But he isn’t rough or uncaring. His hand moves slowly, his touch light, and I’m wet, slick—his fingers enter me easily. It feels good, as good as before. Better even. He strokes me delicately, taking care not to hurt me, somehow spreading and opening his fingers inside me to increase the pressure on my inner walls. I gasp. Nothing Kenny ever did, at his most attentive and passionate, ever came close to this. I moan, and without conscious thought I squeeze around him. He chuckles again, murmuring encouragement. “Enjoy, Ashley. Let yourself go. Come for me.”
He slides his fingers out of me, only to reach farther down, to delicately circle my swollen clitoris. I gasp, now spreading my legs wider to allow him access. He takes advantage of my invitation, using the fingers of his left hand to gently spread the lips of my pussy before sliding two fingers deeply inside once more. His right hand is for my clitoris. He rolls the throbbing, sensitive little bud lightly between his finger and thumb. It’s all I need. My orgasm starts to pulse through me, powerful, unstoppable. I cry out. He knows, and increases the pressure slightly, sliding his fingers in and out of my pussy, circling the sensitive lips before plunging back in, deep. I arch, flexing against his hands to savor the incredible, unexpected sheer joy of his touch. In a few short moments it’s over. He’s drawn every quiver of erotic pleasure from my sore, abused body. I lie still again, shaking, breathing heavily. Wondering what the hell just happened.
When he’s sure I’m done, the last ripple of orgasm spent, he stands. But instead of letting me tumble to the floor at his feet, his arms are around me. He lifts me up, standing with me in his arms, and heads for the narrow wooden stairs in the corner of the room. I’m past offering any protest as he carries me up into my bedroom. By now I know he’ll do whatever he wants to do to me, and afterwards, hopefully, I’ll pick myself up and move on.
He places me, still naked, face down on my bed. Crouching beside me, he pushes the hair back off my face.
“Do you have any painkillers handy?”
My eyes closed tight, I shake my head.
“Pity. You’ll have to do it the hard way then. You’ll be sore for a while, but okay—more or less—by tomorrow.”
He stands up and turns to leave. Despite having just experienced probably my most powerful orgasm ever, my whole body hurts. I’d curl into my tiny ball again if I could move but I’m too stiff, too tense, every movement is agony and I just want to sleep if I can. To recover, I hope. To survive…again. I lie still, my face pressed into the pillow, relieved beyond measure that he’s going, that he’s leaving me alone at last. I don’t want to delay him, but there’s one final thing I have to ask.
“Why did you do that? At the end…?”
His answer is slow in coming. Then, “Force of habit. And I owed it to you. I believed you might like it. And I think you probably did.”
I think he’s probably right, though I have no idea at all how that happened. He moves to the bedroom door. He doesn’t turn his head as his final words are tossed casually back at me over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know when you’re to start work. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll let myself out.”
Chapter Six
I wake up feeling disorientated and scared. Something’s wrong. Horribly amiss.
I’m cold, shivering, and I realize I’m lying naked on the top of my duvet. It’s pitch black. Silent. The middle of the night? And I need the loo.
I shift, intending to reach for the lamp, and realize I’m stiff as well as cold. My bottom, mostly, feels to be on fire. But as I stretch experimentally I find that every limb aches. My head aches. My throat feels dry, raw.
And I remember. Tom Shore was here. Tom Shore who recognized me. Who wants revenge for what happened last year, by the river, hundreds of miles away in Bristol. Tom Shore, who threw me around my own home like a rag doll, frightened me half to death with his threats, stripped me, then put me over his knee and spanked me. Then finger-fucked me, until I came. Gloriously. Like never, ever before. Oh God, my lower abdomen clenches again just at the memory.
With a supreme effort I reach the lamp and flick it on. Three thirty-seven. I push myself up onto my knees, carefully, testing my weight and letting my head clear before I try anything more ambitious. Such as standing up. But eventually I’m staggering across my bedroom to the toilet-cum-shower room in the corner. I relieve myself, then rummage through the little cabinet over the sink. I find one solitary Anadin, left behind by some previous occupant. It’ll have to do. I swill it down with a mouthful of cold water, straight from the tap.
