Page 50 of Born To Be Bad

I shake my head in disbelief. How is she so fucking sexy? How did I get so lucky?

“Ivy,” is all I say.

She nods, her expression showing me that she’s on the brink, moaning and whimpering as if she’s about to cry. I grit my teeth, willing my body to slow down. It’s too good to rush. I lean down again, sucking her nipple through the band of fabric over her breasts. She starts that rolling moan of hers, the one when she’s almost at the top of the rollercoaster, just traveling up the last bit of track the moment before careening down.

“I fucking love that sound,” I say. I want to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.

I take one long slow deep breath then plow into into her with everything I’ve got. We’re slipping all over the smooth wet table as I thrust away to the sound of her moaning. The pitch gets higher and higher, as if it’s the inner soundtrack to my own mounting climax. She starts slipping away on the table so I grab her and pull her back toward me, smashing into her as I do so. Her pussy clenches me harder than I’ve ever felt it, making me double over, but I don’t stop moving inside her, angling toward her G-spot.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” she murmurs into my ear. And then she sobs my name as she comes, squeezing my cock as it erupts into her.

CHAPTER 28

Poor Sausage

IVY

Clean and dry, pussy aching, we’re back in the main cabin with the rest of the entourage. I’m staring at Alistair with stars in my eyes, trying not to drool, and he keeps flicking his eyes over to me, over the screen of his laptop, and winking. So calm and composed, as if our meeting in the conference room never happened. But I can still feel the hard surface on my knees, the cold stream of vintage champagne running down my labia, the throbbing in my G-area. Holy, holy shit.

A member of the cabin crew comes up to offer us a drink. We order coffee and hide our smiles, both enjoying the idea that I had been in a similar uniform just an hour ago. I catch myself wondering what she’s wearing beneath the smart uniform, and I’m sure Alistair is, too. It makes me think about Freya and how I promised Alistair that I would tell him everything about how it felt with her; my first ever sexual encounter with a woman. Then I want him to tell me all the details about how it felt for him when he joined us. I feel a juicy throb in my panties. It was going to be an excellent honeymoon.

As if on cue, baby Alexander starts crying—just to remind me that this will not be a traditional honeymoon. Yes, there will be loads of great sex, but we’re leaving London for a reason. We have a baby with us for a reason. As Alistair said, we don’t do anything the traditional way.

I smile at Alistair and tiptoe over to Brumilde.

“His ears,” she says. “They ache because of the changes in pressure.”

“Oh, you poor baby,” I say to him. “You want to come with me? I’ll try to distract you.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Hand on ear, thumb in trembling mouth.

“It’ll help if he drinks,” says Brumilde, offering me the bottle she hadn’t yet had success with.

I take both the baby and the milk from her, and she signals her thanks. I carry the distressed infant to a seat next to a window and put my feet up, popping him on my lap to face me. He leans back against the top of my thighs, still tense. I play peekaboo with him till he gives me a tearful chuckle, then offer him his bottle. He takes it and drinks while I give him a foot massage and point to things out the window.

“Bird,” I say. “Sky. House. Ocean.”

Not only are we strangers to him, but even our language is foreign. Poor sausage, I always think when I look at him, but I shouldn’t because he’s going to be so loved in his lifetime, and so lucky. No one can replace a loving mother, but we’ll try our best to give him a wonderful life. His eyelids grow heavy, and I keep massaging his chunky little legs and feet, inspecting his impossibly cute toenails. I strongly believe in the healing power of touch, and I hope it will be one of the ways I can show him love and safety. When his empty bottle drops out of his mouth I consider putting him in the little bassinet provided, but his warm weight feels so comforting that I lift him to my chest and cuddle him instead, looking out of the window and dreaming of a beautiful life with Alistair and his—our?—growing family. The trips we’ll go on, the memories we’ll make. The things we’ll love and lose, cheer about and cry about. The whole universe seems open to me. Alex makes an adorable snuffling sound, and I hug him closer.

Bird, house, sky, ocean.

CHAPTER 29

Golden Drink

ALISTAIR

The luxury beachfront villa looks decent enough. Lucky assures me it’s the best on Koh Samui. I usually prefer five-star hotels, but I suppose you can’t beat a private villa on an island like this. All the top celebrities come here, says Lucky. And the chef used to cook for the king. When I asked why he’s no longer employed by royalty, Lucky just laughed in that way he does, white teeth flashing.

Ivy’s walking around with stars in her eyes. She’s wearing a summery dress, and the warm breeze is blowing the soft fabric along every delicious curve of her body. The entourage will stay in their own villas, set just a little back from this one. We’re booked in under the false names that match our passports and the security is excellent, so we can relax here without constantly looking over our shoulders. It feels odd to be here, in a warm humid tropical place with no immediate danger. We’ve left behind the bomb-dropping drones that destroyed the west wing of the manor, the destroyed Granite line, the shock and anxiety about Ariana—who has been safely transferred to the facility—and we’ve temporarily avoided the violent clutches of the Mirror Bratva. This peace of mind will not last long. There is a world of pain waiting for me, but for the next forty-eight hours I’m going to let my guard down, if only a little, and give Ivy the best “honeymoon” I can.

Ivy’s floating around the place in that flowy dress like some kind of island wood nymph, the infinity pool behind her. Everything is clean and spacious and sunny, and the white cotton curtains billow in the warm ocean-scented breeze. It feels surreal—especially given that just hours ago we were facing off with those Russian fucks.

The doorbell rings. I’m closer, so I get it. A beautiful Thai woman in a traditional shift dress and gold-stitched sash presents me with a platter of snacks and a couple of icy cocktails on a silver tray.

“Sawadee ka,” I say.

“Sabai sabai,” she tells me. At first, I think it’s a greeting, but then I realize she’s referring to the drinks.

---