Page 74 of Rafferty's Rules
I know it.
And I find can do nothing about.
Even if I wanted to.
My hand wrapped tight around Lissa’s waist, she’s currently balanced like a doll on my knee. And though she doesn’t look exactly pleased about it, she’s not going anywhere. Because I won’t let her. Not until every fucker at this table is one hundred percent of the opinion that this little doll belongs to me.
Mine to hold. Mine to touch. For the next ten days, at least.
‘Rafferty, was it?’ I nod at the bloke opposite, without moving my gaze from Lissa’s profile, mesmerised by the dark sweep of her lashes and the tilt of her nose. ‘Did you used to go to Sydney Boy’s School?’
‘For years eleven and twelve.’ My answer is monotone, uninterested, my fingers reaching for a lock of hair by her ear. ‘Which one of them was it, Lis?’ I whisper, kissing the soft skin behind her ear. ‘If I hadn’t arrived, which of them would it have been?’ Like I said, I’m behaving like a prick. A prick who won’t even share the attention of his little doll.
She shivers and shakes her head in the tiniest of motion, but she doesn’t turn her head my way. Her lack of outward response coupled with her body’s little tells spurs me on. Feeds me. Feeds the devil in me.
‘I think you were in the year above me,’ he continues. ‘You’ve got a brother, right?’
‘I’ve got a few.’
I’m being a rude bastard, but not one of them care because as I’d taken the seat I’d ejected Lissa from, she’d murmured something about them celebrating the weekend. So I ordered four bottles of Moët. Dick move for sure, but if I’m going to be a dick anywhere, I need to be the biggest, baddest, swinging one.
And now I’m their best mate.
Apart from the fucker sitting next to me, glaring at me at every opportunity. Who, I would like to say doesn’t worry me—not at all. Even if seeing him curled over Lissa’s shoulder made me want to rip off the bastard’s arms just so I could beat him with the soggy bits.
‘I think I knew your younger brother.’ Jesus, he’s like a dog with a bone. ‘I want to say his name is something Italian.’And I want to say fuck off because Leopold’s not much better, mate.
‘Have you visited any of our iconic beaches yet?’ This from the fucker sitting next to me, which is obviously not a question for me, even if he’s pretending to be the bigger man. But seriously, can’t he see she’s sitting on my knee? How much more obvious do I have to be? Piss on her leg? Growl at him?
Lissa’s hair gently sways across my face as she nods. ‘My first day here. I had a coffee at Bondi. On the tourist bus.’ Her words are delivered staccato which, I’d like to think s the result of the soft circles I paint against her bared shoulder.
‘That one is more for tourists,’ he says without rancour. ‘If you’re around this weekend, we could go to a better beach—get a group together, I mean. Can you surf?’ She shakes her head again, definitively this time. ‘I could teach you; we could head over to Cronulla?’
‘She’s busy. Didn’t you hear?’ We’ll call that a salient reminder of the fact that I’m her boyfriend.Her fake boyfriend.‘Are you sure you can surf?’ I turn to him, my attitude cool. ‘She’d be nothing more than a speed bump out on those waves. You need to go somewhere quieter,’ I say softer, my words for her now. ‘Somewhere with smoother surf. Long Reef or Palm Beach. Not that it matters. You’re busy this weekend, aren’t you, darl?’ I wrap my arm around her waist, and we both stand. ‘Speaking of which,’ I murmur, taking her face in my hands. ‘We’d better get a start on our weekend plans.’
Then I kiss her. Just so there’s no confusion. Just because I can. And just because I want to. I love how responsive she is, love how her lashes flutter closed, and how she tips to her toes to deepen the connection.
Our lips are slow to part, but they do so, and I set her back on her heels, taking her hand. As she murmurs goodbye to her new friends, her complexion is flushed.From excitement or embarrassment?I suppose I’m about to find out.
‘You didn’t answer me,’ I say as we weave our way through the bar. My hand is low on her back as I guide her through the throng. ‘Which one would it have been, if it hadn’t been me.’
‘If you hadn’t turned up, you mean?’ The spark in her dark eyes tells me she’s up for playing.Or she’s pissed off.‘Maybe I hadn’t made my mind up.’ From virgin to cock tease? I’m not buyin’ it, but I can play along.
‘Wasn’t much of a choice. The other fella seemed more interested in me.’
‘Maybe you only think that because you were feeling left out?’
I bark out a laugh as we reach the top of the steps. A little farther ahead, we can grab a cab. I also have a driver on standby, waiting for my call, and reservations for dinner at a nearby restaurant. But dinner doesn’t hold my interest, and I’d say by the gleam in her eye and rapid rise and fall of her chest, I’m a lucky boy. Looks like Lissa is only interested in swallowing one thing.
We reach the open street, people milling around in the cool evening air, the buildings around us a throwback to Australia’s colonial days. Her hand in mine, I almost pull her up the incline in my haste to get her somewhere out of sight. Somewhere I can hold her, touch her, remind her she’s mine.
For the next ten days,my brain unhelpfully supplies.
Her hard breath sends my mind into overdrive as we reach the top of the street, the buildings ahead turning to high-rises. I pause as a bus trundles past, the crowds around thinning out. We’re not so far from home that we can’t walk there, making good time, but I’m not prepared to wait. I pull her into a nearby side street, the ground beneath our feet now rocky cobblestones. She stumbles, but I catch her, my hands on her narrow shoulders, hands that press her back against the brickwork.
Our mouths meet instantly in a kiss that’s full of such heat, it should leave us bare, strip us to the bone. Hard and demanding, this kiss is a clash of tongue and teeth and ownership. It’s roaming hands and questing fingertips, it’s grasping and groaning, and the seeking of slices of skin.
Lissa’s palms connect with my chest, pushing me against the brick wall opposite.How the fuck—The groan I make as she lunges for my cock comes from a place deep within me, a place of masculine need.
