The Arrangement (Erotic Novella) Read online

  The Arrangement

  Olivia Fox

  Published by Olivia Fox at Smashwords

  Copywrite Olivia Fox 2013

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  1.

  As soon as I say it I want to take it back. "I'm kidding, silly! That's not the only reason," I laugh in a way that's way too stiff, and when he arches an eyebrow to say go on, I just dig my grave even deeper. "Of course there's other stuff I love about you. I mean... You're fucking beautiful... And..." But that's as far as I can go. It shouldn't be this hard to tell him why I love him. I tell my girl friends all the time. So why can't I do the same for Harry, instead of sounding like some shallow bitch.

  His face is stony serious. Lily's squirming like she's about to make some lame excuse and leave. And Cayley's mouth has been a perfect O shape for the past minute, while her eyes ping-pong between me and Harry, AKA my fuck buddy. AKA my boss.

  I don't blame her. Even if she is starting to look like some weird cock-hungry sex doll. She's right to be staring like that. Because Harry never gets ruffled. Never. And it's not like I've never joked about his XL cock in front of the girls before. In fact, the more I think about this, the more it seems he's blowing everything out of all proportion. I complimented his cock and he's looking at me as though I just flipped him the bird.

  Lily grabs Cayley's wrist to usher her out of the booth. "I'll get the next round. Cayley, come help me carry."

  Cayley neatens her already perfect hair with her free hand, as Lily pulls her to standing. But Harry stands too. Apparently he's not going to sit around listening to me insult him with comments about his general lusciousness any longer.

  "Let's not do this, eh?!" He claws his fingers through those perfect floppy blond curls, pulling them taut, away from eyes that refuse to look at me. He nods goodbye to Lily and Cayley, then almost says something to me, I think, but stops himself.

  And I want to say something too. I want shout out all those things I truly do love about him - not about his huge dick, or his crazily heart-melting smile, or his wall-like shoulders which just seem so strong and male and perfect. But I don't, of course. I just sit back and watch the best bloke I know as he digs his hands into his pockets and walks away from me.

  *****

  Someone's drilling my head. And it really fricking hurts.

  "Em, wake up. You're phone's driving me nuts," Lily yawns.

  Oh - right - not drilling - just my phone vibrating and a hangover-headache splitting my skull in two. "Urgh. Why am I on the couch?"

  Lily snorts. "You crashed out and we couldn't shift you."

  We? "Did Harry come back last night?"

  Why is she looking at me like that? Like Harry's dead and I ought to know that but clearly I've got some kind of early onset Alzheimer's. Or alcohol induced amnesia. Which sounds horribly likely. God, is Harry OK?!

  "No, Harry left the pub really early, hon. Cayley came back with us. She's in your room," Lily says, her mouth twisting awkwardly like she doesn't want to say the next bit. "I think you might want to give Harry a call later."

  "Why? Oh. God." And now I remember. I recall the gist, if not the details. "Go on. Tell me what I said. It was bad wasn't it? I know it was."

  Lily's eyes tighten thoughtfully like she's searching for the gentlest way to let me have it. She needn't bother.

  "Bad? It was brutal." Cayley exclaims from the doorway, wrapped in my dressing gown, which is about a billion inches too short for her tall lean frame. She’s stunning. Which is yet another reason to scowl at her when she reminds me, "You told him you only keep him around for one reason. Because you love his huge cock."

  "God, Cayley!" Lily yells through gritted teeth. But it's too late. It's all coming back to me. That look on his face. Totally dejected. But surely he knew I was kidding?!

  I was kidding after all. I mean Harry’s the best. Really, truly, the best man I’ve ever been in a non-relationship with. And this is exactly the reason I don’t have relationships any more. Relationships are just full to the brim with this kind of thing. Self-doubt, self-loathing, bitterness, guilt… which is precisely why I adopted my hitherto extremely successful casual dating style in the first place.

  I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I guess I’m not very convincing when I say, “Sod it. Anyway, when did Harry turn into such a girl? If he can’t take a joke I guess I’d better stop shagging him.”

