Undulate (Alchemy, #2)

by Elodie Hart

Well, screw him. Grumpy Zach aside, I’ve definitely found my people here. Even if they all have twelve or thirteen years on me.

Eyes that currently telegraph his utter horror and extreme discomfort at the direction our meeting has taken. What did I say? Pearl clutcher. I’m telling you. Zach French wants to sink through that fancy Italian sofa right now. How they ever got him on board with this place beats me.

I’ve always known it’s the quiet ones you have to watch.

This woman is a temptress in the office when she’s fully dressed. Out here, in that pathetic excuse for a bikini, her siren’s call is so loud it’s practically cracking my head open. Just as well she’s about as inappropriate as it’s possible to be for a man in my position.

I seriously dig Weekend Zach. First, he’s in shorts and a white polo that show off his great legs and his deep tan and make him look a tad less put-together than he is at work.

The guy’s a knockout. In profile, his pecs are perfectly defined and just as bronzed as I figured they’d be. This man was not sunbathing in a t-shirt in Italy. As I suspected, his tan is flawless. Even. Deep. As he collapses back on his lounger, he slides his sunglasses over his eyes and feels around for his glass. There’s not the slightest roll of belly fat over his shorts. Instead, the sliver of stomach I can spy from where I’m sitting is perfectly flat. Toned. I am absolutely, one hundred percent, concocting an excuse to go over there and get a closer look.

What is it about this quiet man, who is in a world of pain right now and whom I have no business noticing at all, that gets me flustered like a schoolgirl?

He’s not my type. My type is kinky and insatiable. I’m looking for Christian Grey—or a whole roomful of Christian Greys on rotation, if you please—and this guy is Gilbert fucking Blythe.

I take back the Gilbert Blythe comparison. This guy could definitely be a spankier version of Captain von Trapp. That said, I’ve long held the view that the good Captain had a twitchy palm of his own behind closed doors.

‘Daddy kink activated,’ I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, and Belle snorts so hard that she leans forward,

Oh hooooly fuck. I’ve always prided myself on having a high-maintenance pussy but low-maintenance ovaries. I mean, who the fuck has a ticking biological clock aged twenty-three? Not me, that’s for sure. But as I watch Mr Stern Nerdy Sex God stand there in all his bronzed glory as he holds his little girls tight, I get it. I mean, I really, really get it. It’s like my Neanderthal cave-dwelling ancestors just served me up a winsome dollop of the most primal, age-old fantasy of all

I could really do without being happy-trail level with and, like, a foot away from, Daddy Spanky. I sincerely hope he can’t see through my sunglasses as I take in his magical torso, already slightly slicked with sweat. I ignore the small bare leg dangling from his arms and instead imagine getting my hands on him. Getting my tongue on that skin.

The things I could do to cheer this poor man up. He has no fucking clue.

To make the situation even more interesting, every instinct I have tells me I’m not the only one up to no good. Despite the opacity of his sunglasses, I’d put a great deal of money on the fact that he’s standing t...

My mum’s message to me? My message to Belle? Nobody gets to tell you what to believe. Nobody gets to own your mind, your heart or your body. You own them. You get to decide.

To have faith in the humanist model of the universe I slowly constructed and to forsake the patriarchal one fed to me, that of an old man whose henchmen guarded the gates to his paradise and whose nemesis ruled the underworld. To measure others by their words and deeds and not by their blind adherence to the rules set down in millennia-old books. And, most importantly, to trust that the pleasure centres in my body are there for a reason and that I own the right to enjoy my body and its damn fine capabilities with whomever I choose.

Being at home with the kids can, as any parent knows, range from torture to therapy. This evening was, mercifully, therapeutic. Ruth was around to do the heavy lifting while I did the fun stuff, hanging out with them and listening to their chatter from school.

It’s not just her looks. Not just the glossy skin and hair, the wide smile and the killer body.

It’s that, with every cell of her being, she shimmers with wellbeing and good health and life. I don’t need to pay my therapist to explain just why that’s so compelling to me right now.

What would it be like to be Maddy? To exist solely for the present moment, to enjoy the shallow, fleeting pleasures of life in all their superficiality, whether they’re the glass of champagne she’s sipping or the imminent prospect of sweaty, anonymous sex with strangers next door?

And then, miracle of miracles, he’s backing away from her and laughing and jerking a thumb at me. ‘She’s all yours, mate,’ he says to me. ‘Go for it.’ I’m only barely conscious of closing the empty space behind her as quickly as he vacates it, and of sinking to my knees in awe and supplication and ecstasy, and of finding myself exactly at eye level with Maddy’s sweet pink cunt.

