Surefire (23 page)

“Just keep on fucking me like this and I’ll call you anything you like…”

“Mmm, how about husband?”

My brain’s fogged up, coherent thought eludes me. “What? What did you say?”

He chuckles, the sound low, sensuous, sexy. “It’ll keep. Now cut the chat and squeeze my cock. Yes, like that.”

I feel the familiar, irresistible churning and clenching as all my senses focus in on my inner core, where we’re joined. I’m unsure where one of us ends and the other begins, and even less sure it matters. I start to climax, and Tom knows when I start to tip, increases the strength of his thrusts, his own pleasure mounting as he plunges hard. I grip him, desperate for more, more friction, more pressure, more stretching, yearning to be filled completely. I am, he does and we come together. He thrusts one last time, deep and hard, and holds the position as I quiver and convulse around him, the waves of pleasure washing over and through me. I feel once more the warmth of his semen on my cervix, and I cross my ankles behind his back to hold him within me, never wanting this moment to end.

Chapter Sixteen

Afterwards, apart at last but still entwined together, a lazy, satiated tangle of limbs, hair, sweaty bodies and mingled breath, Tom whispers in my ear, “I’m expecting visitors. In less than an hour. I need you to get dressed, love.”

“Can’t I stay here. You can just take them up to your office.”

“No way. I want you to play the welcoming hostess. Not that this isn’t a good look, but if you don’t mind…?

“Welcoming hostess? Me? You must be desperate. Or just plain deluded.”

“Desperate? Yes, sometimes. But you’ll do for me, love. Now come on.” He disengages, untangling his legs from mine, not without some regrets I’m pleased to note, and, agile as ever, gets to his feet. He leans down, offers me his hand.

I grab it and he hauls me up too. And with a pat on my bum, he directs me to the door.

“You’ve just got time for a shower. If you get a wiggle on.”

I hear his groan as I disappear through the door, having just demonstrated the most sensuous wiggle I can muster.

* * * *

I’m in the bedroom, pulling on a clean white shirt to match my best burgundy trousers as I hear the car pulling into the yard. Tom’s business meeting, and my chance to shine as his hostess. I’ve dressed for the part, not my usual jeans and T-shirt. Well, I should make some sort of effort.

Fully dressed now, I wander over to the window, lift the curtain to look out, get the measure of them before I have to go down and sparkle. I hear Tom behind me, following me to the window. He’s been lounging on the bed, watching me dress, offering sartorial advice. He even helped me blow-dry my hair. I love it when he does that.

I’m puzzled to see not a taxi in the yard but Nathan’s car, well, one of them. His business-like Sunday-best Audi rather than the usual Porsche is drawing sedately to a halt. I can just make out a figure in the passenger seat, and possibly someone sitting in the back as well. Difficult to be certain from this angle. Sure enough, Nathan gets out, and turns to open the rear door behind him. At the same time, the front passenger door opens and a man emerges. He seems vaguely familiar, I frown, looking more closely. He’s not someone I recognize, as far as I know. He’s tall, his hair very dark, like Nathan. But he’s older, probably in his mid-forties.

I’m puzzled, turn to Tom, surprised to see Nathan in our front yard. “Why’s Nathan driving them? I thought he was shopping in Leeds?”

“Nup. I asked him to pick up my visitors. From Manchester airport. He grumbles a lot but can be very accommodating when he tries.”

I’m more and more at sea. “The airport? You sent Nathan to pick up your guests? Why not just let them get a taxi?”

Tom doesn’t answer, just leans over me, watching as the stranger opens the other rear passenger door, and now two women are emerging to join him and Nathan in the yard. Much younger, little more than teenagers. In fact, they are teenagers. Surely they’re not—they can’t be business associates of Tom’s. The man turns, looks at the house, then, maybe attracted by some movement in the upstairs window, looks straight up at us.

He smiles, slightly, tentatively perhaps. And our eyes meet. Eyes I’ve seen before. Seen every day of my life, in the mirror. Mute now, wonder dawning, I watch as Nathan also looks up, waves at us. Tom lifts a hand to return the salute, then takes my hand.

“Come on, love, we have visitors.”

“It’s him. Is it? Is it him?” I stand, rooted to the spot, staring at the man below me in the yard.

The two girls are now flanking him, also looking up at me, excited, their smiles broad. There are questions in their gaze but also uncertainty, as if they’re not entirely sure of their welcome.

