The Polly Principle by Davina Stone

Chapter 2

Solomon Jakoby—Solo to just about everyone who knew him—pulled up the rusty bolt of the French doors to his room and kicked them open with the heel of his boot. A quick glance revealed that the wood was rotting beneath peeled paint. This place was seriously falling apart.

He needed another cigarette. On Fridays and Saturdays he allowed himself three after 5 p.m. He wasn’t stupid enough to let it go further; he knew he could probably become a chain smoker if he let himself.

Blame it on a shit year. And now, it was time for his luck to change. Except he didn’t believe in luck, other than the kind you made for yourself. And wasn’t that exactly why he was here? To force his luck to change?

He walked out onto the wide veranda of the hotel. Weird old place. Compared with the east coast, Western Australia was so vast, so empty. He liked the spacious skies, the red dirt and roads that went seemingly forever. And so far, the women—or at least one of them—were hellish cute.

He slid the cigarette from behind his ear. It was a habit he’d learned from his pop, and a way of keeping the packet out of reach. Fishing the lighter out of his jeans pocket, he leaned on the wooden balustrade, hoping it wasn’t as rotten as the door. He tapped the cigarette like Pop used to, put it to his lips and flicked the lighter, once, twice, then dragged until the nicotine hit the back of his throat.

Somewhere out in the shadowy bush an owl hooted morosely. Solo blew out a smoke ring and thought—yet again—about his encounter with the woman called Polly. He’d never have placed her as a social worker. Way too… sexual. Christ, what would her young clients do with themselves when she walked in? His mouth twisted into a rueful smirk. Didn’t bear thinking about.

She’d hit him between the eyes as soon as she burst out onto the patio. 1950s film star curves: real hips, serious cleavage, small waist, all squeezed into a silky red dress. A head full of black curls that bobbed and bounced and then, when he’d interrupted her strange mutterings, those vivid green eyes appraising him had started a throb in his groin that hadn’t happened for too damn long.

He wouldn’t have said she was his type, but clearly his body had other ideas.

Fuck.

Oh, yes. She made him want to. No words, no foreplay, just a wildly primitive, let’s-get-down-and-dirty urge. With full permission, of course. And Polly sure looked like someone who would give it.

The thought surprised him; he’d never realised he could be such a Neanderthal. He grinned almost sheepishly into the dark. His wild little fantasy was hardly hurting anyone, was it?

And at least it gave him hope that his libido hadn’t completely shrivelled and died.

He took another long drag and stared at the moon rising behind a row of straggly eucalypts. Apart from that darned owl, the quiet out here was eerie.

Until a loud banging started up from the room next door.

The next moment a curvy silhouette catapulted onto the veranda. Adrenaline spiked through Solo’s veins. There was something serendipitous about this.

“Stupid door,” muttered the shadow.

Holy cow, she mustn’t catch him smoking again. Solo whipped the cigarette out of his mouth and hid it behind his back. He’d put it out, but it was the last one of the day and he was buggered if he’d let it go to waste.

“Hi again.”

His voice sounded way too enthusiastic.

“You!” Her head jerked round.

“No need to sound so pleased.”

He heard her sniff. “I can smell smoke.”

“Bloody hell, you’re a beagle. Have you thought of applying for a job at Customs?”

“Oh, you’re such a wit.”

He tapped ash and hoped it wouldn’t fall through the slats. At least there were tiles below. “I try.” He smirked.

“If I’d known you were next door…”

“What?”

“I’d ask to be moved.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re a safety risk, probably set your bed alight with one of those cancer sticks hanging out of your mouth.”

A little demon took hold. Solo brought his hand around and puffed, deliberately. Exhaled slowly. Smoke spiralled upwards in the arc of light thrown from his room.

They eyeballed each other.

“Quite possible,” he said.

For all her protestations, she was shifting slowly along the balustrade towards him, head tilted, thick curls tumbling around her shoulders. He let his eyes quickly pan down and realised she was wearing PJs with the shortest little shorts. Her thighs were pale, temptingly luscious, not slender, but shapely. Capable of wrapping around him and holding on tight for the ride…

Shut it down, idiot. A hard-on was not what he needed right now. Solo shifted his bulging crotch against the balustrade.

Still she shimmied along the rail and, as she got closer, he could see she was smiling, her lips like juicy summer fruit; ripe and ready to sink his teeth into.

He swallowed.

“Put it out,” she murmured as she got up close. Her perfume carried on the warmth of her skin.

“Make me.”

Laughter rolled soft and husky off her tongue and he had to work hard to keep his gaze from straying to those perfect breasts. Suddenly she reached out and grabbed his arm. Surprised, he pulled back and she lost her footing and stumbled into him. The soft fullness of her breasts pressed into his chest, and he arced his arm back to ensure he didn’t give her a cigarette burn. Her fingers latched on tighter, and now her hips and naked thighs were in full contact.