I dimly remember
him
asking me about painkillers. After he carried me up here. Nice of him, I suppose. He could have just left me on the floor downstairs.
Bastard!
I climb back into bed, this time huddling under the quilt, wincing as it brushes over my sore bottom. I replay the whole episode in my head, and once again I recall lying helpless across Tom Shore’s lap, unsure whether I loathed him more than I loathed Kenny. Or whether I loathed myself most of all. And in one of my rare but powerful light bulb moments I get my perspective back. Tom Shore hurt my pride, and unless I can convince him to keep my secret he represents a monstrous threat to my future. And me, well, I just do what I must, to survive. But Kenny? Kenny killed my baby. So that places him way up there at the top of my loathing list.
My last thought as I drift back into pain-rocked sleep is,
What if Tom Shore reports me anyway? Even after this?
When I wake again it’s daylight. I roll onto my back before I remember, and quickly roll back onto my side. I’m not quite so sore now, but still uncomfortable. I glance at the clock. Nine twenty-seven. I’d normally have been up for a couple of hours by now. Up on the hills, setting up my camera. Then I remember. I don’t have a camera anymore.
First order of business then—replace my equipment.
An hour later I’m in my car, somewhat awkwardly perched on the edge of the driver’s seat, pretty uncomfortable but managing. I head back toward Colne, to a large retail park I spotted there just off the motorway on my way here a few days earlier. Sure to be a Currys or something there. And by lunchtime I’m sitting in McDonald’s nursing a latte, the latest wonder of Nikon technology still boxed up on the seat next to me, the most recent model of the superb camera I stole from Tom. And I’m just over a thousand pounds poorer. Still, if I’m serious about building up my photography business I can’t do that using stolen equipment.
I can’t put this next task off any longer. I need to know where I stand, that my secret’s safe. I pull my phone out, and scroll through to the exchange of texts with Tom a few days ago. I select ‘compose’.
Can I talk to you?
I wait ten minutes, and I’m about to text him again when the response comes.
I’m busy.
Please.
I’ll be in touch.
Please, I need to talk to you.
What?
I need to know, that I can trust you. Not to tell anyone. About me.
We have a deal. I’ll keep my side of it.
Thank you.
How do you feel today, Ashley?
Now I make him wait before…
I’m fine. I’ve got a new camera.
Mug someone else, did you?
Bastard!
Mind your manners, Ashley. You really don’t want to annoy me again.
I put my phone away. Time to be getting back.
My hands are shaking.
An hour later I pull up in front of Smithy’s Forge and carefully reverse into my off-road parking space. Cradling my new camera, still sealed in its box, I make my way round to the gate. Just time to get it unpacked, set up and go out to take a few practice shots. I need to get back into my work, try to forget about the formidable Mr Shore. For a while at least. I can’t let him intimidate me.
“Miss McAllister?”
I scream, almost dropping my thousand-pound camera onto the stone flags. I spin around. A tall, dark-haired man is lounging on my gatepost. Where the hell did he spring from? Must have been watching, waiting for me. He’s obviously been expecting me. Knows who I am.
He comes forward, smiling. But not in a nice way. I back off, suddenly cursing the stupidity that made me choose to live out here in the lonely wilderness. First Tom Shore, now this…
“Who are you?” I stand tall, trying my old assertiveness trick. He’s over a foot taller than me. Not quite as powerfully built as Tom, but still a whole lot bigger than I am. And I don’t think this is a social call.
He sees straight through my attempt at bravado. “I’m sorry, did I scare you? Did you think I was going to attack you? Maybe help myself to that swanky new camera you’ve got there? Oh no, I forgot. That’s your trick, isn’t it?”
The police? Oh God!
Tom promised. He bloody well promised me…
“Who are you? What do you want?” My voice is just a whisper. I’m weighing up my chances of dodging past him, getting to my car before he can catch me. And coming up with a fat zero. I should have made a run for it last night. This morning even. Shit, shit,
shit!
