Page 39 of Pretty Mess

I think about what my mum would say and shift awkwardly because she’d be absolutely horrified. But the last thing she told Tyler and me was to look after each other. He did his part, and now it’s my turn to step up. Don’t get me wrong. I’m stillfuriouswith him and so hurt. I don’t want to see him or even talk to him at the moment. But despite all that, if he were to turn up now and ask me for money, I’d give him whatever he needed because he’s my brother and I love him.

And is it so bad what I’m doing? I actually like Cormac, and I’d have given him my arse totally for free if I’d met him in a club somewhere, so why should it matter if he’s paying me for it? We’re both okay with it, and I’m looking out for my brother.

My phone beeps, and I struggle out of the bed sheets to grab it.

The money is in your account.

For some reason that makes me want to smile. I tap on my phone.I have to say I’m very disappointed.

The silence after I send the text lasts for a few minutes. I smile because I can almost feel his aggravation and how much he’ll be fighting the urge to ask why.

The message alert sounds.Why?

That one word almost shouts displeasure, and I snort.

Because you didn’t put a kiss on your text.

He doesn’t reply, but it makes me laugh before I fall back into the tumbled sheets and reach for the room service menu. His reluctant texts have changed my mind. I will eat before I leave.

six

Three Weeks Later

The pleasure is white hot in my belly, and I groan, my fists clenching the sheets as sweat drips from my face. Cormac pounds into me, the sound of slapping flesh echoing around the room. His hands are tight on my hips, and I know that later I’ll find small fingertip bruises. The thought makes me even harder.

He twists his hips, and I cry out, the sound thin and needy. “So good.Fuck.”

I’m pretty sure I’m breaking all of Julian’s rules. I’m not thinking of how I look to the client; I’m not falling into artful positions. Instead, all I can do is chase this insane pleasure that only he gives me. Whenever I’m away from him, I crave it, wanking to thoughts of what we do. One afternoon a week isn’t enough.

“Fuck,” he groans.

A shudder runs through me at the hoarse sound. He doesn’t talk much during sex, so to hear him curse and cry out makes me feel triumphant. I tighten my buttocks, forcing myself back on him.

He grunts. “Yes. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

“Shit,” I whisper. “Going to come.”

“Yes,” he hisses. “Do it.” He directs a series of battering thrusts inside me, his cock rubbing continually over my prostate, and I push my hand between my legs to grab my cock. It’s sticky with come from when we did this earlier. We’d barely recovered from that bout when I’d said something, and he’d rolled me over and fucked me again. I cry out as he grabs my hair, arching my back.

The bite of sharp pain, the feel of his cock tunnelling into me, and the thought that it’s this taciturn stranger fucking me so good is too much, and I shout out loudly as I come in spurts over the sheets. I make a defeated sound, because I’ve broken another rule. Julian insisted the client should always climax first.

Luckily, Cormac doesn’t seem to mind. He gives a low grunt, his hips jerking, and I feel the heat as he comes into the condom, riding out his pleasure in shallow thrusts.

When he’s finished, he rests against me for a second, his skin sweaty, his breath hot on my shoulder. Our pants are loud in the quiet room. The hotel is posh with hushed corridors and an exclusive clientele of businesspeople, but in here, once a week, it’s me and Cormac sweating and straining over incredible sex. He’s the best I’ve ever had.

“God, you’re going to kill me with sex,” he finally groans.

“I hope not. I’mfartoo pretty to serve time for manslaughter.”

Too soon, he stirs and pulls out, holding tight to the condom. I hold back my instinctive grumble of displeasure because that won’t go down well. I’d tried to hold on to him last week, and he’d dressed and left without another word.

I’d like him to hold me afterwards, but that isdefinitelynot on the cards. I’d be just as likely to have Boris Johnson cuddling me as Cormac Reilly.

He climbs out of bed and heads into the bathroom. I hear water running, and when he comes back into the bedroom, I roll to my back and catch the wet cloth he chucks at me.

“I don’t know why I’m bothering with this,” I say, running the cool cloth over my cock and balls. My cock gives a hopeful twitch at the way he’s watching me, but it’s false advertising at the moment. “I’m a biological hazard at this point.”

“Those sheets definitely are.”