Surefire (9 page)

“It was worth it. Been wanting to do that for two years. Life’s good sometimes, don’t you think?”

I can’t help but smile back. “Yes, sometimes, and now at least you’ve got your jacket back.”

He pulls me into his arms, drops a quick kiss on my mouth. “This was not about a jacket, sweetheart. This was more about me fucking hating that little shit. For what he did to you.”

No one except my mother has ever defended me before, and I find I rather like it. I have a champion, two champions even. But now it’s over, thank God, and we need to get out of here. I tug at Tom’s sleeve, desperate to get him back in the Porsche. “Come on, we need to get moving. They might be back. They’ll probably bring even more next time.”

Tom’s not for running away, and apparently sees no need for undue haste. “They won’t be back. Do you suppose they’re going to tell the rest of their old cell-mates that they got beaten up by two ‘ponsy’ blokes? All six of them? Nah, they’re done. And hey, like you say, I got my jacket back. I call that a result.”

“Yeah, and I got a bike chain. I’m sure I can think of a good use for that…”

Nathan looks thoughtful, and I wonder what Eva’s reaction to his new toy might be. He’ll have to get it cleaned up a bit first.

Then, all business as usual, Nathan’s strolling round to lean casually on the bonnet of his Porsche. “So, where were we? Right, Autoglass should be here soon. We’ll just wait until they show up, and as soon as your car’s fixed we’ll go to the Marriott and get cleaned up. Maybe grab something to eat. How’s that sound?”

It still sounds to me as though we’re pushing our luck hanging around here, but Tom seems as unruffled as Nathan, so we stay.

Tom loops an arm across my shoulders, squeezes lightly. “Hey, come on. They’ve gone, they won’t be back. You’re safe enough now.”

I realize I’m shivering, the shock of the encounter just now starting to get to me.

Tom continues, “Well it’s pretty clear now who broke into your car I’d say. And maybe the fire too… Seems too much of a coincidence for him to just turn up here, don’t you think? He’s quite a long way from his old stomping ground surely…”

“I didn’t even know he was out.” My voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. I’d been dreading ever meeting up with Kenny again, and the fact that he’s come all the way here, to Gloucester, means he’s definitely been looking for me. Gone to all the trouble of tracking me down. And to bring so many mates, all of them apparently intent on finding me. I feel my heart lurch as the implications sink in. Oh God, suppose he knows? Suppose he’s figured it out… His words are still ringing around my head.
‘Grass’ ‘What’s coming to you’.

Oh, yes, he definitely knows.

“You okay, love?” There’s concern in Tom’s voice as he tips my chin up with his fingers to study my face. “You’re pale. And you’re shaking. Come and sit down.”

I’m quickly installed in the passenger seat of the Porsche, a bottle of chilled water in my hand, whilst Tom and Nathan continue to confer on the pavement. They’re both looking puzzled, and I can’t say I blame them. None of this makes much sense. Not to them anyway.

Soon enough the Autoglass repair van pulls up behind us and the cheery mechanic in lurid green overalls hops out to inspect the damage. “Soon have you on your way, sir,” he promises Tom, who doesn’t bother to disillusion him regarding the Clio’s ownership.

And sure enough, within another half an hour the glass is replaced and he’s punching my insurance details into his tablet computer, the deal done. I’m still more than a bit frayed around the edges so Tom takes my keys and drives my car, and I hunch myself up in the passenger seat, willing him not to ask me any questions. Mercifully he doesn’t, and twenty more minutes sees the three of us checking into the Marriott.

Tom and I head off into our room, after arranging to meet Nathan in the restaurant downstairs in a couple of hours. I’m hoping the decent fuck Tom promised me might be on the near horizon—I really need something a bit special right now to distract me from the thoughts and bone-deep fears whirling around inside my skull. First though, I need to rinse away the grimy feeling left on my clothes and body from my visit to the police station and close encounter with my previous nemesis. I head for the shower while Tom kicks off his shoes and flings himself onto the bed to wait.