Solo stifled a groan. Polly’s eyebrows arched up.

She’d felt it. His cock, muscling in on the action. Her smile broadened into an evil grin. God, she was all-round gorgeous!

Their cheeks were almost touching, her breath sending shivers down his spine.

“I would. But I don’t like smoker’s breath.”

Holding his breath, he told his cock to back right down. Christ, it reminded him of when he was seventeen, getting it on with Jenny Bailey in the back row of the movies on his first ever date. He was thirty-two years old; surely he could control his libido by now? Even so, he couldn’t stop his words from following where every eager cell in his body was leading.

“Are you implying that if I go clean my teeth—”

“Or I go find my breath freshener—”

“We could come to some agreement—?”

“—That would be mutually satisfying. Maybe.”

“Hmm, that sounds… interesting.”

Those fingers still circled his arm, one stroking excruciatingly sensual circles on the skin just above his wrist. Solo tried not to pant. Her curls were tickling his neck, her lips so close he could just shift an inch to taste them.

“Breathe,” she said, ever so softly against his ear.

“No way,” punched out of closed lips.

“Come on, breathe on me.”

Did she have any idea how turned-on he was right now? Yes, he decided, she sure as hell did.

All of a sudden she released him and he watched, perplexed, as she flounced off in the other direction. She had the most amazing arse. His palms itched to fold around those beautiful butt cheeks and hear the sounds she would make as he pulled her close.

When she disappeared into her room, Solo fidgeted from one foot to the other, pinched the end of his cigarette out with his fingers, then slammed the butt onto the rail and stabbed at it hard several times.

No risk of fire now.

Not that kind, anyway.

Seconds later she was back, brandishing a small spray can.

“Hope that’s not mace?” He laughed somewhat nervously as she sashayed towards him.

“You’d have to be very badly behaved for me to do that,” she purred, coming so close he could see even in the dim light a dusting of freckles on her nose. “Now, open wide.”

He opened his mouth like a baby cuckoo and the cold tingle of menthol and mint hit his tongue, coated the back of his throat.

He snapped his mouth shut.

“Oh no, you don’t get away that easily.” Ebony curls shook vigorously. “One more.”

He opened again. Another shot of iciness.

A giggle escaped her as he pulled a face, then she turned the can, parted her lips and gave a quick spray.

“Why only one for you?” he demanded.

“Alcohol is nowhere near as yucky as smoker’s breath.”

“Want to bet?”

“We’ll see after a taste-test, shall we?” She’d popped the can into a tiny pocket in those tiny shorts and her fingers started an itsy-bitsy spider walk along his forearm and up his bicep.

“Nice—hard—muscles,” she murmured softly and glanced up from under her lashes.

When her splayed hand smoothed over his pecs, a guttural sound escaped him; the sort of sound a starving man would likely make as he was presented with a three-course feast.

She let out another giggle as their noses bumped.

“You haven’t felt anything yet.” He heard his words, husky and full of lust and confidence, two emotions that hadn’t been in his repertoire for a very long time. “Now stop laughing and kiss me.”

* * *

Sometime later,Solo rolled onto his back and tried to catch his breath.

“Wow!” he managed finally.

He heard Polly’s throaty chuckle next to him. “Did that meet with your approval, Mr Motorbike Man?”

“You could say I’ve been right-royally fucked stupid, yes. And you?”

Deftly he removed and knotted the condom, then shifted onto his side, hooking his head onto a cupped hand. He let his eyes follow the outline of a shapely shoulder, dipping down to the hollow of her waist and the swell of her hip, pale as marble in an arc of moonlight from the window.

They’d ended up on her bed after a few minutes of frenziedly throwing each other against the wonky railings, accompanied by thrusting tongues and incoherent words of mutual appreciation. When Solo had worried out loud that there might be dry rot and they’d both end up on the veranda below, him with his jeans round his thighs and Polly with nothing much left on at all, they’d made the decision to stumble into her room. He’d been so turned on he wasn’t sure what to focus on first, but clearly the gorgeous Polly was pretty experienced, presenting him with a condom from God-only-knew-where before wrapping her legs around him and urging him to thrust hard as she straddled him. Moments later one of her hands had taken hold of his and sneaked it between her legs, guiding his movements. In no time it seemed she’d helped herself to a very lyrical orgasm, which brought his own on with such intensity it nearly knocked his head clean off his shoulders.

Solo couldn’t think of the last time he’d had such mind-blowing sex. And with such an amazing woman, who was now saying sweetly, “Oh, yes, Mr-I-fly-solo, this time you took someone with you, right to the ver-ry end.”