“Yes.” Tom’s answer is succinct. “He’s my guest. And he’s brought your little sisters. Let’s go meet him. Them.”

“You brought him here? For me. You found him, and then you brought him here. And my sisters too. All of them. They all came…?” I’m staring at him, disbelief etched all over my features.

He played it so cool. All day he knew. He knew they were on their way, going to be here soon, and apart from insisting I get dressed after he’d treated me to the most erotic experience imaginable, he never gave me a clue. Not a bloody clue.

He smiles at me, at my bewildered amazement. “Didn’t take much persuading, love. They all want to see you, they want to get to know you.” He cradles my face in his hands, kisses my startled mouth. “Let’s go down.”

I nod, and in a daze I follow Tom down the stairs. We arrive in the kitchen just as Nathan’s opening the door, ushering our visitors inside. He doesn’t follow them in though, just nods at both of us before slipping back outside and softly closing the door behind him. The five of us just stare at each other for a few moments, then…

“Sharon?” Bajram’s deep voice, familiar, heavily accented, still insisting on putting the stress on the second syllable of my name.

He smiles, opens his arms, and I’m suddenly running. Running across the room to hurl myself at him. His arms close, folding around me as he holds me to him, pressed hard against his chest. He smells wonderful, faintly citrus and somehow exotic. And I’m conscious of other hands too, other people touching me, joining our hug. My sisters, all of them here, all here in my home. With me, with Tom.

And as if remembering his host at last, Bajram relaxes his hold on me, turns to offer his hand to Tom, who takes it and shakes warmly. The two men smile at each other, some silent understanding passing between them.

My father inclines his head politely to Tom. “Mr Shore, thank you so much for inviting us here. To your lovely home.”

“It’s Tom. And I’m glad you could come, sir. And so quickly. And your other beautiful daughters too. Welcome to Greystones.”

He indicates that they should be seated, offers them tea. In no time we’re all ranged around the kitchen table, smiling at each other as Tom fills the kettle. There’s so much to say, so much to ask, to tell, and my head’s full to overflowing. I’m wondering where to start. Bajram takes charge though, and, his expression suddenly serious, turns to Tom.

“Well, my friend. You asked me to come, and so I’m here. Now, tell me, what is this question you have for me, this matter you need to discuss with me which is of such great importance, this request that you couldn’t make on the telephone?”

Epilogue

October 2013

It’s almost a year to the day since I first came here, to Yorkshire. I sit, my feet tucked under me on the settee in the living room at Black Combe, thinking back over what can safely be described as a truly momentous year. Or I might be, would like to be, if I could only hear myself think.

All around me, deafening and drowning me, is the excited, rowdy chatter of a roomful of women. All the women I know, pretty much. Certainly all the women I love best. Eva, obviously. And Grace and Victoria. Rosie and Isabella, goes without saying. And my own sisters, Ayla and Melisa. Tom’s mother is here too, the smart lawyer from Edinburgh. She’s sweet, and seems to like me, thank goodness. And Abbie, my mentor in the fine art of submission, has made the trip across from York with her baby, five month old Michael Junior, the only male allowed in our little gathering this evening.

Even Summer’s here. Summer, my generous friend from way back in Bristol, who let me use her laptop to download my very first images, and who let me chill at her flat, safe out of Kenny’s way. I never went back to Bristol when I was released from prison so we lost touch. But I remembered her, and how much she helped me when I really needed it. I was virtually a stranger, but she was kind and generous, and I wanted to let her know how much I appreciated her. So I looked for her on Facebook, eventually tracked her down. I contacted her, asked if she remembered me, and if she did, would she like to come to my wedding. She replied immediately. Of course she remembered me, and she was delighted that I’d made good. She was surprised at the name-change, and yes, she’d be delighted to see me safely married to Someone Nice.

By some bizarre coincidence which I don’t entirely understand, another guest is also a friend of Summer’s. I only met Freya Stone myself a few days ago, when she and her partner—or more properly, Dom—a seriously intimidating man called Nick, came to Greystones to talk to Tom about a job for his teenage son. Nick is with Tom’s party this evening while Freya chills with us. Nick’s son, Callum, is now working for Tom at the farm. Both Freya and Summer know Dan, Nathan’s brother. Small world.

