“What?”
He pulls his jeans off one leg. “I like them on. Heels are hot . . .” Then he loses his balance and topples over as his other leg gets tangled up in half-dry denim. “Shit . . . I’m stuck.”
“Calm down,” I say with a chuckle.
“No chance of that.” He pulls the errant jean-leg off the end of his foot and reaches to pull me back. “I have no idea how long I’m going to last, by the way . . .”
“So, I’d better speed things up,” I say as I push my hands down the front of his shorts. My god, he’s hard. Forget pocket rocket, think cock-a-saurus rex. He inhales a sharp breath as I take him completely into my hand, stroking him until his face is so flushed he looks as if he’s been out in the sun for too long. He raises himself up so he can push his shorts down. I groan as his cock presses underneath me. Shit . . . I don’t think I’m going to last much longer myself. I am more ready than I’ve ever been in my entire life when I feel his hands push the fabric of my underwear aside.
“Oh my god . . . that feels . . . please . . .”
I sense that the tidal wave of pleasure is about to course through my body, so I try to block it out. I don’t want it to happen yet. I dive for his wallet and hand it to him, both of our hands trembling during the exchange. He pulls out a black foil wrapper, rips it open and rolls the condom on. I reposition myself on top of him, but he pushes me back to my feet. “Not like this. I want you naked.”
I stand in front of him as he pulls net and lace down over my hips and legs, then I inhale sharply as I feel his mouth on me. He grips my behind and pulls me in close to his face. I grab his hair and moan wildly when he licks my smooth skin. Thank the gods, fate, luck, karma and whatever else that I mowed the lawn in the shower this morning. My legs feel weak as he takes me into his mouth, and I grip his shoulders as I feel the ripples course again. I’m nearly there, but I want more . . . I’m aching for more, and my god, I know I have every right to be selfish.
I push him back against the sofa and straddle him again, groaning when I feel his cock rising up under me. I lower myself onto him and we both groan deep in our throats.
We start to move together, building a beautiful rhythm, one that feels like more than just sex, like a choreographed dance I’ve always know every step of.
“Oh fuck, Vi . . . Jesus. That feels so fucking good.”
I pick up the pace and he responds by pushing upwards into me. The sound of our lovemaking is glorious . . . if a little squelchy, but I don’t care, and I know from his breathless moans that he’s finding the noise a massive turn-on too. His mouth teases my nipples and he bites down lightly but sharply, the pain shooting into my arousal and intensifying the rumblings that are starting to build once more. I feel his hand pushing between us to find my clit, and it happens moments later. I feel myself contract around him and the ecstasy erupts from my core and trickles in smaller waves through the rest of my body. I fall forward onto him, crying my release into the warmth of his neck. It’s mind-blowing – astonishingly, unbelievably mind-blowing – and I don’t want it to stop. “Oh my god . . . that was awesome,” I say as the shudders eventually dim and my body slowly recovers.
He’s still inside me, so I start riding him again, but he stops me and rolls me onto my back, my head resting on a cushion. He enters me again and I suck in a breath. I lift one leg high onto the back of the sofa while the other dangles towards the floor, giving him scope to plunge deep. My heels dig into his back as his pace speeds up, each thrust threatening to be the last, but he manages to hold on.
Our skin is wet and sticky with sex and sweat as our bodies slam together. He starts to pant in rhythm with his movements, stopping briefly to look at me. His gaze sweeps over my chest, my hair, my lips, and then settles on my eyes. “I love you,” he says innocently, as if I’m the first woman he’s ever fallen in love with. And then I bite down on my lip and tears fill my eyes as I realise I might be.
“I love you too,” I say as a tear escapes. His face momentarily crumbles. Just for an instant. And then he’s buried into my neck, screaming my name and clutching me tighter than anybody has ever held me before.
We lie together, our arms wrapped around each other, for several minutes. I wonder if he’s as stunned as I am. I wonder what comes next.
We don’t speak a word when we finally separate.