“Happy ending, huh?” He couldn’t help feeling smug, even though he wasn’t sure how much of it he could actually claim credit for.

“Oh, yes.”

Here was a woman who revelled in her sexuality.

And, hell, he had no problem with that.

No problem at all.

He reached out and toyed with a curl that had fallen across her face, pulling it straight between his finger. “Real corkscrews.” He smiled.

“Took hours at the hairdressers.”

“Really?”

“Nooo! Why would I? Hate the damn things. Forgot to bring my straightener.”

“You wouldn’t want to get rid of them, they’re classic.”

“I don’t very often; it depends on my mood.”

“Tonight’s was bouncy, huh?”

He leaned in, about to kiss her gently on the lips, then thought better of it. Just because they’d had great sex, he didn’t need to get sentimental. This was neither the time nor place. Something inside him gripped hard and twisted, threatening to jam the air out of his lungs.

He sank back against the pillows, letting go of the curl, which promptly sprang back into shape.

“Hey, don’t go all weird on me.” She sounded slightly irritated. Obviously she’d read the sudden shift in his mood. “I get enough of that in my work. Don’t need it spoiling my play time.”

Solo sucked in a breath. Play time—of course. This girl was out for a good time, that was all. Perhaps his first surmising was right. She was on the rebound.

He cleared his throat. “How do you know the groom?”

Her chin retracted slightly as if surprised. “What made you ask that?”

“No reason.”

“You sure have odd no reasons.”

“Is he your ex?” Solo, crap, mate, you sound like a jealous lover. Shut the frig up.

“That’s not for you to know, Mr Motorbike Man.”

Solo shifted his gaze. He deserved that.

“Anyway, what’s it to you if he was?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged lightly. He really didn’t like that this woman had just taken him to heaven, only to knock him right off the nice little cloud he’d been floating on.

She was a one-night adventure. He needed to get that clear in his head.

He sat up abruptly and looked around for his clothes.

She sat up too, folding her arms around bent knees, and even in the semi-dark he caught sight of her lovely breasts squashing against her thighs. Something stirred and pleaded; one more for the road.

“You’re leaving, then?” Her voice was matter-of-fact but there was ice behind the words. Did she think this was the sum of him? That this was how he behaved with women? When there hadn’t been a woman within coo-ee of his cock for nine months. In all honesty, he owed her the biggest bow for bringing his libido back to life with a bang. Literally.

He found his boxers and jeans in a crumpled heap by the bed. Shoved them on, stood, hitched them up and belted his jeans on the tightest hole he could.

“That was amazing. You were amazing,” he said.

“And there’s a but in there, right?”

“But… I have an early start. I’ve got to be in Perth first thing.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow,” Polly pointed out. He guessed this was her social worker voice. Very calm, very smooth.

“Yeah, it’s the only day the boss could see me to show me the ropes and do the paperwork. I start bam, first light Monday on-site.”

Polly bounced to the other side of the bed and snapped on the bedside light. He winced at the onslaught on his retinas and then blinked at the glory of her all lit up. Those breasts had felt amazing, but they looked even more amazing… large dark areolae on perfect creamy orbs, the rounded undulation of her belly, the tiny little Brazilian thing of dark hair between her legs, and—his gaze snagged on a little serpent tattoo on her inner thigh. Oh god, he was salivating… and then she tugged the sheet up to her chin and narrowed her eyes.

He gulped. Dived for his T-shirt and flung it over his head, tucking it fiercely into his jeans with sharp thrusts of his hands.

“Hmm,” she said, her lips shaping into a slow smile. “You really do fly solo, don’t you?”

He just stared at her. He was the world’s most complicated book right now, but she didn’t need to know about any of that. Where would he even begin? And then there was the irony of her profession… and his.

Hell, what were the odds of them ever meeting again? Unlikely. Perth was a big enough city for the two of them to rattle around without their paths crossing.

Deliberately, he walked around the side of the bed until he was standing above her. She scooted up the mattress and rested her back against the bedhead, eyeing him warily. He bent down and, knowing he would be a goner if he kissed her mouth, touched his lips gently to the tip of her nose.

As he stepped back, those green eyes flew wide and she blinked as if trying to find words.

“Thank you,” he said quietly into the gap. “You’ll never know quite how much I appreciated tonight.”

As he turned and strode through the French doors, around the veranda and into his own room, Solo could feel her energy snaking after him, though he was unable to make out whether she was angry, surprised, amused or all three. He shoved his feet into his boots, his arms into his jacket, swept all his belongings into his rucksack, grabbed his bike helmet and keys, and exited the room.

Yeah, he knew what he had to do.

He had to ride through the night to forget a certain woman called Polly.

And his demons from back home.