Chapter 1: The Last Day Together
The first thing Yaa felt was the solid, familiar weight of him pinning her to the mattress. The second was the insistent, thick press of his cock, already slick, nudging at her entrance from behind. Morning light, honey-gold and lazy, cut through the gap in the curtains and striped the rumpled duvet.
“Simon,” she mumbled into her pillow, a protest that was half a moan.
“Birthday girl,” his voice, gravel-rough with sleep, vibrated against the back of her neck. His arm, a heavy band of muscle and old ink, locked around her waist, pulling her closer. He didn’t ask. He knew. He always knew her body’s answer before she did. Her hips arched back of their own accord, and he sank into her with one slow, devastating stroke, filling her completely.
She gasped. It was a deep, taking possession. Morning sex with Simon was never gentle. It was a reassertion, a claiming, a silent conversation of need. He began to move, a relentless, rhythmic pace that had the bedframe tapping a soft complaint against the wall. His breath was hot on her skin. “All night,” he grunted, each thrust punctuating his words, “thinking about this. About how fucking tight you are in the morning.”
Her fingers scrabbled against the sheets. “You were snoring,” she managed to choke out.
A low laugh rumbled through him. “Liar.” He shifted his angle, and the pressure changed, lighting up her nerves. Her back arched sharply. “There. That’s it. Come for me, Yaa. Now.”
He slid a hand between her legs, his calloused fingers finding her clit with unerring accuracy, rubbing tight, desperate circles. The dual assault was too much. Pleasure coiled, snapped, and she cried out, clenching around him as the wave crashed through her. He fucked her through it, his pace turning brutal, jagged, until with a final, deep drive and a stifled groan against her shoulder, he followed her over.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling with the distant traffic hum from the open window. He softened inside her but didn’t pull away, his nose buried in her curls. “Happy birthday, love.”
She melted into the damp heat of him. “Best present so far.”
He finally slid out, giving her arse an affectionate smack. “Up. Road trip. I’ve got a schedule.”
“A schedule? You?” She rolled over to look at him. His gray eyes were clear, alert, already planning. The skull mask of his work persona was nowhere in sight here; this was just Simon, her Simon, with sleep-tousled hair and a rare, relaxed set to his mouth.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I can plan things.” He stood, a tower of scarred muscle and faded tattoos against the sunny room. “Shower. Ten minutes. Wear that dress you like, the one with the sunflowers.”
The Surrey streets blurred into a green haze. Simon drove, one large hand on the wheel, the other resting on her bare thigh. His playlist was a roadmap of her: Erykah Badu, old Burna Boy, some cheesy 90s pop she secretly adored. He sang along badly, off-key, just to make her laugh.
“Where are we going?” she asked for the tenth time.
“You’ll see.”
He pulled into a grotty-looking roadside café near Crawley, all Formica and grease-stained menus. “Breakfast,” he announced.
They ate gigantic fry-ups, beans and eggs and sausages swimming in fat, with mugs of strong tea. Yaa moaned around a mouthful of toast. “Oh my god. This is heavenly.”
Simon watched her, a faint smile on his face. “You eat like you’ve never seen food before.”
“I appreciate the important things in life,” she said, kicking him lightly under the table. “Unlike some broody sods who live on protein shakes and gloom.”
After, he drove them south into West Sussex. The landscape opened up, and then she saw it. A vast, breathtaking stripe of color. A tulip farm, rows upon rows of vibrant reds, pinks, yellows, and purples stretching towards the horizon.
“Simon!”
“Thought you’d like it.” He parked. “Go on. Frolic.”
And she did. She kicked off her sandals and ran into the narrow dirt paths between the blooms, the sun warm on her skin, her sunflower dress spinning out around her. She crouched, burying her face in a cup of crimson petals, inhaling their clean, green scent. Simon followed at a distance, a dark, watchful shape against the riot of color, his phone raised now and then to take a picture.
Later, dusty and sun-dazed, they were back on the road, heading for the coast. The atmosphere in the car had shifted, grown thicker. His hand on her thigh had crept higher, his thumb drawing idle, maddening circles on her inner skin. The air conditioning was on, but Yaa felt flushed.