Instead, he takes my hand in his and we go to the bedroom.
And then . . . somehow . . . we do it all over again.
27
I didn’t sleep until the sun came up.
I was too impressed by the number of times we’d managed to do it. It was the banging session to end all banging sessions. A shag-a-thon of such epic, gargantuan proportions that the night probably fractured the space-time continuum (I learned that term from Max and his love of Star Trek). I might be bragging, but I’ve had more sex in the last twelve hours than I’ve had in the past three years, so I’m going to allow myself some swagger. It was amazing. He was amazing and I was amazing.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget that first time though. I figure that’s what sex feels like when you’re in love, and I realise I’ve probably never been properly in love. We managed a repeat performance in the bedroom just a few minutes afterwards. Then, he sneaked into the bathroom while I was showering and sealed the deal on an amazing third time.
A jaunt to the kitchen for a snack in the middle of the night somehow resulted in an impromptu escapade on my kitchen worktop featuring some whipped cream, a lemon and half a punnet of strawberries. After that, I think I fell asleep before he did, and I don’t know how many hours have passed, but when I open my eyes and yawn into my pillow, I notice that the sun is high in the sky and my room is lit up with bright sunlight.
The next thing I notice is that I’m alone.
A swell of panic knots in my stomach as reality hits: he’s left me. Shit. He’s left me.
I call out his name, and my heart thuds in my chest when there’s no response. He’s done what he always does. I’ve been humped and dumped. He’s hit it and quit it. Why did I even . . . ?
I sit up in bed, my face burning with the realisation that after everything – after the most amazing night of my entire life – he’s reverted to type, shit the bed and run away. Why? I imagine a little red devil sitting on my left shoulder, sticking a pitchfork into my skull. “You should have known this would happen. You knew he’d never commit. You fell for his lines hook, line and sinker. You knew all along you weren’t his type. You’re such an idiot.”
And I’m supposed to be meeting Naomi from TalentNetwork this morning. I look at my clock and force my eyes wide open to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. 10.36 a.m. Oh my fucking god! If I got dressed and left home now I wouldn’t be in the City until lunchtime. What the hell? The bastard not only sneaked out of my flat and left me with a screwed-up love life, he’s also left me with a screwed-up career.
I give in to the tears. There’s no point in keeping them in. Nobody can see me and nobody can hear me. I sob for a good five minutes. Then another made-up character with wings and a halo distracts me with kinder words: “He told you he loved you. He said you were different. He said he doesn’t want to change a single thing about you. He made love to you like you were the only woman he’s ever fallen in love with.”
I remember every word he said to me – I believed them all – and this makes his abandonment ten times more hurtful. I decide the only thing that would help me now is a) alcohol or b) a gun, so I choose the more pleasurable option and get out of bed, pick up some grey yoga pants off my bedroom floor and a lime-green vest top from the ironing pile, and get dressed. I make a beeline for the half-full bottle of French red I know is in my kitchen cupboard.
I stop still as I pass through my sitting room. The cushions are neatly stacked on my sofa and . . . what the hell? My clothes have been folded neatly and placed in a pile on the coffee table. Bra and knickers sitting proudly on top. What kind of masochistic p
rick tidies up before he does a moonlight flit? He’s even stacked my clothes in size order. What’s up with that? Does he think that’s the least he could do? Is he on the phone with his brother, laughing about humping and dumping some chick but feeling bad enough to give her flat a quick tidy-up first?
I go to the kitchen, find the wine and pour myself an enormous glass. It’s full to the brim, but there’s still a splash left in the bottle so I take a sip and refill. And there’s still some left. Fuck it! I tip my head back and pour the dregs straight down my neck, the warm liquid burning my throat as it rushes into my stomach.
“Jesus Christ all-fucking-mighty, is this the effect I’ve had on you?”
I almost jump out of my skin, and I lose a mouthful of wine down my front in the process. “What the hell . . . How did you get in?”
