The Proposition / Her Every Fantasy. JC Harroway

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 my life, my real life, the life I had six months ago. All she needs to do is to fit in my bed, temporarily. She wanted sex. She’s already stated she’s happy I can deliver what she’s looking for and she’s willing to embrace a challenge.

      ‘So, next question,’ I say, moving on. ‘What’s the most sexually adventurous thing you’ve done?’ My mind ruminates on the infinite possibilities we could cram into six weeks of sexual exploration.

      She laughs, but doesn’t falter. ‘I’d say propositioning a stranger for sex is pretty adventurous.’ She kisses me, eyes open, her tongue pushing against mine until I forget the question I asked.

      ‘It’s up there,’ I say when she allows me up for air. Yes, she owns her desires; she’s almost as insatiable as she makes me, and I’m damned well determined to enjoy every second of testing her boundaries, extending her comfort zone, pushing her buttons. Something tells me not only will she do her best to rise to the challenge, but we’ll both reap the rewards as she continues to surprise me, to allow her outer shell to crack, revealing the real, uninhibited Orla inside.

      ‘What about you? Threesomes? Bondage? Sex with an older woman?’ Her eyes twinkle.

      ‘Ah, a gentleman never tells.’ I roll onto my side, taking her along, curious as to what led her to proposition a stranger. ‘So why am I here? What do you need from this that you don’t already have?’

      Her mouth flattens as if she wasn’t expecting the question, but then she sighs. ‘As you’ve already pointed out, I work hard for long hours. I travel a lot. I’m divorced and have no desire to enter into another relationship. Why shouldn’t I have the kind of sex-only fling I want with a gorgeous man who wants the same thing?’

      ‘No reason at all,’ I concede, fascinated for details of her failed marriage. But because I want to steer us back from the supremely personal, I say, ‘What kind of sex are we talking about here? Threesomes? Bondage? Sex with a virile younger man?’

      She throws her head back on a delighted, throaty laugh. ‘Fishing for compliments?’

      ‘I’ll always take compliments, but how can I give you what you want if I don’t know what that is?’

      Her fingers trail through my chest hair, her eyes growing lazy with mounting desire. ‘Hot sex. Frequent hot sex with a man who pushes all my boundaries.’ Her hips begin to gyrate as she rubs her pussy over the head of my cock once more.

      ‘You like having your boundaries pushed?’ A slug of heat scorches through me at the idea of testing her limits, although the experience might just kill me, she’s that hot.

      ‘I’m happy to keep up with you.’ She tilts her hips, aligning her pelvis so just the tip of my cock slips inside her.

      I stifle a groan, my hand dragging her hip closer, my fingers flexing into the deliciously round cheek of her ass until I sink in another inch. ‘So, sexual adventures are on the cards?’

      ‘Anything is on the cards.’ Her pupils dilate, swallowing the emerald of her exquisite irises.

      ‘Really? Anything?’ It’s hard to think straight when her pussy sucks