“Pull over,” she said softly, her eyes on the profile of his jaw.
“What?”
“You heard me. Pull the car over. Now.”
Without a word, he signalled and turned down a narrow, tree-lined lane, following it until the road was swallowed by overhanging branches. He killed the engine. The silence was sudden and complete, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal.
She unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed over the center console, straddling him in the driver’s seat. The confined space forced her knees against the door and the console, forcing her to sink down onto him in a deep, immediate press. He was already hard again.
“Fucking hell, Yaa,” he breathed, his hands flying to her hips.
She kissed him, deep and filthy, swallowing his groan. She wriggled, hiking her dress up around her waist, and with one hand she yanked at the waistband of his trousers and his boxers, freeing him. Then she guided him to her, sinking down slowly, taking every thick, insistent inch until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
“That’s it,” he hissed, his head thumping back against the headrest. “Ride me. Use me. It’s your fucking birthday.”
She moved, setting a slow, grinding rhythm, using the leverage of the steering wheel behind his shoulders. The car filled with the sound of their ragged breath, the slick, wet noise of their joining, the soft creak of leather. His gaze was locked on where their bodies met, watching himself disappear into her.
“Look at you,” he rasped. “So beautiful. Taking my cock so perfectly. Made for this. Made for me.”
His words, crude and possessive, sent a fresh shock of heat through her. Her pace quickened. He took over then, his powerful hips driving up into her, meeting her downward strokes with brutal force. The car rocked slightly on its suspension.
“I’m gonna come,” she panted, the coil tightening beyond bearing. “Simon, I’m—”
A sharp, authoritative rap on the driver’s side window made them freeze.
Shit.
Through the fogged glass, the stern, peaked cap of a police officer was visible.
Simon’s body went rigid beneath her. His hands tightened on her hips. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his voice dangerously calm.
With agonizing slowness, he reached over and hit the button. The window slid down. Cool air and the officer’s disapproving face rushed in.
“Afternoon,” the officer said, his eyes carefully avoiding the obvious. “Everything alright here?”
Simon’s face was a masterpiece of strained nonchalance. Yaa, still impaled on him, felt a hysterical laugh bubble in her chest. She buried her face in Simon’s neck, her body trembling with the effort of staying absolutely still.
“Everything’s fine, officer,” Simon said, his voice even. “My wife here just felt a bit faint. Had to pull over.”
“I see,” the officer said dryly. “Registration and license, please.”
As Simon, moving with excruciating care, reached for the glove compartment, Yaa lifted her head. She gave the officer her most brilliant, wobbly smile. “It’s my birthday,” she blurted out, her voice embarrassingly high. “We were just… celebrating.”
The officer’s expression flickered. He looked from her flushed, desperate face to Simon’s blank, polite mask. He took Simon’s documents, ran a check on his radio. The silence was torture. Finally, he handed them back.
“Try to celebrate in a more appropriate location next time, sir. Madam. And happy birthday.” He tipped his cap, a faint, long-suffering smirk on his lips, and walked back to his patrol car.
They waited until the police car had reversed back up the lane and disappeared. The moment it was gone, the tension shattered. Simon let out a choked burst of laughter. Yaa collapsed against him, howling.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “Your face!”
“My face? You told him it was your birthday!” He was shaking beneath her, laughter and adrenaline vibrating through his big frame.
She lifted herself up slightly, then sank back down onto him, making them both gasp. The interrupted desire roared back, white-hot. “The celebration isn’t over,” she murmured, her lips against his ear.
He didn’t need telling twice. One arm locked around her back, the other hand fisted in her hair, he drove up into her with a renewed, frantic urgency. This time, there was no slow build. It was fast, desperate, and breathtakingly intense. She came with a sharp cry, muffled against his shirt, and he followed with a deep, guttural groan, his hips stuttering up into her one last, punishing time.
For a long while, they sat in the quiet, sweaty and spent, tangled together in the front seat. The scent of sex and leather was overwhelming.
Simon finally stirred, gently lifting her off him and back into her own seat. He cleaned them both up with a tissue from the console, his touch tender now. He started the car.