He rests in the doorway and dangles my keys in the air.
“You took my keys with you when you left? Did you lock me in? How would I have met Naomi for my meeting?”
“I assumed you’d have a spare set somewhere.” He’s grinning, and I have no idea whether I want to kiss him, scream at him or beat the shit out of him. “And . . . it’s kind of a bit late to start thinking about your meeting. Have you just woken up?”
“Yes, and that’s your fault too!”
He opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself. He rolls his eyes and smiles at me in that patronising way men do when you’re epically spitting-feathers-grade pissed off with them but they think you’re cute when you’re angry.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that!” I yell. He walks towards me and I take a step back. “And don’t you dare come anywhere near me either.”
He does as he’s told, and we stand at opposite ends of the kitchen. I think of last night. The memory of strawberries and whipped cream and what we did with that lemon just a few hours earlier invades my mind, and I want to know what the hell is going through his.
“I had to pop out for something. I’m sorry. You were sleeping; I thought I’d be back sooner.”
I sigh and shake my head. I know this is my fault and I hate myself for being so insecure. “I thought you’d just . . . left me.”
The humour in his face is replaced with regret. “I would never do that. How could you even think it?”
Is he for real? “Because I woke up and you were gone.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep all night. I just got up and had a few things to take care of.” He walks towards me and his eyes are drawn to my chest.
“Seriously?” I look down and see I’m smuggling more than a couple of peanuts. Think hazelnuts soaked in red wine. I reach for a towel to dab at the splashes, but obviously the vest is ruined.
“Sorry, line of vision.”
“Line of vision if you’re looking. Did you not get enough last night?”
“I can always make time for more . . .” he says. I roll my eyes at him and he shrugs. “What? You’re hot, I’m completely and madly in love with you, and you’re not wearing a bra. I mean, give a guy a break here!”
“Give you a break? You left me and you let me sleep in, probably on purpose.” He twists his mouth to stifle a grin. “Oh my god, you did do it on purpose, didn’t you? Jesus Christ!”
I barge past him and head back to the bedroom, pulling my vest over my head and throwing it on the floor as I pull my drawers open. I dig out a bra – my most comfortable and least sexy one – and pick out a t-shirt. When I turn around he’s in the doorway. He’s smirking. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch upwards, so I suck in my cheeks and turn away. I get dressed with my back to him.
“I think you look better without a bra on. Especially that bra. Did your grandmother knit that thing?”
I look behind me and scowl at him. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, a few places.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Let’s start with the first place then, shall we?”
“Why are you interrogating me? You were much more fun than this last night.”
I roll my eyes again. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why you love me.”
“That’s why I’m going to knee you in the balls if you don’t answer the question.”
He winces. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Better start talking then.”
“Okay, come with me.”
He walks back into the sitting room. I heave a sigh but follow him. He picks a box up from the coffee table. It’s plain white, letter-sized, flat, and fastened with a red satin bow which reminds me of a graduation scroll. Not that I attended either of my graduations. I couldn’t bear being the only person without a supportive family cheering them on. He hands me the package with a huge, satisfied grin on his face.
I pull the ribbon free and pop open the box. My stomach goes into freefall as pangs of dread stab at the back of my brain. What the hell is he trying to tell me? “I’m a patron of the Royal Opera House?”
“Yes.”
What the hell . . . ? He’s smiling about this? Is he kidding me? This was our bet. He’s telling me he failed to keep his promise not to sleep with a client or colleague and he’s smiling about it?
I slam the box lid down. “Who was she?”
“Eh?” he says as I practically throw the box back at him.
“Who was she? Do I know her?”
“Vi, what’s wrong with you? Jesus, it’s one thing after another. She was you, you dipshit.”
“We don’t work together anymore, Ethan. We discussed this not affecting our bet last night – in this very room – before we . . .”
“Before we had amazing sex a shitload of times?”