  They both look at me like I’ve been body-snatched, then Lily kneels down next to me and holds my hand. She actually holds my hand. Like I’m having some kind of breakdown or something. But it’s not what she does that rattles me. It’s what she says.

  “Em, honey. Harry didn’t turn into a girl. It’s you. You’ve turned into a ladette.”

  *****

  Christ. She’s right! Well, whatever. So what if I am a bit laddy?!

  So what if I’m happy with sex and friendship?! What, so just because I’m a woman I’m supposed to fantasize about netting myself some adoring young husband to grow old and bored with?! Please!

  “Wow. She’s right you know. When did this happen?” Cayley muses. “I mean, you’ve had proper boyfriends. I know you have. But now it’s like… it’s like you’re some beefy frat boy who just wants to screw chicks and party. But - y’know - the female version of that.”

  Seriously. This woman wouldn’t know tact if it clocked her on the head with a mace. I’m so not the female version of what she just said. For one thing, I’m always upfront about what I want from my non-relationships. It’s not like I’m screwing anyone over, or leading anyone on. Plus, anyone who called me beefy would need their head read. I’m five foot nothing, blonde, fine boned, albeit with over-sized boobs, but hardly anyone’s idea of beef-cake. Though I guess that’s not really the point she’s making.

  Cayley, as usual, is oblivious to the fact I’m imagining slapping her too-perfect face. “Is that really how you want to be, Em? Really?! I mean - how far have you gone with this ladette thing? Please tell me you don’t have some little black book with blokes’ numbers and stuff in it. You haven’t, have you?!”

  I glare, and it’s a good mean glare, but she’s largely immune to body language so it doesn’t have the deadly impact it should. “No, I don’t have a little black book for fuck’s sake. Can we drop this now?” I say because she needs my mood spelt out for her.

  “It’s yellow,” sighs Lily. My supposedly supportive, best mate, Lily. “The book,” she says, in answer to Cayley’s confused expression.

  “Thanks, dude. Remind me to repay the favour some time,” I huff. When did this become gang up on Emma day? So there’s a book. I’m practical. What of it?!

  Cayley’s thinking. I can almost see the cogs whirring behind those scrutinizing eyes of hers. I hate when she does this. It means she’s planning or plotting or considering saying something lethally offensive in her matter-of-fact nonchalant way.

  “What?” I ask. “What?! Spit it out!”

  “Nothing,” she says, but clearly there’s something. “It’s just… Brett was a nice guy, right? You know - Brett, the nurse? Brett with the piercings?”

  Jesus, does she really think I need a memory jogger. It’s not like I’ve slept with so many blokes I can’t remember their names. “Yes, Brett. Nice guy. And?”


  “Well… it’s just, you clearly liked him, but you always...” she stops herself, showing uncharacteristic self-control. Too bad it makes me want to slap her anyway. “Oh, and then there was Rich - the pianist - the one with the orange Beetle and the monotone voice that used to send you to sleep. Remember?”

  “Cayley,” Lily warns, seeing as I’m about to blow steam out of my ears. “She remembers her exes, OK. What’s your point?”

  Cayley perches next to me on the sofa, ready to impart her next gem of idiocy. “Well, he was boring. Sorry, but he was. And you were - well - normal with him - like a normal girlfriend.”

  “Oh, is that right?!” I yell. “Whereas most of the time I’m abnormal? Is that it?! Or are you saying I only like shitty, boring men?! Which is it, Cayley? What’s your fucking point?!” I pull myself upright and grab my phone, ready to storm out.

  Cayley contorts in on her stupidly-perfect self, looking all meek and delicate, and Lily’s eyes are closed like she can’t bear to witness the murder I’m about to commit in our flat.

  “Sorry,” Cayley sighs. “I just care about you, Em. I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. Honestly.”

  And my reply flies out and stings her before I’ve even had a chance to process the words I’m saying. “No, Cayley. You don’t need to try.”