“Still on schedule?” Yaa asked, leaning her head against the window, completely, utterly sated.
“Brighton’s next,” he said, reaching over to lace his fingers with hers. “But maybe we’ll get a room first.”
The room at the Bed & Breakfast was all chintz and sloping ceilings, overlooking a narrow alley that smelled of salt and fried food. Simon dumped their overnight bag on the floral quilt. “Right. Shower, then out.”
But he’d already laid it out on the bed: her favourite going-out dress. A slip of midnight blue that clung to every curve and made her skin glow. He remembered. She held it up, a smile playing on her lips. “Trying to impress someone?”
“Just want you to feel like the prize you are,” he said, his voice low. He leaned against the doorframe, watching as she got ready.
In the mirror, she saw his reflection. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the line of her spine as she fastened her bra, lingering on the swell of her hips as she shimmied the silk over them. The dress was a second skin. She smoothed it down, meeting his eyes in the glass. The admiration there was plain, but beneath it churned a hunger that hadn’t been sated by the frantic car park fuck. It was deeper, more possessive.
He pushed off the frame and came to stand behind her. His hands settled on her bare shoulders, his warmth seeping into her. He didn’t speak, just watched her in the mirror, his gray eyes dark. Then one hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a small, black velvet box.
“Simon, no. You’ve done enough. The whole day, this trip…” she started, shaking her head.
“Hush,” he murmured, his voice leaving no room for argument. He opened the box. A necklace lay coiled on the satin—a delicate gold chain with a single, teardrop-shaped citrine that caught the weak English light and burned like a captured sun. “For my sunshine.”
“It’s too much.”
“It’s not.” His fingers were surprisingly deft as he fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck. The cool stone settled just above her cleavage. He bent, pressing his lips to the spot where the clasp lay. “Perfect.”
She turned in his arms, lifting her face to his. The kiss started soft, a thank you, but deepened quickly, turning hot and searching. His hands slid down her back, palming her arse, pulling her hard against the rigid line of his erection. She broke the kiss, breathless, and shoved lightly at his chest. “Fuck off, we’re going to be late. Whatever this surprise is.”
He grinned, that rare, wolfish flash of teeth, and gave her arse a sharp, stinging smack that made her jump and yelp. “Move it then, birthday girl.”
The evening air was cool. She’d clipped a silly, glittering ‘30’ crown into her curls, and it caught the light from the streetlamps as they walked through The Lanes. He held her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles, leading her with purpose. “Where are we going?” she asked again.
“You’ll see.”
He stopped outside a traditional-looking pub, its windows glowing with warm light, the sound of chatter and clinking glasses spilling out. “In here.”
The moment they pushed through the door, the shout went up.
“SURPRISE!”
The wall of sound hit her first. Then the faces. Soap, beaming, holding a pint aloft. Gaz, giving a stoic nod from a corner booth. Price, his moustache quirking in a smile behind a whisky glass. And her girls—Adeola and Vanessa—screaming, rushing forward with arms wide open.
Yaa’s hands flew to her mouth. Tears, hot and sudden, blurred the scene. “What? How?” She turned to Simon, who was watching her, that softness back in his eyes. “You bastard.”
“Language,” Captain Price rumbled, but he was smiling.
Then she was engulfed. Hugs from her friends, the smell of Adeola’s perfume, Vanessa’s squeal in her ear. A crushing bear hug from Soap that lifted her off her feet. “Put her down, you muppet, you’ll break the crown,” Simon said, tugging her back into his side.
Soap laughed. “Traffic was a fuckin’ nightmare. Parking’s a bitch round here.”
“You came,” Yaa breathed, looking around at them all. Her scattered family, assembled.
The night became a warm, boozy blur. They moved as a loud, laughing pack from that first pub to a dimly lit cocktail bar, then to a vibrant, pounding gay pub where Vanessa dragged them all onto the dance floor. Shots appeared. Then pints. Simon’s arm was a constant, heavy presence around her waist, his touch growing more proprietary with each drink.