“Yes, before that.” I should be feeling pretty stupid, right? Embarrassed, maybe? Yeah well, I don’t. Since I woke up this morning all I’ve felt is completely weak, pathetic and out of control.
“Okay, well I did break my promise. With you, because the second thing I did this morning was call Stella and tell her you were coming to Tribe. And I know what you’re going to say, but I don’t care. I need you. I don’t just think I need you, I do need you. You totally own me, you’re my everything, and if I can’t work with you, I can’t work at all. I can’t be a partner at Tribe without you by my side.”
I don’t know how I feel. My instinct is to stamp my foot and tell him that nobody tells me what to do, but at the same time I’m overwhelmed by the enormity of the gesture – and the gift, which I know came with a six-grand price tag.
“Did Stella say anything about . . . us?”
“No, she didn’t. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
He places the box down on the coffee table and I smile at my neatly folded pile of clothes. I remember how I wanted to kill him when I saw that pile earlier this morning, but now I’m already back to loving him with every single cell in my body.
But I can’t shake off the sinking feeling that’s clawing at the pit of my stomach, hooking my throat into my chest. It’s accompanied by the worst kind of nausea and fear of impending doom. For no real or rational reason, I’m certain this isn’t going to end well, and I can’t seem to free myself from these crippling emotions. I’ve lived with them for most of my life, after all. They came in words said by others. They came accompanied by hate, resentment, jealousy and spite. They were spoken into the air and I breathed them in and they’ve been living inside my brain ever since – nagging at me, reminding me I’m hopeless, ruining my happiness: “You’re not good enough”, “You’re unpopular”, “You’re unfriendly”, “You always say the wrong things”, “You’re too quiet”, “You’re unlovable”, “You’ll always be alone”, “You’re nothing”.
“What’s is it?” he asks with concern in his voice.
I sit down on the sofa and wait for him to join me. I inhale a steely breath. “Remember when I told you I thought I was wrong for you?” He nods and our eyes lock. “Well, I still don’t feel right, Ethan. I’m not ready to believe th
is is real.”
He reaches for my hand and I let him hold me. “It is real, but I understand. I know this is huge . . . and it’s huge for me too. I’m going to help you, and you know what? Despite being an idiot, I know how I’m going to do it.”
“You do?” I ask with a gentle laugh.
His cheeks dimple as he smiles. “Yeah, I’m going to help you by loving you.” He smooths my hair with his palms and kisses me on the cheek. “We can have everything we want and more.”
“I know you think you know what you’re saying, but you don’t know how hard I am to love and . . . god, I want nothing more than to make peace with the parts of me that are dark and lonely. It would be great if you could fix me by loving me, but I don’t think you realise how enormous that task is.”
“We’ve all got dark inside of us, Vi. All of us. You said that to me once before, so you know that too. But I don’t care about your dark because I only see your light.” He leans forward and kisses me. It’s a different kiss again. One that is composed of trust and tenderness instead of lust and passion, but it’s the one I need in this moment. “I told you I loved you exactly the way you are. You question yourself with honesty and you worry about your faults like nobody else I know, but you know why that is? Because most of us are afraid to admit when we’re floundering. Just because I don’t face my demons, doesn’t mean I don’t have any. It just means I’m not as brave as you.”
“I’m sure I’m not brave, Ethan. I don’t feel very brave. I feel like I’m falling apart.”
“Well, I’m going to hold you together.” He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into him. My head tucks into his neck and I smell last night’s rainfall on his clothes.
I run my hands over his chest and nuzzle into him. “If I work at Tribe, what are we going to do about the clause Stella’s put in your contract?”
“Play it by ear,” he says, then he starts to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just wondering why some fucked-up irony fairy magicked your stupid law into a real law.” He gives me a squeeze and kisses the top of my head. I hug him tighter, and I start to realise that this is real. A revolution has taken place. I opened myself up, fought for what I wanted, and I won. Finally, I won. I love him and he loves me.
Just Friends (The Agency Book 1) Page 26