Page 50 of Anything but Easy
“If anything I un-beefed the locks after a while. They’ll crash through whatever’s there anyway. Does more damage to have sturdier stuff in the way.”
Barclay threw his hands up in the air and let out a low frustrated sound, which, despite the fact he was being grumpy and annoying, I couldn’t help but find a massive turn on.
“It’s not a big deal,” I told him. “You kind of get used to it.”
“Tell me, Kira.” His voice now low and edged with anger. “Do your friends know what you’ve decided toget used to?”
“Uh . . .”
“Because, if it’s ‘no big deal’, then surely they would be absolutely on board with it. Am I right?”
My eyes slid away again. Libby and Millie would be furious with me if they knew, and Pav, Jamie and Mark would lose their minds. I would have been moved out of here and into one of their places before I could blink. But that’s why I didn’t tell them. I liked living in my little studio and I hated taking charity. My rent here was tiny compared to the rest of London and my commute was short. Okay, my registrar salary was alright, but it wasn’t the greatest and I had student loans to pay back. Plus I liked Brixton. It had a fun vibe to it . . . other than the drug dealers and stuff.
“What if thekidsthat keep breaking into your home decided to break in whilst you were actually there?” he asked. He was so angry now that little slashes of red had appeared high on his cheekbones. “What if they had found you here and were so fucking high or tweeked that they’d decided not tojustransack the place?” He took a step forward into my space and put his large hands back on my shoulders. “What if they were so pissed off there was nothing good to steal that they’d decided to take that out on someone?” He gave me a little shake. “What if you were raped, or stabbed? What if you were killed?”
“Woah, woah, woah,” I said, my hands going to his chest and feeling a solid expanse under my fingers. “Chillax, SB. Nobody’s going to break in whilst I’m here, and even if they–”
“You’re damn, fucking right they’re not,” he said. “No bastard is breaking in whilst you’re here because you are not going tobehere.”
“Er, Barcos this is my home. I can’t –”
“Pack a bag.”
“What are you on about? I–”
“In fact no, pack a suitcase. Pack up all your shit. Everything. You’re moving out of this tiny little hovel today.”
I stiffened and took my hands off his chest to plant them on my hips.
“Listen up, Bossy Badger,” I told him. “Idecide where I live, and I live here. I can’t afford a hotel and I don’t want to impose on–”
“You’re not imposing on anyone and you’recertainlynot staying in a hotel.”
“That is serious overkill. You’re probably super busy and I’ve slept with the door like this before. It’s fine. I–”
“You’ve done what?” he shouted. Mr Ice’s control was now totally out of the window. Considering his reaction to the break-ins, it probably was ill advised to let him know I had been happy to sleep with a busted door. I mean, Ihadput a chest of drawers up against the handle – I wasn’t completely irresponsible. I decided that bit of info might not help my case though by the look on his face. “I have never in my life met a woman more reckless with her own safety and well-being than you.”
“Look, SB,” I said, trying and failing to lighten the mood. “I’ve been fine so far. I don’t think the druggies would come anywhere near the flat whilst I’m here. Don’t make it into this wholebig thing.”
“What you’ve been so far is lucky.” Taking my hand he dragged me over the mess and into my bedroom and kicked the clothes on the floor out of the way so he could slam the door, shutting an uncomfortable-looking Sam on the other side.
Once in the bedroom, he spun me around and backed me up against the wardrobe, taking my jaw in both his hands and tilting my head back so he could have eye contact before moving right into my space. A vision of what happened the last time he backed me up against a solid surface swam into my mind and my chest rose and fell rapidly as I breathed in his scent. The hours he’d spent at Bunt Fest meant that his normal clean male smell was layered with a subtle hint of smoke from the bonfire. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and lick his stubble. With him this close, my ovaries had taken over where my brain left off, and Murphy ovaries are not the best decision makers: case in point my mum’s when it came to my dad, whom I hadn’t seen in over a decade. He’d lived with us until I was two and then moved out when he met his real wife and started his real family. Apparently, my mum wasn’t ‘conservative enough’ for an insurance broker. She embarrassed him. Contact dwindled after that. The last time I’d seen him as a teenager it had been so awkward that I think we both decided to just drift apart. I think this was a big part of the reason that I found trusting Barclay so difficult. I knew I wasn’tconservativeenough for most people, leave alone a Cabinet minister.
Barclay glanced down at my heaving chest, and when his eyes flicked back to mine his pupils were dilated. He gave a quick shake of his head as if to clear it.
“I know you are a free spirit,” he said, his breath mixing with mine and making me feel weak at the knees. “I don’t want that to change. I swear I don’t. But Kira, I cannot let you live somewhere you’re not safe. I know you’re not used to having anyone tell you what to do. But even if I have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you all the way to Westminster, I am not leaving you here. You’re going to move in with me for now, where I know you’re safe. You can be as much of a free spirit as you want, just with you coming back tomy house, and sleeping under my roof . . .please.”
It was the ‘please’ that did it. Well, that and the fact he was now bent down even further to kiss my jaw line. The Murphy ovaries were very much on board with sharing Barclay’s home – they weren’t bothered about my trust issues or concerns over getting in too deep with this guy. A wave of pure lust hit me so hard I could hardly breath, let alone form a coherent response.
“I . . . well . . .” My words died as his mouth moved across to mine. Then we were kissing and my brain turned into scrambled eggs with a side of black pudding. The Murphy ovaries were deciding that they didn’t care if a huge security guard was on the other side of the door or that my flat was a total state. No, they wanted to do the funky Mambo again, right here, right now. So, when he pulled away a couple of inches, I gave a little moan of protest like a horny thirteen-year-old boy.
“So, you’ll move your stuff in with me.”
He didn’t say it as a question and the Murphy ovaries, who had officially taken over the running of my body and decision-making abilities, caused me to let out a breathless “’K.”
The inappropriate moaning, the ‘’K’ response, and the fact that I was plastered over him like a cat to an Aga, seemed to soften his expression from furious to annoyed, with an edge of Sex Badger.
“Although I wouldn’t mind the whole ‘carrying over your shoulder’ deal,” my ovaries told him. “That would be h-o-t, hot. Hot like anAgahot.”