  *****

  I’m out of the flat within ten minutes, following an inordinate amount of door slamming. I barely had time to wash and pull clean clothes on, but I need some distance between me and Cayley. I just care about you… did she really just say that? Sure, Cayley. Sure you do.

  I’m just some dumb, blonde, silly thing to Cayley. Too loud. Too impulsive. The opposite of the poise and elegance she’s always projected. Lily’s the glue that holds our little threesome together. Without the Lily-glue we’re just two random girls with nothing in common.

  I catch the bus, not the tube, because I need a bit more thinking time before I see Harry. Which reminds me… someone was calling me earlier. Please be Harry… please be Harry… I think as I fish the phone from my black glitzy bag. It’s the bag I had last night, and it looks stupid with my slummy teeshirt, but screw it.

  Missed Calls 4, my phone tells me. But none of them is Harry, and my heart sinks a little. It’s Celia instead. My fucked-up little niece, who I love to bits but man does she drive me up the wall! I cringe as I check my voice-mail, dreading some new catastrophe. What’ll it be? Stomach pumped? Shoplifting? Aggro boyfriend? …Oh, the possibilities are endless. But it’s none of the above.

  She’s getting help, her message tells me. She’s going to group therapy. That alone is enough to leave me breathless, but the next thing she says nearly stops my heart: “Thing is, Em, I’m meant to see all the people I’ve hurt. So that’s you, for starters. And… fuck it. I need to say sorry to Lily.”

  Damn right she does. Celia betrayed Lily in the worst way - sleeping with her then-boyfriend, Tom. And so far, all she’s offered Lily is a giggled, drunken ‘sorry’. But I’m hopeful. Even though she’ll probably screw up, I’m always hopeful with Celia. I have to be. Because I love her, and because I’m all she’s got. So I text her, Meet u tomoro. Flying Pig? Lunch not booze x

  2.

  I've never felt weird about having keys to Harry's flat before, but I feel weird about it now. Harry lives above Thrills and Frills, the Soho-based lingerie store he's owned with his brother ever since their grandparents died, leaving them a tonne of dosh. His flat has always been like an extension of the shop, so I usually don't think twice about letting myself in. His spare room is basically a stock room, and I'm in and out all the time for one reason or another. Plus, when we exploit the benefits of our friends with benefits arrangement, it's generally at his place. I've even been known to hang out there after work and lie in wait for him, naked and wanton in his big, sturdy, king-sized man-bed. So why now am I so uneasy sliding the key he gave me into his lock?

  I think it's that smell. I could smell it on the stairs up to the flat and now it's even stronger here by the door, and I'm starting to think he's either got a nasty new air-freshener or he's got girly company. Oh God. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure it's perfume. My heart's banging in a way it really shouldn't be at the idea of another woman in Harry's flat. She's probably just a mate, and even if they are bumping uglies right now, well who am I to complain? It's just that Harry doesn't do that. He just never seemed interested in anyone. And if he is... then... well, that's fine of course. It's just a surprise. And I guess I'm just overtired and hung-over because for some reason my eyes are stinging and my breathing's all shot and - oh god - am I going to cry? Jesus, what's wrong with me?! This is nuts. In fact - you know what - I'm just going to turn around and come back later when I'm not having some kind of lame, drink-induced emotional crisis.

  "Em? What... Where are you going?" Harry murmurs from the archway opening onto his living room. And for a second I’m just relieved he’s not in his bedroom shagging some perfumed hussy, but that soon abates when I realize I’m meant to say something back.

  I can feel him watching me. I know just the pose he’ll have to match that baffled voice - his broad frame hunched over, his hands stuffed into his pockets while his head cocks to one side like a big unkempt Labrador.

  I’ve got such an urge to look. To see if I’m right. To see if he’s looking just as enticing as I imagine. But I can't exactly look at him with my eyes all freakishly puffed-up and leaking. I'm just going to make a grab for that latch and hightail it back down Charing Cross Road.