Not a man known for his patience, at least in matters relating to the physical, it’s not long before I hear the swish of the shower curtain behind me, and Tom joins me in the warm spray. His hands are gentle, efficient, as he shampoos and conditions my hair, raking his fingers through its length to ease out the day’s tangles before rinsing it thoroughly. Next, he deftly peels the wrapper off a tiny bar of hotel soap and washes my back, my still slightly tender bottom, my legs. Then he reaches around me to smooth the lather into my breasts and belly. He pays particularly keen attention to the professionally waxed smooth skin at the apex of my thighs. I sigh and lean back as he slips his fingers expertly between the soft, slick inner lips to circle the entrance to my pussy. His touch feels good, at first relaxing me rather than arousing, the intent to calm and reassure as much as to incite my response. Still, inevitably, my pleasure mounts, slowly, surely. I sigh, then gasp. I give a soft moan as he slides first one then two fingers inside me, the heel of his hand carefully angled to rub my clit. Soft at first, he increases the pressure as my moans become hectic little pants, as I tighten my grip on his forearms. My body stiffens, readying itself for the delicious release I know is close. Suddenly, it’s there and I’m spinning, my body convulsing around the gentle, probing fingers, my muscles melting. I gasp his name, would crumble but for his arms holding me now, and he murmurs in my ear, his words to do with love, and being there, and holding me safe.

When I’m still and calm again, my legs at last capable of supporting my weight, Tom kisses my neck before stepping out of the shower and reaching for one of the large hotel towels piled in a pristine white fluffy bale on the bathroom floor. I watch him, somewhat surprised and mildly disappointed not to have found myself up against the tiled wall, his cock deep inside me. He fastens the towel around his hips, knotting it loosely before picking up another and holding it wide open for me to step into. I do so, still not certain where this new format is taking us as he wraps me carefully, tucking the ends in tight, all neat and decent and prim.

“You didn’t— I mean, don’t you want to…”

“I promised you a decent fuck, and you’ll get it. In time. Be patient. I always deliver, you know that, Ashley. First though, we talk.” And with that he grabs another, smaller towel to twist around my hair, turban-style. Mostly—and most especially when we’re naked—he’s my big, tough, hard Dom, demanding and stern, with the power to hurt and delight me in equal measure. And occasionally, just occasionally, he reminds me of my mother.

Chapter Eight

A few moments later we’re sitting on the end of the big double bed in our hotel room, Tom behind me as he pulls me onto his lap and works his fingers again through my hair, squeezing the wet into the towel before grabbing a wide-toothed comb to gently ease out the tangles. I admire his reflection, our reflection, in the mirror over the dressing table directly ahead. He’s intent on his task, and I take the opportunity to study him, his blond hair still wet and messy from being roughly toweled, his damp torso deliciously sculpted, hard and firm, glistening from the shower, his muscles clearly defined as he reaches around me to pull the damp hair back from my forehead. My Dom, gloriously beautiful in a way that I’m convinced very few men can ever achieve, rough and raw and cruelly efficient when he uses pain to focus my attention, yet achingly tender when he chooses to be. Like now.

He glances up, catches my gaze in the mirror, holds it. I am struck by the physical contrast between us—his blond good looks, his hard, chiseled body, vivid green eyes. I particularly love Tom’s healthy tan, gained from an outdoor existence rather than more sedentary sun worshiping, darker on his hands and arms, his legs and feet much paler, covered invariably by jeans and boots. And me, dark eyes, olive complexion, the same skin tone everywhere as I hate uncovering outdoors, my build fragile in comparison to Tom, but I like to think wiry and resilient for all that, my hair so dark as to be almost black. Tom smiles at me, winks and returns to his task as I continue to observe his actions reflected in the mirror.

“You know that I love you, don’t you, Ashley?”

What?
My eyes snap back up, and he’s watching me, his expression soft but an unmistakable glint of determination shimmering in those emerald eyes. I stare back at him, amazed. He’s never said that to me before. He’s texted it, shown me it in many, many ways. But never actually come right out and said it.

“Don’t you?” The question again, requiring a response.

“I—yes, I know that. But you never say it.”

“Not in those exact words maybe. But I do say it. I say it when I touch you, kiss you, when I wake up next to you. You knew.” His tone is quiet, soft, but certain. And he’s right. I did know. I nod, and he smiles at my reflection.

“And you trust me, yes?”

“Yes.”
Definitely. Emphatically.
Again I nod.

“Then tell me what’s behind all this.” He’s stopped combing my hair, and he’s just maintaining eye contact with me in the mirror, quietly waiting.

I drop my eyes first, but he’s having none of that. He slips his fingers under my chin to lift my face up, his words in my ear insist I look at him.

“Tell me. Tell me why Kenny’s so determined to come after you. What’s between you and him still?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear!” My heated, panicked denial just draws a wry smile from him.