“My name’s Nathan Darke. I own Black Combe. You were there a couple of days ago.”
What? I scramble around in my head for some reference point. I find it. “Oh, yes. You’re Rosie’s dad?”
“That’s me. And Tom’s best friend. I’m the one who drove down to Bristol to pick him up when he was discharged from the hospital you and your thieving boyfriend put him in.”
He knows. He bloody well knows. Tom must have told him. So much for ‘We’ve got a deal’. I stand there, clutching my camera.
His dark eyes are hard as he looks me up and down, his dislike of me clear. His absolute contempt for what I did. “Why are you here? What do you want?” The same question Tom had for me last night. And the answer’s the same.
“I just want to be left alone, to get on with my life. I’m here to start over. If I can.”
“I don’t believe you. It’s not such a small world you’d end up in Tom’s backyard by chance. So, again, Miss McAllister, why here?”
“I told you. I didn’t know Mr Shore lived here. Now please, just leave me alone. I don’t want any trouble.” I turn, fumbling in my pocket for my key. I drop it. I crouch down to pick it up, still juggling the camera box. My visitor makes no move to help.
I stand up and turn to unlock my door. He’s behind me, up close.
“Bad choice, love. You’ll find nothing but trouble here. I’ve no idea why Tom hasn’t just turned you in. Always a sucker for a pretty face and a sob story, our Tom.”
Yeah, tell me about it
.
“But understand this, you scheming little bitch, I
will
turn you in. In a heartbeat. The first sign of any trouble from you, or if any of your nasty little mates show up, you’ll be locked up quicker than you can say ‘Smile, please’. And just so’s we’re clear, from now on you stay away from my home, my family. Got that?”
I nod.
“No more cosy teas at Black Combe. No walks on the moors with Rosie. You stay well away from us. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Yes. Just get out of my garden, leave me alone.” Desperate to get away from this vile man, I’ve finally finished fumbling with the lock. I start to open my door, just wanting to run and hide inside. He has other ideas. He leans around me, and places his hand over mine on the door handle, preventing me from turning it, from getting into my refuge. Scared now, I start to struggle in earnest.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving. And now, I think I’ll take that.” And he’s snatched my camera, he’s going off with it down the path. My thousand-pound camera, the tool of my trade.
“Hey, that’s mine.” I start after him. He turns a malicious smile on me.
“Not nice, being robbed. Is it?”
And he’s gone, leaving me crouching, shaking, on my doorstep, empty-handed.
You lying pig. We had a deal! I want my camera back.
Excuse me?
You beat the living daylights out of me then you sent your friend to have his fun too. What big brave men you are.
What the fuck are you talking about?
The deal’s off. I want my camera back. Then I’m leaving.
Ashley, you are NOT leaving. You owe me. What camera?
Go to hell!!!
My phone’s ringing. Tom Shore calling
.
I reject his call. And the next five. There is no way I want to talk to that lying, cheating scumbag. Not again, not in this lifetime. He was so free with his insults to me yesterday, calling me a liar and a thief, sneering at me. Saying he wouldn’t even fuck me in case he caught something. Like he’d get a chance.
Then he went and told that horrible man about me. After he said he wouldn’t. After I let him do
that
do me. After I agreed to repay him for what Kenny stole, he still sends someone else round to my home, to bully and threaten me. And it’s worked. I can’t stay here. I’m done with cowering, with hiding, with looking over my shoulder to see who’s following me. I can’t live like that. I won’t. Not anymore.
Starting again somewhere else won’t be easy, not least because I sank all my remaining cash, more or less, into the year’s lease on Smithy’s Forge. I can’t somehow see Tom Shore refunding my money! And now I’m another thousand pounds down as I’ll have to find some way of replacing that bloody camera. But I’ll manage. Somehow. Maybe look for somewhere cheap to settle in Cumbria, or the Peak District. Pity, though, this place was ideal. But that was before Tom Shore burst into my safe little haven, shattering my fragile world.