Part 8 – Dad displacement

I’m developing quite a taste for this kind of writing; at this rate I’m going to have to be careful that bubbling desire and lava-hot longing don’t work their way into an overview of the East Anglian farmland market, which is the kind of thing I write in real life. It’s also a marvellous displacement activity from the usual drudgery of stay-at-home-dadness at half term: today I have successfully ignored the ironing and failed to clean the recycling bin, all in the name of Art.

However, it has not been able completely to displace my role as Dad. Last night my eight-year-old daughter glimpsed the opening chapter of Desire Be My Destiny.

‘What’s it about?’

‘A lady who is going to get married but then meets another man she likes better.’

‘Why does he say “Gotcha”?’

‘Er – they’re playing Tag.’ And I hastily shut the laptop.

Part 8 (by Oliver)

Terence raised his head. ‘Ah, poppet. Feeling better? Clever girl. This is Mr Stone, our foreman. Mr Stone, my fiancée, Topaz Eversleigh-Brinkworth.’

The figure turned, black against the sun. That languid grace, those muscled shoulders, the broad chest – why did her heart race at the sight of them? The hillside was rocky, and as Topaz kept her gaze fixed on the manly silhouette towering above her, she didn’t notice the deep rut in front of her. Her foot slipped sideways, twisting her slender ankle and pulling the heel off her Gucci sandal.

Topaz gasped and swayed, until a strong hand clasped her shoulder.

‘Gotcha!’ The voice was deep, humour lurking behind the smooth, easy tone. And where the large hand gripped the burnished flesh of her shoulder, Topaz felt once again the burn of desire – or was it destiny? She knew at once that Fate had not finished with her yet, and even before she looked up to see those ice-blue eyes piercing into her from behind a rim of thick black lashes, she knew that last night had been just the beginning.

Cleft’s wide, arrogant mouth curled at the corners when he saw Topaz’s face, flushed and gently perspiring, looking up into his own, her eyes heavy with desire and her lips wet. Quickly, she pulled away, just as she had the time before, and said ‘Thank you, Mr Stone’ with a coolness he knew she did not feel.

She started to limp towards Terence – good, safe Terence – but with a small cry she stumbled again and reached out for Cleft’s arm.

‘I’m sorry, Terence,’ she said. ‘I've really hurt my ankle. Can you take me back to the jeep?’

Before Terence could answer, Topaz felt Cleft’s breath warm on her nape and his dark velvet voice saying ‘Allow me’. And before she could protest, Cleft swept her into his arms. She left his bicep bulge by her breast, his sinewy forearms clench behind her knees, and the hot longing that lay clamped deep within her began to bubble outwards.

‘Oh God,’ she murmured by his ear. ‘What have you done to me?’