The final stop was a raucous pub with a small stage. A talent show was in full, shambolic swing. Gaz was arguing quietly with Price about football. Soap was attempting to chat up a bloke who was very clearly not interested. Adeola and Vanessa were crying laughing at something.
A karaoke machine was wheeled out.
“No,” Simon said firmly, reading the gleam in Yaa’s eye.
“Yes,” she slurred, kissing his chin. “Birthday prerogative.”
She swayed a little as she scrolled through the options, the room tilting pleasantly. She picked one. The opening slinky bass line of No Diggity filled the pub. She took the mic.
She wasn’t a great singer. But she had rhythm, and a hell of a lot of cheek. She leaned into the sultry tone of the song, her hips finding the groove. Her eyes locked on Simon from across the smoky room. She sang the words to him, slow and suggestive, running a hand down the silk over her thigh.
His relaxed posture was gone. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, pint forgotten. The look on his face wasn’t admiration anymore. It was pure, undiluted lust. A predator’s stillness. He watched the way her mouth shaped the filthy lyrics, watched the tease of her movements, and the heat in his gaze was like a physical brand.
She finished to whoops and cheers, stumbling back to the table. He caught her, his hand searing on her hip. “Time to go,” he growled into her ear. His voice was rough, leaving no room for debate.
The goodbyes were a messy, hurried cacophony. The cool night air did nothing to sober them up or dampen the electric current between them. The walk back to the B&B was a silent, tense hurry. He almost dragged her up the stairs.
The second the door clicked shut, he spun her around and pinned her against it. His mouth crashed down on hers, tasting of whiskey and raw need. It was a devouring kiss, all tongue and teeth. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt.
“That fucking song,” he snarled, yanking the straps of her dress down. The silk tore a little at the side seam. He didn’t seem to notice or care. He filled his hands with her breasts, squeezing hard, his thumbs rubbing rough circles over her nipples. “Parading for everyone.”
“Just for you,” she gasped, arching into his touch.
“Liar.” He bit her shoulder, a sharp, claiming sting. He turned her around, facing the door, pushing the ruined silk up around her waist. His hands shoved her knickers down her thighs. He was already free from his trousers, his cock pressing against the cleft of her arse, hot and insistent.
He reached between her legs, fingers sliding through her wetness, gathering it, before rubbing roughly against her other hole. She tensed. “Simon…”
“You wanted me worked up,” he breathed, the words hot and slurred against her ear. “Now you get it. All of it.” He pressed the thick head of his cock against her tight, resisting rosebud, using her own slick as a crude lubricant. “Take it. Birthday gift.”
He pushed. A sharp, burning stretch tore a cry from her throat. He didn’t stop. He fed himself into her, inch by brutal, incredible inch, until he was fully sheathed in that impossible, tight heat. He held there, both of them panting, her body screaming in protest and a dark, shocking thrill.
Then he moved.
It was a rough, punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting her against the hard wood of the door. The pain blurred and melted into a deep, forbidden fullness. His grip on her hips was bruising. He fucked her like he was trying to exorcise something, or claim it forever. Grunts fell from his lips. “So fucking tight. Mine. This is mine.”
She came with a shattered, gasping sob, the intensity of it blinding, her body clenching violently around his invading length. It tipped him over the edge. He drove in one last, deep time, his whole body rigid as he emptied himself inside her with a choked, guttural roar.
They slumped against the door, a mess of sweat, rumpled silk, and spent desire. He was still inside her, softening. His forehead rested against the back of her head, his breaths slowing. His hand, trembling slightly, came up to gently touch the citrine necklace, still resting against her chest.
His hand, trembling slightly, came up to gently touch the citrine necklace, still resting against her chest. The tenderness of the gesture was a stark contrast to the brutal claiming of seconds before. It cracked something open in her chest.
She turned in the tight space, wincing at the twinge deep inside, and kissed him, soft and slow. He tasted like salt and whiskey and regret already brewing.
“Bed,” he mumbled against her mouth, carefully withdrawing and pulling her torn dress back up her shoulders. It was a lost cause. They shuffled, a tangled four-legged creature, the two steps to the small couch, and collapsed onto it in a heap of limbs. The room spun in a pleasant, woozy circle.
