Her bedroom. Part of the ceiling was glass. Clouds and stars. The bed was enormous. She ran and jumped on it. Standing, peeling off her stockings and flinging them at him, then bouncing like a little kid. Gorgeous. No longer severe but still a princess in this palace of steel and glass and class. His for the night.
He toed his shoes off, ditched his socks. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to jump on the bed?”
“My mother died and left me with Malcolm.”
Snap. That was something they shared, being left behind by dead mothers.
She stopped bouncing. “Is your mother proud of you?”
That stopped him, cut through the alcohol buzz. He blinked at Jacinta in surprise. Would Mum have been proud of him? She’d rarely noticed him, except as an audience for her paranoia.
“Is she dead?” No fake sentiment. She might’ve been asking if it was raining.
He nodded. “I have Buster.” For now at least, though the disease had more of her than he did. She didn’t like to talk on the phone anymore, got too nervous about being heard, got too breathless, and her hands shook too much to text. He’d forgotten to ring her and it was too late now.
He poured two glasses of water, guzzled his and repoured. Handed Jacinta a glass. She took a sip, watching him. “Who’s Buster?”
“My grandmother.”
“Grandma. She brought you up?”
“She wouldn’t be called that, or Nanna. It’s a joke name but it suits her.”
“A woman called Buster brought you up.”
“Yeah.”
She shook her head, beckoned him closer. “I like it.”
He put his hands to the back of her thighs and she tipped her water on him. He copped it in the chest. He had to tackle
her now. Bring her down. He grabbed her behind the knees and she fell back on the bed, laughing, and squirming. She dropped her glass to push on his shoulders, trying to get her knees up between them. He braced down on her, his length against hers, his wet shirt on her hot skin. He swamped her, stilled her. It was no contest, but she didn’t give in, she changed tactics. She relaxed and wound her hands around his neck. “You’re wet.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“I’m getting my own back.”
Christ, was she telling him she was wet, from this, a little mucking around? Wet and still on fire. “Are you now?”
She tore at his shirt and he pinned her hands at her sides to stop her, sat astride her, both of them breathing heavily. “Yes.” She hissed it between clenched teeth, rocking her hips against him.
“Equal opportunity.”
“It’s not equal, you’re still dressed.”
He pinned her arms by her body with his knees and dragged the strap of her bra off her shoulder, exposing her breast. When he closed his hand over the swell of it, she jerked and her skin erupted into goosebumps. He stroked his thumb over her nipple, furled and rosy pink, her eyes closed and an audible breath punching out of her.
“You like that.”
She arched her back, trying to press against his erection. “You’re not playing fair.”
He pulled his hand back. “You don’t want fair.”
She tried to sit. He let her struggle, strain against him. He unbuttoned his shirt and she stopped.
“I want you.”
He dragged the shirt off, got rid of it. “I’m a sure thing.”