A/N: Yes,  it is indeed a double update! Please drop all your thirsty thirsty thoughts into the comments, I really miss hearing from you guys! Hope you're enjoying Jake & Rayna's story <3 xoxo Ami

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thirty | nice

rather than being lush and sandy, most of the beaches in Nice are studded with rocks; these large pebbles – called galets – have been swept from the mouths of rivers over centuries

JAKE

May 9th, 17:46 (GMT +2)
6 days until it happens

I WATCH GOLDEN slivers of Rayna's skin shrink away as she tugs her top back on. My pulse flails, still rapt from the raw, loose, swinging rhythm of her dancing.

I spent two years stationed in Egypt so I've heard this song countless times, seen belly-dancers perform to it, sat in rooms blasting and thudding with it. But until this moment, I've never felt it, never been devastated by it. Rayna's movements were visceral and wild and spellbinding, sweeping me in, winding me up, her hips and her fingers and the tickle of her hair and the rose-syrup of her perfume lingering on her skin, and then spitting me out.

Misshapen and sore, suddenly tinged colder than ice. A minute ago her brown eyes were so warm, but now they've gone flat again, frosted and hard.

She's not sat beside me anymore.

She's propped against the coffee table, legs stretched out in front of her, hands pressed into the carpet. The look on her face promises blood.

I took something from her just now. Saw something I wasn't supposed to see in the bounce of her shoulders, the tender intensity lighting her cheeks, and now she's gonna rip into my chest and extract the deepest, softest bits of me as revenge.

She stays silent for a moment so the "Truth" that spilled from my lips hangs in the air. She lets the suspense widen and climb until it itches.

I reach for the bottle of whiskey perched on the side-table. The glug-glug-glug of it sloshing into my tumbler cuts through the wordless chasm.

Finally, just when the toasted sting touches my tongue, she questions, "Tell me about your tattoo. The one with the woman's name. Who was she?"

The liquor curdles instantly as it scalds down my throat. I lower the cup and it hits the coaster with a jarring bang.

Block it out, turn it off, push it away...

It doesn't work.

Burning rubber, sour petrol, that high-pitched, innocent shriek that I can hear even in the deepest, darkest folds of sleep. Contorted metal, dust, red, red, red, and then black. Black frocks, black blazers, black trousers, black casket, the blackest of dirt.

Black fabric beneath my fingers. I peel my t-shirt off and let it fall to the ground, the stale echo of old grief ringing through my ears. The black letters etched along my left ribs burn.

Something darker than hell shines in her eye. She knew what she was doing asking that question. She knew exactly where to touch to make it hurt.

"Truth or dare." Gravel crunches my voice.

She sees the taut edge to my jaw and hesitates before murmuring, "Truth."

Like clockwork, her fingers tug absently at the tiny chain adorning her wrist. When she's anxious or serious or thinking hard, she runs a fingertip along the faint chain of gold. She never takes it off. It means something.

"Your bracelet."

Her eyebrows mash together, idle fingers springing away from where they were fiddling with her wrist. She glances down as if surprised she'd even been touching it in the first place.

"Where's it from? What does it mean?"

Her top lip quivers ever so slightly.

I expect more fences to go up. Barbwire, snipers lining the perimeter, motion-sensored lasers scanning the impenetrable borders of her fortress, blasting away anything that breathes in her direction.

I expect the question to dig up old bruises and make her taste the metallic, bloody singe of stitched wounds clogging her throat.

But instead, her shoulders soften.

Her lips open and she tells me, clear but quiet, "My dad gave it to me before he died. Twelve years ago, or something like that."

"You don't take it off," I observe.

She shrugs. She reaches behind her, grabs the Grey Goose by the neck and takes a smooth swig.

After a moment's contemplation, she shares, "My dad always followed the rules. He never drank or smoked. He went to the masjid every Friday." She leans her head back and closes her eyes with a tired, resigned sigh. "He worked six days a week for over forty years, never took a vacation, saved every fucking penny..." A bubble of dry, amused laughter breaks past her lips. "...and then he died at age fifty-six of lung cancer before he could even retire."

She glances down the bridge of her nose at me and pierces me with a wry, daring look, lifting her wrist and shaking the bracelet, "I wear it as a reminder. Look where all those rules got him."

All of her reckless, careless, heedless spontaneity falls sharply into perspective.

But I think back to ten years ago, to the wreckage, to Ella, and I'm entirely unconvinced by Rayna's philosophy.

I reach backwards to scratch the nape of my hair. A tiny crick of amusement ghosts my lips as her eyes follow the path of my straining arm, tracing the muscles of my bare stomach as I move.

"Truth or dare," she asks, swiveling her head to look out the window instead. Sunlight lifts off the pool, painting it teal and silver.

"Dare."

She arches a dark brow at me and challenges, making an elaborate show of sounding bored, "I dare you to tell me the craziest thing you've ever done in bed."

Coarse laughter trickles up my neck. "You can't dare me to tell you the truth."

"Stop making up rules," she bites back, fighting away the hint of a grin. "You never specified that from the start."

"I'm specifying it now. Don't be daft."

"Fine." With a hitch of her shoulders, she shifts onto all-fours and crawls towards me til her fingers hit my knees. Heat floods from her touch up into the rest of me. Eyes scraping mine, mischief lacing her tone, "I dare you to show me the craziest thing you've ever done in bed."

Images flit through my brain. Secondary school, uni, stark-raving mad missions scouring every inch of the globe during my time with MI6. There's a vast selection of adventures (and misadventures) to choose from.