The sight of it leaves no room for any emotion other than need. No room for pain. If my pain is a fire, this desperation in me is an oxygen vacuum. It sweeps away everything else. The past few minutes have been arousing and tormenting in equal measure. But this? This is full-wattage, fourteen-year-old boy-level desire where nothing else on earth matters. It does, indeed, feel in this moment like we’re only here on this planet for this. To taste. To fuck.

‘No. It’s not that. I—um. My wife was exactly the same. She used to leave half-drunk mugs of tea all over the fucking house. Drove me insane.’ ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper. I press my palm to my heart. ‘I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’ ‘Nothing to apologise for,’ he says in a clipped manner. ‘Just took me by surprise, that’s all.’ ‘Okay then.’ I slide off the desk. ‘Well, thanks.’ I swear I feel his eyes fixed to my arse as I stroll back to my desk, humming Movie in my Mind as I go.

But Zach French in a tux is quite simply breathtaking. Especially a bespoke tux that enhances his broad shoulders so well and tapers so beautifully down his long legs. That gorgeous skin of his has held onto its Italian tan. His hair, which can get pretty messy at work, given the amount of time he spends clawing at it while he crunches numbers, is slicked away from his face, letting those baby blues do all the talking. Even if what they’re saying is I deeply resent having to allow Maddy anywhere near my home and children.

‘Sober Zach has a lot going on. I’m glad you relaxed and had a few drinks tonight. But I don’t think he’d want you touching me like this.’

‘Touching you is the only thing he wants to do,’ I say. ‘It’s the only fucking thing on this planet that will stop me from feeling like utter fucking shit. Seriously, Mads.’

‘You’re a lot more fun when you’re drunk,’ she purrs. ‘Definitely,’ I agree. I nip at that irresistible lower lip of hers, then slur, ‘But Sober Zach was pretty fun last night.’ ‘I don’t remember him being fun in the slightest,’ she says between kisses. I tighten my grip on her hip and thrust up into her. Dry humping is the best pastime on the planet. ‘That’s not very nice,’ I croon. ‘Sober Zach made you come very fucking hard by licking that delicious pussy of yours. I’d call that pretty fun.’ She stiffens and pulls away. Faint alarm bells ring in my head. What the—? Oh, bollocks. ‘What do you mean?’ she asks.

‘Talk to me. Were you in The Playroom last night?’ ‘Maybe,’ I concede, because that’s vague enough to be safe, isn’t it? ‘Oh my God.’ Her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes are wide with shock as she clambers off me and stands up. ‘Was that you? Did you—did you go down on me last night?’ She hisses the last part out in a whisper, like she’s worried someone will hear.

‘Zach. Did. You. Go. Down. On. Me. Yes or no?’ ‘I saw you,’ I say, ‘and you looked so beautiful. All those tassels. That twat was feeling you up, but then he said it was my turn, and…’ I swallow. I’m pretty sure this isn’t coming out how I’d like it to. ‘And I couldn’t resist. And fuck me, sweetheart. You were fucking everything. All day today, all I could think about was how good you tasted.’ She straightens up, her face frozen in a mask of outrage and disbelief. ‘Jesus Christ. Do not say another word. I’m leaving before I give in to my very intense urge to kick you in the fucking balls.’

‘Yeah.’ It is a lot. No wonder I’ve been up half the night tossing and turning. Trying to compute not only Drunk, Hot, and Hard Zach kissing me on his sofa but Sober and Secretly Dirty Zach happening upon me bent over an ottoman at Alchemy and anonymously giving me one hell of an orgasm.

He stares all the time, and I’ve been taking it as disdain, but maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something else. Something more potent. Like desire. Wondering. Yearning.

Yes, he’s dodgy, and damaged, and emotionally unavailable, and a whole other level of inappropriate. But he’s so fucking hot, it was so fucking hot with him last night, that I can’t seem to pull myself together.

‘I mean—no judgement here. I know you wanted it to be anonymous—that’s just not for me.’ ‘Are you saying you came in to find me?’ she asks, her tone incredulous. ‘I came in because Cal told me I should dip my toe in the water,’ I start. ‘I was just going to have a look. But then I saw you, and I’d been thinking about what that dress of yours was covering up all night.’

‘I couldn’t resist you. I was never going to go after anyone else in there,’ I finish. ‘I didn’t have eyes for anyone else.’ ‘Did you consider doing the right thing and telling me it was you?’ she asks. ‘Letting me decide?’ ‘Nope,’ I admit, shame flooding my face with heat, because it’s true. It didn’t even occur to me. I saw a window of opportunity and I went after it like the creep I am. ‘Because you thought I’d say no.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I wouldn’t have.’