But enough of them, because, this is my hen night. Tomorrow is my wedding day, mine and Tom’s. He’s having a similar bash over at Greystones—Nathan, Daniel, Bajram, Tom’s father and three brothers, Seth Appleyard and at least two of his strapping lads. And Nick, Freya’s partner—Dom, possibly, though I’m not entirely sure and I don’t know her well enough to ask, and his son, Callum. They’re all gearing up for a heavy session with beer and football. The drinks fridge in the lounge was stocked to overflowing before I left to come over here—there’s every reason to suppose they’ll be having a good time, although I gather they intend to make a raid on the Rock and Heifer later on. Apparently if Seth vouches for their good character, the landlord might let Nathan and Tom in. Or maybe, trade being what it is, the environmentally conscious innkeeper will make an exception to his normally fastidious entry requirements in view of the fact that twelve thirsty men, and one teenager, all inclined to invest heavily in liquid refreshment, can soften the heart of the most fervent of conservationists. Failing that, Bajram’s quiet, persuasive charm should work on the landlady. It works on just about everyone else, even the normally haughty Victoria seems quite smitten. Eva thinks it’s hilarious.

But back to me, because I’m getting married. Tomorrow. Imagine that!

In fairness, I’m not that bothered. I was happy with things as they were and wouldn’t have rocked the boat. But Tom seems unexpectedly enthusiastic about embracing the married state. Who’d have thought he had such a traditional outlook? Bajram may have had a hand in forming his attitude, of course. He was drawn into our wedding plans when Tom requested his permission to marry me, that day he and my sisters first arrived, as we all sat around Tom’s kitchen table. Since then he’s taken a personal interest in driving the plan forward. His efforts gained new impetus when he learnt that I was pregnant. He and Tom exchanged words on that matter, not heated, but it was A Serious Talk.

My father insists on being at the wedding, and to be fair, I desperately want him to be there too, so it had to be arranged a bit smartish—he’s due to return to Turkey next week.

So, we’ve raided Nathan’s well-stocked wine cellar—well, outhouse to be more accurate—and I’m surrounded by happy feminine chatter as everyone tries to offer me advice on how to manage my domestic arrangements following the upcoming nuptials. I suspect the only advice worth hearing will be Eva’s and Abbie’s, and possibly Freya’s, but I’m listening politely nonetheless. The less Tom’s mother knows about our ‘domestic arrangements’ the better, I suspect.

I should be deliriously happy. I know that, and I’m trying. I’m really trying. I know how lucky I am, I have absolutely no illusions about that at all. But still, there’s someone missing. Someone I want, more tonight than I have for many months now.

My mother—I wish she was here, wish she could see me now. I wish she could meet Tom, even more I wish she could meet her grandchild. But it’s not to be, she’s gone. Lost to me forever.

“Ashley, are you sad?” Rosie’s innocent question somehow manages to permeate the din and chatter, falling like a party-pooping stone into the middle of our happy babble. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop, and all eyes are on me. I swipe away a tear, somehow manage to conjure up a watery smile, determined not to put a damper on proceedings.

“I’m fine, really. Really.” I look around me at the anxious, caring faces, old friends, newer friends. And family too. And it’s that family that now steps forward, in the form of Ayla, my sister.

Ayla’s nineteen, and absolutely stunning. She’s tall, slim, shoulder-length dark brown hair, thick and waving. Clever too—apparently she’s something of a mathematician, like Eva. She’s talking about transferring to a university in the UK to complete her degree, and Eva’s using her influence to help make it happen. I hope it comes off—it’ll be nice to have Ayla stay around a while. I suspect Isaac Appleyard, Seth’s youngest son, won’t be found weeping at the prospect either, but the less said about that around Bajram the better, probably.

Ayla’s hand is on my arm, her soft, dark eyes smiling at me, warm, like her father’s. My father’s. “I have something for you. A wedding present. From your parents. My father asked me to give it to you if the moment seemed right. I think it might be good to give you the gift now. Yes?”

I look at her quizzically, tempted to correct the slight grammatical mistake, but what does it matter? I get her meaning. My father has asked her to pass on his wedding present. I nod, and thank her as she passes me a cardboard box. Not gift wrapped, it’s a Turkish shoebox I think. Quite old, more than a bit dog eared around the corners and edges. The lid’s been fixed more than once with Sellotape. I look at it, trying hard not to register my surprise. But this is not a toaster, I daresay.