“No, love, I don’t mean that. You’re all mine now. I know that. But there’s something, something from before, something that means he’s not letting go. He torched your house, and for all he knew you might have been inside it. Or maybe he thought your mother was— Does he know she died? He broke into your car.
Your
car. He came all the way to Gloucester looking for you, knew just where to find you. He talked about you getting what was coming to you. He brought a vanload of mates. If you’d been alone today at the house when he turned up with his gang of thugs—you’d have been in the back of that van, love. That was an attempted abduction, you know it, I know it, Nathan too. And Christ knows what would have happened to you, it doesn’t bear thinking about. So, why? What’s it all about?”

He’s on it. Spot on. I grasp around for some straw or other, anything to throw him off the scent. “Maybe, maybe he just…wants me back…”

Tom shrugs, the slight shake of his head dispelling any optimism I might have had that he’d be satisfied with my explanation. “Well that might account for it if he was a just shade brighter. And if he hadn’t brought a small army with him. But we both know he lacks any finer feelings, never appreciated you when he had you. If he just wanted someone to fuck he’d have moved on, found someone else by now. Probably has, in fact. So no, I’m not buying that. There’s more. I want to know what that ‘more’ is. And I want to know now.”

His voice has hardened, his words still quiet, no hint of anger, but determination is there. That solid core of steely resolve honed to perfection by years as a Dominant. And recognizing that, I can’t quite control that trace of self-destructive devilment that drives me to bait him.

“Or what? You’ll spank me?”

“What a lovely idea. Would that help?” His polite response belies the underlying threat.

“It usually gets my attention, helps me to focus…”

“Worth considering then, as Plan B. We’ll come back to that. But first, I’m just asking. Asking you because I love you and I want you to trust me, to let me help you. Tell me about Kenny, tell me why he’s still coming after you. Why would he have tried to abduct you today?” That tone, low, no hint of anger, but resolved, implacable. He’s not giving up, never giving up. He knows I’m lying, evading.

“Ashley, tell me now. All of it. Now.” His hands are in my hair, holding my head up, forcing me to meet his gaze in the mirror, steady, solid, both terrifying and at the same time reassuring, a bizarre contradiction of tenderness and force, turbulence and safe harbor. Irresistible.

I breathe deeply, close my eyes, and he shakes me, the movement tiny but sharp, insisting. I open my eyes, come back to him and obey his command.

“David. It was David.”

He relaxes his grip on me, nuzzles my ear, kisses me. If he’s surprised at my answer he doesn’t show it. And he instantly knows what I’m talking about. “David, your baby. Yes. Go on…”

So I do go on, “When David died, I blamed myself. It was my fault, I should have…” I start to break down, it’s still so raw, and I’ve never actually said this out loud before, making it real. On a sob, I press on, “I should have…”

“Take your time, I’m listening. What is it that you think you should have done? Could have done?” Gone now the hard Dom, back is my tender lover, his words of encouragement murmured into my ear.

“I should have left him. Earlier. If I’d gone, left Kenny, David might not have died.” My voice breaks as I force out the words, the terrible admission, the bitter truth I’ve held down, suppressed up until now.

Tom’s tone is even, reasonable. “You can’t know that. Babies
do
die. Sometimes, it’s no one’s fault. Not yours, not Kenny’s.”

At that I whirl on him, my thin veneer of control shattered. I scream at him, pounding his chest with my fists. “It
was
Kenny’s fault. All his fault. And mine. He couldn’t keep his fists to himself, always punching, always pushing me around. Wouldn’t let me rest even though I was dog-tired all the time. And feeling so sick I just wanted to die. And always wanting sex even when he said I was fat and ugly. I hated him, hated him, but still I didn’t leave. I should have left. I should have left…” I break down, my heaving sobs loud and gulping against his bare chest, the only sound in the silence of our room.

Tom tightens his arms around me, but as ever in my more emotional moments, he offers no comment, neither encouraging me to continue nor trying to stem my tears. He waits, caressing my back gently with his hands, soothing me with their firm, circular motion, holding me there until I’m ready. At last, my face still buried in his chest, I try to continue. It’s slow, and it’s painful, a wrenching, raw pain, the pain of loss and guilt and self-blame. And this time he makes no move to force eye contact, just lets me hide there, trembling, as I haltingly, hesitantly, tell him my story.