“Still drunk,” Yaa announced, giggling as she fumbled with his belt.
“Dangerously,” Simon agreed, his voice a low hum. He yanked her on top of him, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. The rough texture of his trousers ground against her bare inner thighs. He didn’t bother undressing further, just freed himself again and guided her down onto him with a single, upward thrust that knocked the air from her lungs.
It was slower now, a deep, rolling grind fueled by drunken insistence rather than frantic need. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, setting a heavy, relentless rhythm. The couch springs squeaked in a frantic, metallic protest beneath them. Yaa threw her head back, her curls sticking to the sweat on her neck, and rode him with a drunk’s glorious, unselfconscious abandon.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled, his hands sliding up to squeeze her breasts through the ruined silk. “All mine. Completely mine.”
“Prove it,” she slurred, a challenge.
His hand came down hard on her arse, a sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the small room. She cried out, the pain flaring bright and delicious, making her clench around him. He did it again, on the other cheek. Then his fist tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. He sat up, mouth latching onto her pulse point, sucking a mark into her skin as he pistoned up into her from below.
She scrabbled for purchase, her own hands fisting in his short hair, pulling just as hard. It was a contest of hunger, a dialogue of bruises. The sounds were obscene: wet flesh, slapping skin, guttural grunts, the creaking lament of old furniture. They were deaf to the world, lost in a haze of booze and possession.
A firm, rhythmic knocking penetrated the fog.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They froze, Yaa still straddling him, both of them panting like beasts.
“Ignore it,” Simon rasped, and began moving again, a wicked glint in his eye.
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
A thin, elderly voice filtered through the wall. “Please! Some of us are trying to sleep! Have some decency!”
Yaa collapsed forward, her face buried in Simon’s neck, her body shaking with silent, hysterical laughter. He chuckled, a deep vibration in his chest, but didn’t stop moving. He shifted, rolling them so she was pinned beneath him on the narrow couch, and drove into her with renewed, quiet intensity, his hand clapping over her mouth to stifle her moans. The knocking eventually stopped, replaced by the sound of a door shutting firmly next door.
They didn’t make it to the bed for a long time. When they finally did, it was only for another round, slower now, drowsy, a lazy, thorough claiming that left them both breathless and utterly spent. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the alcohol and exhaustion won. They passed out where they lay, naked and tangled in the damp sheets, the room smelling of sex and sweat and the sea.
Morning was a hammer to the skull. A thin, grey light sliced through the gap in the curtains, and every throb of Yaa’s heartbeat felt like a minor explosion behind her eyes. Her mouth was a desert. Every muscle ached.
She became aware of Simon’s arm, a lead weight across her waist. He was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching her. His face was pale, shadows under his eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word sandpaper rough.
“My sentiments exactly,” she croaked.
His gaze was scanning her, and the look in his grey eyes shifted from shared misery to something like horror. He saw the blooming purple bruise on her shoulder from his bite. The red marks on her hips, shaped like his fingers. The faint scratches on her back from the door.
With a tenderness that made her throat tight, he gathered her to him, arranging her carefully against his chest as if she were made of spun glass. “Yaa,” he said, his voice strained. “Where does it hurt?”
She groaned, leaning into him. “My head is a war zone. My thighs feel like I’ve run a marathon. And my ass,” she winced as she shifted, a deep, hot soreness making itself known, “feels like you used it for target practice. Inside and out.”
He went completely still. His breath hitched. “Christ.” The guilt in that one word was a tangible thing, heavy and sour. He gently pressed his lips to her temple. “I’m so sorry, love. I was… I lost myself. That was too much. I hurt you.”
She pushed back, just enough to look up at him. His brow was furrowed, his expression genuinely anguished. She snorted, a dry, painful sound. “Don’t you dare apologise for the best birthday night I’ve ever had.”
“Yaa—”
“No,” she said, poking him in the chest. “Listen. I’m proud of these.” She gestured vaguely at her body. “Battle scars. Proof I can keep up with a legendary horny drunk soldier. I loved it.