Her admission has my jaw dropping open. ‘It’s true,’ she says. ‘I would have been totally gobsmacked, obviously. But I would have said yes to you doing whatever you wanted to me. Obviously.’

But how the hell am I supposed to react when a stunningly attractive woman says I would have said yes to you doing whatever you wanted to me. Whatever you wanted. Fucking hell. I’m only human. ‘I—um.’ ‘Don’t forget, I was sober on Friday night,’ she says. ‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’

‘It’s specific. To you. No matter how fucked up my home life still is—and believe me, it’s a total shit show, no matter what it looks like from the outside—my brain is so fucking full of you I can barely hold it together. All I can think about is doing unspeakable things to you. The whole. Fucking. Time. So for the love of God, please stop fiddling with your hem, because I can’t look away.’

‘Look. You’re touching me and the sky has not fallen.’ I grin and gently caress the silky skin. ‘Did you mean what you said?’ she asks. Her voice drops. ‘That you want to do unspeakable things to me?’ I nod and bite my lip, watching her. Gauging her reaction. ‘And you think that would make you feel better?’ A grim laugh escapes me. ‘Madeleine, touching you would make any man feel better.’ Our eyes are locked. I don’t miss her breath hitching at my words. At my use of her full name. Her beautiful, elegant name. ‘You can feel further up,’ she tells me. She releases my hand and opens her knees slightly.

‘Good Lord, you’ve been out of the game for too long. Bless your little cotton socks. I’m saying you should do unspeakable things to me. Maybe it would help you work through some of your issues—not your grief, obviously. But your stress.’

‘Zach. Look at me.’ She throws her head back and holds her arms out wide.

I look. Believe me, I look. She’s fucking gorgeous. And if she opens her legs an inch wider I’ll probably get an eyeful.

‘I’m going to spell this out for you. You can do whatever you want to me. Honestly. Just fucking use me. If you’re feeling shitty, or stressed, just come and find me a...

Maddy’s offering me her body to enjoy, and use, and sate on with like I did the other night, except this time with her express permission. It’s impossible, obviously, but the mere thought of it is beyond heady. It’s intoxicating. The thought of having her as my personal stress toy, spread out or bent over or on her knees just for me and my selfish gratification has my cock thickening into a fully-fledged erection.

‘Why?’ I ask uselessly. ‘Because,’ she says, ‘that’s my kink. I get off on being someone’s plaything. And we’ve established how fucking hot you are, and you’re like an unexploded bomb. I want to be the one you unleash all that angst and repression on.’

‘I want you to make that my problem. I want to take care of it. I didn’t get anywhere near enough of your dick on Friday night.’ Jesus Christ. ‘This sounds like a great deal for me,’ I grit out. She smiles. ‘If Alchemy was anything to go by, you’ll make it worth my while.’ Then she pats my hand, removes it from her thigh, slides down from her stool and smiles sweetly. ‘Let me know,’ she says, walking away from me.

I want more. I’ve had his kisses, and his tongue on me, and his dick grinding against me. I’ve shattered the surface he tries so hard to keep pristine, and I’ve had the briefest glimpse beneath, and I want far, far more. So help me God, I want to be the one who undoes him, and I want to make it more worth his while than he can begin to imagine.

‘You made me a very generous offer, Madeleine,’ he says. Up, up his knuckle drags again before pressing on my clit, and I widen my legs even more so he can get as much access to me as possible. ‘And a pretty reckless one, because I have spent the whole fucking morning thinking about all the ways I could take you up on it.’

And fuck is it hot. I feel like his plaything, sitting on his desk and keeping quiet like a good girl while he finger-fucks me and chats to his associates. It’s almost as if I’m an afterthought. A stress toy.

‘But I’m going to fucking bid for you on Slave Night, and that’s where the really unspeakable stuff starts.’

When a beautiful woman sits across from you, and encourages you to slide your hand up her leg, and tells you she’s granting you free rein over her stunning body? When she begs you to use her as a plaything, when she takes the improper word you threw out—unspeakable—and gives it oxygen, uses it as a threshold for how you should profane her? A man doesn’t take a proposition like that lightly. Which is why I’ve sat at my desk all day, pretending to assess the efficiency of our capital structure and, in reality, fantasising. Fantasising hard about this gift. This gift that’s totally fucking left-field and yet has been given so freely. No catches.