The Dare Collection November 2019. Anne Marsh
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No such luck.
‘That must have been really hard on her. And you.’
‘Not really. I don’t remember him ever being there.’
She releases my hand, as if she can sense my discomfort. It’s hard to feel her touch, something I associate only with pleasure, and think about the worst parts of my past in the same heartbeat.
‘Was it another woman?’ she asks.
I really want to distract her, to drag her from the bath and make her forget her inquisitiveness, pleasure her into silence. But she’s relaxed, and she deserves some answers after my days of vagueness, hedging and changing the subject.
‘No—he remarried eventually, but money was his mistress. He bought a tech company at the right time, invested heavily and got lucky, making lots of what he loved—money. And, as you know, money makes money.’ I sigh, my anguish over his last will and testament undoing what an evening with Orla had accomplished. ‘At the end of the day he loved money more than he loved his wife and kid.’
‘Did your mother remarry? Did you have a stepfather? You talked about how the drumming helping you through your teens.’
‘No. It was just the two of us.’ My answer sounds harsh, echoing around the tiled room. But further explanation sticks in my throat. Does she really want details? Is she truly longing to hear that my mother worked two jobs to make sure I was fed? That she pawned her wedding ring to buy me my first bike? That she never stopped loving a man who chose the pursuit of wealth over her, so much so that she never once chased him for a single cent towards raising me?
As if sensing the rage building inside me, coiling my muscles to snapping point, she doesn’t press for more details. ‘Well, she raised a fine man in you. Are you still close to her?’
‘She died a year ago. Cancer.’ I deflate. What is the point of harbouring hatred for a man when they’re both gone? What’s the point of my regret? It won’t bring either of them back—him so I can toss his damned money back in his face and her so I can try to convince her he wasn’t worth her love.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispers Orla.
I’ve stopped washing her, too caught up in useless emotions. I move around to the other side of the bath, performing the same moves with the sponge down the opposite arm. But now she’s probed, the words come a little easier. ‘To that day I think she still loved him. That’s why I can never forgive him.’
‘I don’t blame you—it must have been very hard for you to watch. Hard for you to grow up without a father. I’m so sorry to hear about your mother, Cam.’ This time when she grips my hand she tugs me forward and sits up in the bath, so I have to slap on a mask to hide the resurgence of resentment from my face.
‘You know, it’s not the same, but my father was pretty absent too. He worked long hours, and even when he was home he never seemed interested in me, what I’d done at school or that I’d passed a piano exam or joined the school choir.’ She laughs, a humourless snort. ‘He always made time for my brother’s sporting events though. Funny, that.’
We stare, fragile threads of memories and the emotions they bring connecting us.
‘Have you told your father that you feel that he wasn’t there for you growing up?’ she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Every muscle in my body tightens. Even if I could reach out, there’s no room in me for forgiveness. Not for what he did to my mother, or for how he tried to control me from the grave with his beloved money.
‘Have you told yours?’ I say, the venom in my voice shocking us both.
She looks down and I swear under my breath, tilting her chin back up so she can see the sincerity of my apology. ‘I’m sorry. Look… I… I never really cared that he wasn’t around for myself. If my mother had been happy, I doubt I’d have given him a second thought.’
Ah, the lies we tell ourselves…
I focus my anger. ‘He treated my mother worse. And anyway, it’s all in the past. He’s dead too. Six months after her—ironic, right?’ I take a deep breath, too close to every feeling I’ve battled to contain these past six months—my entire adult life, if I’m being honest. And, despite her relationship with her own emotionally distant father, we’re different enough without my tales of woe, my sad little poor-boy-turned-billionaire sob-story.
Her intelligent eyes latch on to mine. ‘Is the inheritance from—’
I cover her mouth with my fingers. ‘Enough.’ Of course she would make the leap. She’s smart. But I don’t want to talk about my father’s legacy. The legacy I’m working day and night to forget because of what it represents.
‘I thought we were keeping the details out of this—just sex…?’ The words taste jagged because I’m a hypocrite. I care about her—why else would I take her to see rescue dogs, worry about her burning herself out with work and lavish her with gifts? Because I like the way she looks in green? Because I enjoy seeing her sensational figure clothed in everything from a simple T-shirt to the sexiest lingerie?
But caring isn’t allowed. More than sex is a fool’s game. She knows that and so do I.
My own reminder of our boundaries helps me back to safety. This is sex. No matter how she makes me feel, or how much I enjoy her company outside of the bedroom. No matter how her stare seems to penetrate, her intelligent eyes stripping me bare. I’m here for one reason only—enjoyment. Well, two if you count my own personal goal to spend as much money as I can, a goal on which I should refocus my attention and forget about crazy ideas like testing Orla’s suitability as a potential partner. Because she’s not mine. She’s not interested in anything beyond the good time we have together.
It’s a dream scenario for any guy…
‘Ready to get out?’ I ask, because she wants this to be about sex—on-tap sex—and right now that’s the only thing that will chase away my demons.
At her nod, I tug her hand and she rises from the water, rivulets of foam sliding over her perfect skin. She meets my eyes and I see empathy in the depths of her stare. She knows I’m hiding something bigger than me. She knows I’m a coward, but she sticks to our nothing-personal rule and offers me an out clause.
My hand still holds the sponge. She guides me to wash her breasts and her stomach, only releasing my hand when she’s pressed it between her legs so she can grip both my shoulders while she rides my hand and the sponge with undulations of her hips.
‘Cam,’ she whispers, her eyes on mine. ‘Let’s get lost together.’
I don’t need a second invitation. I toss the sponge and lift her from the bath, snagging a towel on my way out of the bathroom. In the bedroom I deposit her on her feet and slide the towel over every inch of her skin until she’s dry, by which time my erection is painfully hard and straining behind my fly. But I don’t touch her, nor do I give her my mouth, which is what she wants, her head lifting to mine every time I move close, her lips seeking the kisses that make her moan.
I hold my own body taut to prevent me from swaying her way. I’ve got this. I’m here for the sex. I can control the sex. She likes being nudged to explore her sexual boundaries, but beyond that…
There is no beyond.
‘Go to the wardrobe and get the M Club box,’ I say, my voice tight with longing. Yes, the urge to be close to her, to be buried inside, to kiss her into silence, is as strong as ever, but there’s a new driving force in me tonight. A dangerous force—to be more to her than her sex toy. To gain her trust, to hear her acknowledgement that I’m not like the men of her past, men who’ve betrayed her, underestimated her, overlooked her. That I’m different.
I swallow hard. It’s just sex. That’s all she wants from me.
Her eyes flare with excitement and she sashays to the wardrobe, loosening her hair from its messy bun as she goes. I’m momentarily