles the thing from the end of his index finger.
‘Where the fuck did you get that?’
‘It was in the kitchen drawer where you always keep the spare key.’
‘Make sure you put it back.’ He makes as though to step farther into the kitchen.
‘Just leave it on the table.’
He slides me the sly kind of smile that says he absolutely knew what he was doing.
‘I’ll just piss off to the coffee shop then and wait there, shall I?’
‘Please do.’
‘Nice to see you, Lissa. I hope to see a little less of you next time.’
‘Bye, Roman.’ She giggles into the skin of my throat as she waves her hand.
Chapter 12
ALYSSA
I step out into the midmorning light, hopping down from the porch to the old street, happy to continue my adventure in Sydney. I’m in Sydney, yay! Free to do what I please.Within the narrow parameters of my purse strings, of course.
There’s a certain spring in my step as I navigate the streets lined with sandstone buildings, ducking into narrow cobbled alleys marked with plaques denoting historical notes of the area and the people who lived here long ago. I pass coffee shops and restaurants, high-end tourist shops selling opals and stylish homewares, art galleries, and designer clothing boutiques.
I stop for a little breakfast in a café designed to look like a speakeasy, circa 1920, the waitstaff gussied up in a uniform consisting of suspenders and bar aprons. And not one of them looks above the age of twenty.Backpackers, I guess. I order a flat white in a tiny cup and avocado toast with heirloom tomatoes served with whipped feta and a sprinkle of dukkha on top. It beats my regular breakfast of toast and Cheerios, hands down. I choose a table outside where patrons are protected from the sun by black umbrellas that take up half of the narrow sidewalk.
Content to people watch, I listen to the accents of those around. A group of elderly Americans—no doubt cruise goers—stop at the window to peruse the menu. At the table behind me, a family speaks something that sounds a lot like Dutch, the teenage waitress answering their questions in the same language. If I never venture farther than The Rocks, I think I’d be happy with my vacation destination. It’s such a neat area and so full of colonial history. It’s hard to imagine, sitting here in the sun, that this place was once a slum and home to the bubonic plague. Or that the early principle form of currency was rum!
As I drink my coffee, I kick back and just absorb the atmosphere while thinking about how far I’ve come. I might also partake in a little daydreaming about the coming weeks, given the two mind-blowing encounters Rafferty and I have experienced so far. I might be a virgin, but I haven’t been one hundred percent chaste. I’d fooled around a little withhe-who-shall-not-be-named. And truthfully, if the decision had been left up to me, we wouldn’t have waited until our wedding night to have sex. But that’s all in the past. Done. And I’m glad not to have had sex with the kind of man who’d pay for sex but wouldn’t touch the woman he was about to marry.
That’s so screwed. I refuse to think about it.
Last night was overwhelming, and I’m not certain I didn’t pass out from something other than sleep.Like orgasm overload. And then this morning, I have never felt such power, such abandon. I’ve never taken charge like that, and I can’t wait to do it again. I may have had my lips around him, and I may have been on my knees, but the power belonged to me. And the pleasure definitely wasn’t all his. It’s like every one of my five senses came alive, dialled to a ten. As my lips met his skin, I swear I could smell the sun on him under the scent of his earlier exertions. The taste of him, my God, the musky earth of him against my tongue, and watching him tip back his head, the muscles of his neck drawing tight as he attempted to conceal his expression, was such a heady mixture of agony and delight. The sheen of sweat on his chest caught in the light of the sun. The sound of his guttural moans and his demands that I take him a harder set of a series of tiny fireworks between my legs. But most of all, I was driven delirious by his touch. The way he smoothed my hair to the side, the way he held my cheeks while he watched me blow more than just his mind.
When Roman left, I thought we really might’ve gone all the way, right there on the kitchen floor, wrapped in the quilt. But he just kissed me once more, then told me I wasn’t sharing his shower.
Good thing I’m fine with him playing hard to get.
‘Here you go!’ Startled, I’m dragged from my erotic recollections by the young (possibly) Dutch-speaking waitress as she places my plate on the table next to my coffee cup.
‘Thank you.’ Sourdough toast and yummy avocado, tomatoes shining like rubies on the plate. Boy, am I ready for this.
‘Do you need anything else?’ she asks as she pulls silverware wrapped in a paper napkin from the pocket of her apron and sets it down next to my plate. ‘Some table water?’