  Though I can't can I? Not when he's sounding so confused and concerned, so I just hover here, somewhere between coming and going.

  “Are you OK?” he asks me, though surely I should be asking him that. After all, I’m the one who’s come to apologize.

  “Hayfever,” I offer. Oh, Lordy, surely I could have done better than hayfever. But he lets it slide. “Got company?” I ask, gesturing at a red suede handbag, as I follow him into the living room.

  Harry takes my hand. We’re good, I think. He’s not upset over the cock thing. It’s all blown over, no pun intended. Storm in a tea cup.

  “Deanne. Friend of Jake’s,” he shrugs.

  Jake is Harry’s older brother. The other - silent - half of Thrills. He works in The City and couldn’t really give a crap about the lingerie business which suits Harry just fine. “She’s in London a few days. Going to crash here. I’ll introduce you when she’s done showering.” He hands me a tissue and reassures me it’s probably clean.

  Probably clean will do. I take it and offer him an apologetic half smile. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. I think you’re great Harry. Really. You and Lily are like the best people ever and your my best friends. I’m a twat.”

  “Now, that’s a bit harsh. I wouldn’t say you’re a twat exactly.”

  “Oh, but I am one,” I say, totally deadpan, eyes wide and innocent. “I’m a big swollen twat, Harry. And the sooner we both accept it, the better.”

  He just can’t help himself. He roars a full-on belly laugh and hugs me tight into his chest. Thank God. He clearly wants to smooth things over as much as I do, and I love him for making it easy. Oh, and I love that big hard thing pressing firm against my stomach too.

  “Something you want to tell me, boss? You like it when I talk dirty, huh?” I tease. He’s creasing into me with laughter and I just want to keep him like this forever. “Shall I keep going? Let’s see… muffs, minges, big swinging todgers… bouncing come-drenched melon tits… oh my God, you love this stuff don’t you?!” I say, grinding mischievously against his cock. “Is that what you want, boss? You want to drizzle your come all over my moo moos?”

  “Christ! Moo moos?!” Harry can hardly breath for laughing.

  I’m still kind of snotty and messy, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and I can’t hold back with Harry. Just being near him makes me want to say stupid, totally immature, dirty things. “Sure. Moo moos. You know… boobies, bon-bons, butterballs, bra-stuffers, dum
plings, cupcakes, oompas, zepellins -”

  “OK - stop - I’m dying. Where the hell do you get this stuff, Em?” he pants, nuzzling into me, his hands tight against the small of my back. But I really do need to put a bit of space between us, otherwise I’m going to leave teary snot-trails down his sexy red teeshirt.

  “I dunno,” I murmur, pulling back to look at him as I faff with my tissue, and for some reason it’s not at all funny when I tell him, “What can I say?! I’ve got big tits. They get called a lot of names I guess.”

  I have no idea what he’s thinking. He’s looking at me like he feels sorry for me. Like I shouldn’t have to put up with blokes talking about my oompas, but - God - I’m not bothered by it, so why should he be? Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s something else I’m seeing in his too-dark eyes. Regret? Oh shit - is that it?! Is he regretting sleeping with such a big slut?! But then he kisses my forehead oh-so-gently and hugs me again, and I remember why I’m here. I’m making sure we’re OK. Me and my fab mate, Harry. And he wants it too. We’re OK. More than OK.

  Or so I think. But apparently I've got it all wrong. He doesn't want to smooth things over. He doesn’t want us to be OK. He wants to keep me here long enough to show me how much of a stud he is. Because once I’ve hugged him back, wiped my nose and plonked my butt down on his sofa, Deanne shows up. Tall, tanned, and totally naked except for stockings, garter and fuck-me heels.

  I hate her. And I hate Harry a hundred times more. I hate him even though I’ve probably got no right, but I don’t care.

  "Fuck you," I tell him as I haul myself up again and try to squeeze through the narrow doorway where Deanne's standing.

  She steps to one side, though doesn't bother covering up, like she knows she's stunning so what's to be ashamed of?