I tousle the side of my hair and toss her my most crooked, rakish grin. "Impossible. We've neither the equipment nor the number of bodies for an effective reenactment."

She wrinkles her nose, skeptical. "Are you trying to describe a mass murder or an orgy, I genuinely cannot tell..."

The squiggle crunching the corner of her mouth is bloody adorable. I banish the intrusive desire to melt it away with my lips. Instead, I reach out both hands and use my thumbs to slide her eyelids gently shut. "Fine," I grumble. "Imagine a dark room."

She fights away a smile but her chin twitches. "Mkay..."

"Strobe lights, loud music. Everyone's drunk out of their minds, most everyone's on mandy, it's New Year's Eve–"

"Mandy?" she interrupts. Her eyelids crinkle beneath my thumbs.

"MDMA."

"Oh. Speak English next time."

I'm still waiting for the right moment to give her a proper smack on the arse. "...oh, and I forgot to mention. The dark room. It's a BDSM lounge."

A delighted snicker bubbles through her nose. "Jake the Prude, a sex club?"

I warn darkly, "Interrupt one more time and see what happens."

Her fingers curl around my forearms to keep my hands secured in place. "Fine, fine, keep going..."

"Well, you see. One minute, we're all dancing. And the next, we're all naked..."

She squeezes her mouth into a line to stop the laughter from escaping. "Mhm?"

"Each corner of the room had a... what did they call it...? A toy box."

"Oh no."

"Mm." With that, I pull my thumbs away from their place shielding her eyes. "I'm sure you can surmise the rest of it."

Her thick eyelashes blink open and her gaze gleams. She leans in closer so the round curve of her chest presses into my thighs. "Have you ever shit on or been shit on?"

Oh, dear God... "Ts'not your turn anymore. Also, no, that's bloody fucking filthy. Truth or dare."

A rare, uninhibited giggle escapes her. She drapes her folded arms atop my legs and replies, "Truth."

I should ask something serious, something scalding and achingly personal, something that pummels her in the guts, knocks her into a daze.

"What's your wildest sexual fantasy? And have you actually tried it or not?" is what comes out instead.

Apparently, her answers to my questions this afternoon are all entirely unpredictable.

A pink bloom of heat blossoms her cheeks. She doesn't quite meet my gaze. Instead of becoming flirtatious or seductive or coy, she's suddenly evasive and shy. Pulling away, she reaches for the hem of her top and works it up and off her body. Her t-shirt joins mine in a pile next to us.

"You're joking," I accuse, suspicious.

She shrugs airily. "I'm not answering that question."

I shake my head, disbelieving. "You know absolutely nothing you could possibly say would surprise me, love. I'm serious. Try me."

"I'm serious." She climbs up onto her feet and turns away. "Some things a girl's just gotta keep to herself, okay?"

Before she can stride out of reach, my hands have circled her waist. She doesn't resist as I pull her back onto my lap. My nose grazes the shell of her ear. Fuck it, now I'm curious as all hell. "What is it? Do you want to be shat on?"

"No, what the fuck..."

I chuckle, my lips finding the dip at the base of her neck. "Thank Christ, because I wasn't gonna be able to get behind that one..."

She squirms against my thighs. Her naked skin is warm against mine. My teeth graze her bare shoulder. Quietly, I try again, "You want to be pissed on?"

"Stop being disgusting."

"Fucked at knife-point?" I guess, my fingertips sweeping along her ribcage, thumbs tracing the bottom edge of her bra.

"Already tried that." She tips her head to the side. A tiny breath gushes from her when I fit my lips gently onto her throat.

"Tasered?"

"Been there. Done that."

She sounds bored. My head races.

"Tasered in the vagina?"

"No, thank you." She scoffs, appalled. "Why?" Suddenly wary, "Have you tasered someone in the vagina?"

I sweep her hair away and press my other hand softly against her stomach, biting into her earlobe. "No, but there've been a couple women who've wanted the hilt of my knife inside them."

"It's hot," she admits. She grips onto my arm, my thigh, wiggling deeper into me for friction, for contact. "You ever had one up the ass?"

I consider lying but for some reason decide against it. "Once."

"Me too."

My fingers pinch the button of her trousers, popping it open, slipping down the zipper. She parts her legs and I slide my hand into her jeans, delving past her knickers. We both groan in the same breath. Ragged, into her ear, I grumble, "And yet you won't admit to whatever it is that makes you so fucking wet?"

"Jake," she warns.

I use my teeth to peel away each bra-strap in turn, flicking apart the clasp and letting it fall to the floor. I squeeze the hard, dusky tips of her breasts, nibbling at the soft pit of her neck until her restless lips find mine, open-tongued and parched and whimpery. My fingers press in shallow whirls between her legs. Her hips tremble. Her breathing hitches.

And then I stop.

Pull my hand away, pull my lips away, listen to her seethe with revolted frustration. "Jake. I am actually going to kill you. Where's my gun..."

I scrub a rough palm across my mouth, eyes growing heavy. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

She pushes off my lap and huffs, "A bullet to your kneecap sounds exceptionally easy."

I grab her by the hair, a fistful of those wavy dark strands silken-soft between my fingers. "Can't let you come until your debt has been paid, darling."

There's such blazing fury darkening her eyes that she looks about ready to bite my knob off.

Some deep, twisted part of me thinks I might enjoy it.

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Author's Note [Feb 28th, 2023]:

What's your deepest, dirtiest kink? (No shame zone, I promise!)

xoxo Ami