Capture. Flora Dain

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      ‘Ride me. Tease me first. Please, Ella.’

      His soft request is a surprise – usually by this stage we’re long past the need for permissions. Eagerly I curve over his erection and lean forward to taste. It twitches in my mouth, glossy and hot, as impatient as me.

      He lets out a low groan. ‘Whoa, easy. You’re too good. Now get yourself up here.’

      I climb along him and lower myself onto his hot shaft with a low growl of pleasure. I put my hands on his shoulders and gaze into his slanted, intelligent face as he surges up inside me, his hot, hard length filling my belly, its shape losing focus as he thrusts, blending into the soft clutches of my lower muscles. Now all I feel is his heat and his drive.

      The fire in his eyes spurs me on and I speed up to ride him. He jolts in response, his power and his strength overwhelming mine, his rhythm taking me over. In minutes he’s rolled over on top of me, taking charge with easy male grace.

      ‘Having fun?’ I mean to tease but instantly his expression clouds.

      ‘Ella? You’re right. What was I thinking? Ladies first. Fiancées especially.’

      And to my joy he slows, grinding against me with the prowess of an athlete, his honed body slicing into me with his superior power and his urgent, pounding drumbeat until I’m scorching and ready, poised at the brink of massive, blessed release.

      In seconds I come with kind of long, low moan, the feral call of my inner female. His answering grunt seals our pleasure and soon we’re lying full length, bundled together in love, as the sinking Californian sun paints us gold where its reflection shines from the mirrors opposite.

      * * *

      Later he shows me round the house. It’s even larger inside than it looks from a distance, so much of it hugs the low-slung cliff. From outside I see it’s built at an angle to capture the best views of the sea. It stretches down a couple of further floors for staff, garaging and deliveries.

      We walk along the beach a little way and explore part of the cove. As we crunch along the shingle he skips stones across the water but his dark glances make me burn deep down as his answers to my eager questions – how did you find this place? – who else comes here? – get shorter and shorter. Finally I tail off as he pulls me close.

      ‘Hey, let’s eat. I’m starving. You can explore tomorrow. And I’ll show you your Christmas present.’

      Our meal is light and fun, a platter of exotic seafood arranged by his Mexican cook – icy caviar, light and salt; small rosy shrimps, soft and sweet; oysters like liquid heaven. Darnley pours champagne and we sip from tall flutes and nibble rough chunks of fresh home-made bread, dipped in small bowls of pale melted butter and hot, tasty sauces. I make merry in his arms as the night grows late and he plays old blues records.

      When we finally get to bed the quilt has been smoothed again, fresh flowers left in a bowl, the lighting low. But it’s a long time before we sleep.

      * * *

      I wake with a start in a shaft of moonlight. I can feel his arms folded around me. But all around us is a wall of noise, like wild, roaring thunder. ‘What the …?’

      I stare wildly around as Darnley, heavy at my back, starts to stir.

      In a panic I tear myself out of his arms and rush to the window.

      A motorcycle is revving up outside. The noise is deafening.

      I push aside the drape so I can see clearly.

      Barely feet away, moonlight silvers the hard black outline of a huge bike, its rider covered from head to foot in black leather. When he turns his head he’s wearing goggles, his face unrecognisable. He looks like some giant, evil insect. And he’s grinning.

      My stomach lurches and now I get a nauseous waft of exhaust fumes.

      All at once light spills out from other parts of the house. I can hear shouts. The house is awake. But as footsteps start to ring out on the driveway the bike roars off.

      I take a deep breath and lower the drape. ‘That was a shock. Do you often get stray tourists this close to the house at night?’ As I turn back to the bed my shaky smile dies on my face. I’m talking to an empty room.

      Darnley’s in the en-suite, throwing up.

      I can hear the engine noise fading into the distance. But in here the damage is done. The room is still acrid with exhaust fumes. And for some reason Darnley’s being sick.

      ‘You OK?’ I peer at him in alarm.

      He’s leaning against the door frame. He’s shaking.

      ‘What the heck was all that noise? It sounded like …’

      He sways. And all at once I understand. He’s thinking of Kraik, the tormentor from his childhood, cuffing him to a steering wheel and revving up the engine …

      ‘It’s OK,’ I murmur gently. I take his arm and am shocked to find him cold. ‘Come back to bed.’

      When he’s stretched out beside me I twitch the quilt over him and dart into the en-suite to fetch him some water. By the time I’m back he’s asleep again but he feels like ice. I get in beside him, careful not to disturb him more than I must, and wind my arms and legs around him. As I settle my head on his chest he murmurs sleepily into my hair. ‘Something wake us up? That noise …’

      I tighten my grip. ‘It was nothing. Bad dream.’

      His soft, regular breathing tells me he’s already drifting off. Maybe tomorrow he won’t even remember.

      But I lie awake for a long time, my arms clamped round him, my mind racing. Two scary incidents in one day? Is that normal out here? And as I finally drift into sleep another, even scarier thought hovers at the edges of my brain like an evil fairy.

      Kraik again? I thought we’d moved on from that too.

      * * *

      ‘Hey. Eat up your cereal like a good girl. I can’t wait to show you your present.’ Darnley’s already put away a plateful of ham and eggs and several slices of toast in double-quick time. I’m still toying with a bowl of sweetened cereal and sipping gulps of glorious, freshly squeezed orange juice from some local farm.

      To my delight he seems to have forgotten about last night.

      I make a note to ask the staff if bikers often stray from the highway or if that was just a one-off.

      I learn my present is nearby and he waits impatiently while I haul a thin sweater over my tight jeans. It’s far warmer here than back home. We’re twenty degrees or so higher than my home state of Maine, currently in the throes of a massive blizzard. But it is still January. They have winter, even here. The sunshine has a spring-like crispness to it that warns me the wind’s chillier than it looks.

      ‘Have you guessed what it is yet?’ His grin is infectious as he grips my hand to haul me down the slope to the beach, and now I’m genuinely mystified.

      I laugh, excited now, thrilled he’s СКАЧАТЬ