The Proposition / Her Every Fantasy. JC Harroway

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      I love this sassy, playful side of her; I can imagine her wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top, hanging out and drinking beer on the balcony of my place in Sydney while we enjoy the spectacular sunset over the harbour.

      ‘I’d miss every fuckable inch of you,’ I say, slipping my hand over her hip to caress her ass, watching with mounting excitement as her slumberous stare widens, heat banked behind her eyes.

      ‘And I don’t know you well enough to miss your personality. Why don’t we rectify that—we have a few hours to kill?’ And, second only to fucking, verbal sparring with this sharp, witty woman is the best distraction technique. Left to its own devices, my brain would try to problem-solve, freaking me out with thoughts of forgiveness for a man I detest, acceptance of his final bequeathed gift and ways I can use his money—because it will never be my money—to make a difference, to do some good. But only danger lies ahead of those insane thoughts. The danger that I’m becoming just like him—a man who chose the pursuit of wealth over love, over his family.

      Over me.

      ‘Mmm, I really should work…’ Orla’s contented, half-hearted excuse draws me back to the present. Despite using this trip as the perfect antidote to my predicament, and despite my jokes about being her man toy, I really do want to get to know her better, the real her, to work out which of the two awesome versions of Orla Hendricks is the real deal.

      I cup her ass cheeks in both hands and roll her on top of me, pressing my hardening dick between her legs so she gasps. ‘Work schmirk—haven’t you made enough money for today?’

      ‘Is that a thing? Can you ever have too much?’ She indicates our luxurious flying bedroom. But I can’t concede that point without divulging my father issues, so I change the subject.

      ‘Come on. I promise no deep, searching questions.’ I tilt my hips, rubbing her clit with the head of my cock. ‘Just a quick-fire quiz so I can get to know you before I fuck you again. Stop me feeling like a gigolo and you like a cougar.’

      She laughs from her belly—deep and throaty—and it’s such a beautiful sight and sound, one that makes me forget my troubles, that I’m determined to make it happen as much as I can while we’re together.

      ‘Tell me,’ I coax, pushing her hair back from her face, ‘favourite animal?’

      She doesn’t hesitate. ‘Well, they’re just so cute-looking, I’d have to say wombat,’ she says, choosing an Australian icon, embracing the game even as she grinds her hips, sending fresh blood to my already hard dick.

      ‘Do you have any pets?’ My voice grows husky. The shower will have to wait—she knows what she’s doing to me, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Perhaps she hates talking about herself. Perhaps, despite her willingness to embrace a challenge, there’s nothing in her life besides work, after all. Her degree of professional success requires sacrifices; I would know. I’m a prime example—I refuse to think of myself as a victim—of such single-minded focus.

      ‘No, I travel too much to own one.’ She sighs, her eyes turning wistful with longing. ‘I used to have a Labradoodle called Talia when I was growing up.’

      I nod. ‘You could have one if you wanted. It could travel with you on its own passport. I had a golden retriever who used to come to work with me every day until she died about a year ago. Her faithful company made the days fly by, and I always had someone to talk to.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She presses her mouth to mine, and again I forget. Forget that I started this game, forget that we’re getting to know silly things about each other. But, now I’ve seen a flicker of the woman behind the trappings, I’m intrigued anew. I pull away. ‘Okay, what’s your dream job?’

      ‘Mmm… That’s tricky. I’ve only ever done what I do now, and I’ve never wanted to do anything else. I started working for my father on the weekends at sixteen, joined the family company after university and left ten years ago to start my own firm.’

      So she’d always been career-focused, even from a young age. ‘I spent most of my weekends surfing or drumming at sixteen,’ I say. ‘What happened to the family firm? Didn’t they miss you when you left to strike out alone?’

      She snorts, her face hardening. ‘I doubt it. My brother can, apparently, do my old job as well as me, despite working half as hard.’ She shakes her head and changes the subject. ‘What about you, what’s your dream job?’

      But it’s too late. That single sentence tells me exactly what motivates her: she’s competitive and wants to be taken seriously. I sanitise my answer, reluctant to confess I need never work again, if only I could reconcile dear old Dad’s dying wish. Because the truth is it’s ruined everything. He’s ruined everything. In my life before, working hard, striving and grafting and being proud of where a poor boy from Sydney had dragged himself gave me purpose, a sense of accomplishment. It made sense.

      But now…? When I could buy the construction company I once worked for outright a hundred times over and barely notice the cost…

      I swallow, hedging how much to reveal. ‘I used to work for a construction company back in Sydney before the inheritance, but I’d say I have the perfect job right now—enjoying myself and everything that money can buy.’ I hold her closer. ‘Travelling in style anywhere in the world. And, of course, meeting a beautiful woman who only wants me for sex is an added bonus.’ I wink, bringing out her throaty chuckle.

      But then she turns serious. ‘Do you miss construction?’

      I shrug. ‘Sometimes. I love building things, always have, even as a boy. I like to be active and use my hands. There’s nothing better than a day of graft and sweat and getting splinters followed by relaxing with an ice-cold beer.’

      I catch the curl of her lip, the wrinkle of her nose that reminds me we’re still very different. ‘Well, almost nothing better,’ I say, sliding my hand over her hip to caress her backside, steering us back to the reason we’re here: the sex. She may not be the straitlaced princess I first had her pegged for, but that doesn’t mean she’d be happy hanging out with the real me—the me without the money and the jets and the cars and the billions in the bank.

      ‘You miss getting splinters?’ she asks, her voice mildly incredulous. She comes from wealth, her family own a business; she’s probably known it her whole life, despite whatever sibling rivalry sent her striking out alone.

      I nod, breathing through the urge to defend how I once made a modest but sufficient living with my own two hands. How I didn’t need more than savings in the bank and the pride of being able to look after my mother.

      Not like him.

      My sperm donor. Because he didn’t stick around long enough to earn the title of father. A man who thought he could come back into my life from the grave and dictate how I live.

      I choose my words carefully. ‘Before the money I lived an average life.’ I try but fail to shake off the memories of going to school hungry, of having to fake a stomach ache to get out of gym class because I was ashamed of my trainers, of having to stay late at school to do my homework on the computers in the library because, try as she may, my single-parent mother couldn’t afford luxuries.

      I force my muscles to relax when they scream with tension. I don’t want Orla to know the turn in this conversation highlights how different our worlds are. But she doesn’t have to fit into СКАЧАТЬ