Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes #3)(123)

‘Wow! This is some bike,’ I exclaim walking around it, my sway forgotten. It is so spanking new there is not a scratch on it. I look at him, impressed.

He is beaming like a child. ‘Great, isn’t she?’

‘Awesome.’

‘Come on,’ he says, throwing his leg over the machine.

‘What? You’re going to go like that!’ He is wearing the same faded jeans, old sneakers and nothing else.

‘Why not?’

‘No helmet?’

‘Ah, Lily. Do you need the government to be your nanny and tell you what to wear all the f*cking time?’

‘What if we meet with an accident?’

He sighs. ‘There’s a helmet in the cupboard.’

He kicks the bike over and it roars dangerously into life the way a really good bike should. The smell of exhaust fumes fills the garage. He turns to look at me as I fit the helmet on my head.

He winks at me and I gingerly swing my leg over the seat of the bike and place my feet on the passenger pegs.

‘Hold me tight,’ he says.

I scoot forward until my body is leaning against his and wrap my arms around his hard midsection.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

He takes off and as he leaves the driveway and gets on the road he accelerates and I hold tighter. He rides with precision and skill as if the bike is an extension of him. When he dips I follow. We cruise along the open road, the wind in our faces, my body glued to his. We travel downhill through the labyrinth of cobbled lanes and make for the roads lined with pines, almond trees and juniper bushes that hug the coastline. Ibiza is full of goats, picturesque coves, tall rocky cliffs, lovely beaches and old-fashioned boatsheds made of wood. Contrary to what I believe about the island being the playground of celebrities and fashion models, so much of it is green and undeveloped. We pass a lonely, whitewashed, hilltop church and at the end of it an olive grove starts. I tap Jake’s shoulder and shout over the roar of the bike for him to stop. He slows down and pulls up at the edge of the road then cuts the engine.


‘What?’ he says, turning to me, his hair wind-blown, his cheeks flushed.

The whole time the tips of my breasts encased only in the thin bikini top have been rubbing against his naked back and I am feeling unbelievably horny.

‘I want you,’ I say, and taking my helmet off I get off the bike and walk into the grove.

By the time he comes for me I am lying naked on the hot orange soil, my legs spread. When his hard cock enters me, his eyes raping me, raking over my exposed body like rough hands, I hiss with relief.





THIRTEEN


Jake

From the open door I watch her wash vegetables in the sink. She turns off the tap and reaches for a knife. Her hair falls forward and she flicks it away carelessly. The gesture arrests me. Compels me to stay and watch. It is as if I am watching a movie. She is someone else. I am someone else. The picture of domestic bliss is so foreign. So alluring. It warms my heart.

What is it about her that makes her so magnetic? Even the simplest thing she does becomes a movement of grace and beauty. I have to stop myself from going into the kitchen, lifting her onto the counter and f*cking her until she claws at me.

She leaves the tap running and turns to check on a pan of boiling water. As she puts the lid back on it she looks in my direction, sees me, and for an instant loses her concentration. The lid slips from her hand and falls to the ground, catching a ladle resting by the side of the pan on its way. The ladle pings up and falls into the pan of boiling water and splashes boiling water onto her hand.

I hear the ladle clatter to the floor as I rush to her and try to pull her toward the cold water tap, but she shakes her head vehemently.

‘Flour,’ she gasps. ‘Find me some flour.’

I stare at her, confounded; convinced I have heard her wrong. ‘What?’

‘Where’s the flour?’ she barks urgently.

Flour! As if I would know where that is. I start opening cupboards and clumsily rifle through them. Dropping packets on the counter and floor. Cursing. I find an unopened packet in the third cupboard I open. I turn around quickly,

‘Open it,’ she instructs, white with pain.

I open it and pass it to her. She takes a handful of flour and holding it against her burn, closes her eyes. It must have given her some relief because she looks up at me and smiles tremulously.

‘I know it looks weird but it’s an old Chinese trick my grandmother taught me. She actually keeps a packet of corn flour in the fridge so it is cold and ready for use whenever she burns herself.’

I stare at her in shock. This is the first time she has offered a tiny little snippet of herself, without being prompted, and something real!

‘It’s brilliant,’ she adds. ‘It actually helps heal the burn faster and stops the skin from marking.’

I keep my voice casual. ‘Your grandmother is Chinese?’

She smiles. A tender expression comes into her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘And you love her very much, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes I do.’

‘And she is still alive?’

Suddenly the expression in her eyes changes, becomes guarded and fearful. And all I want to do is hold her close to me and tell her it doesn’t matter. It does not matter a damn. She has ruined nothing by telling me that.