And the next second, she looked into his eyes. She was probably staring at him as wildly as a madwoman, but she was utterly unable to help herself. Deeley had never felt this lack of control over her own body; it was utterly and completely humiliating. How she would ever recover from it, manage to say goodnight and go back downstairs, she didn’t know. She couldn’t even let go of him – her hands were still wrapped around his arm for dear life . . .
His eyes were a brighter blue than she had realized. Brighter and more intense, as if they were burning up. Deeley couldn’t look away. Her knees started to buckle under her, and he caught her with his other arm. Or maybe he reached up and pulled her down; maybe her knees didn’t buckle until he did that, dragged her down onto the sofa next to him. She never knew. She just knew that one moment she was still on her feet, and the next she had landed on the sofa, her jean-clad bottom sliding across the leather right beside him.
Her hands slid up his arm; she couldn’t believe how big his biceps were beneath her palms, how wide his shoulders were. Deeley was the tallest of her sisters, and despite what Matt had said earlier, not skinny. That was Maxie, who kept an eagle eye on her weight. And yet, running her hands up Matt’s arms, she felt tiny, like a doll next to him. A little moan escaped her at the feel of his skin; his arms tightened around her, one huge hand round her waist, the other in her hair, cupping the back of her head, pulling her towards him, and as his head came down she tilted her own eagerly up to meet his lips, moaning again with excitement.
The little noises Deeley was making would have embarrassed her utterly if she hadn’t already felt that she had lost all control over herself. She wrapped her arms around his neck, dragged his head down, tangled her fingers in his short curls, kissed him with a pent-up passion that she hadn’t even known she possessed. And she realized, with a shock like a slap across the face, that she couldn’t even remember the last time she had kissed a man like this. Her sexual encounters in LA had never been emotional; they had only been about scratching an itch, relieving the sexual frustration of a young, healthy woman all too aware that the boyfriend who was allegedly making love to her most nights was actually going at it on a constant basis with his gorgeous male personal trainer.
She’d hardly even kissed the guys she had casual sex with. The one thing that was absolutely banned for Deeley was for her to form any sort of romantic relationship; Carmen had made it clear that Deeley could do whatever she wanted, as long as no man could ever claim boyfriend status, because that could easily lead to precisely the kind of press story that Deeley’s presence in Nicky’s life was intended to avoid.
Deeley had understood completely. She’d limited herself to pool guys and tennis pros, employees who knew to keep their mouths shut. She’d even shown off about her flings to Nicky, who’d taken a lot of vicarious enjoyment from Deeley’s wild stories. She’d been young, free, single, and banned from getting serious with any man; she’d done nothing wrong, had nothing to feel remorse about.
But now, kissing Matt with everything she had, wrapped in his arms, her head spinning, she did look back on those five years in LA and feel a huge wash of regret. Because, although she’d had fun, she had cheated herself of anything like this. She’d cut herself off from feeling this intense, dizzying desire. Matt’s mouth, his hands on her, were hot as fire, burning her up. Her mouth opened under his and their tongues touched, the warm wet sensation making her moan yet again, her eyes closed tight so she could feel the sensations even more strongly, more deeply. A rush of heat fizzed like a Catherine wheel deep down in her, spinning, sending off sparks, driving her crazy.
His tongue drove into her mouth, and she responded by trying to pull him even closer, wrapping her arms even tighter around his neck, writhing against him. Between her legs a pulse was beating, faster and faster, driving her on, and he wanted exactly what she did, because the hand behind her back slid down, caught under her bottom and lifted her whole body, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, snuggling her onto his lap, positioning her between his thighs, her knees pulled up to the side, so her whole upper body was pressed even closer to his.
The feel of him below her drove her wild, the sheer solid width of his thighs, the heavy muscles, strong as tensile steel. She dragged herself along them, further and closer, pushing her pelvis right into his, their mouths still locked in a frantic, deep kiss, as if they would die if they weren’t kissing.
Neither of them said a word. It would break the fragile spell. Deeley knew all too well that the reason they were kissing with such desperation was that they were trying to block out everything around them. Matt was almost hurting her, his grip was so strong; his fingers dug into her bottom as she moved, as she found where she wanted to be, where she was frantic to be; and her eyelashes fluttered, her eyes were shut so tight, as she jammed herself into him, and felt his hard cock pushing up towards her through the heavy material of his tracksuit bottoms.
Oh, thank God – he’s all in proportion, she thought with a flood of relief. She clung to his neck, gasping into his mouth, as she lifted herself just fractionally and then lowered herself against him, rubbing him just where she needed it so badly. A scream escaped her as she felt him slide between her legs. She felt his straining width through her jeans and knickers, through his tracksuit bottoms, and the pressure of him against the seam of her jeans sent a lightning bolt of pleasure right up her, a stab of extreme sensation that was almost an orgasm in itself.
She wasn’t even straddling him. It’s like riding side-saddle, she thought dizzily, rocking back and forth, increasing the pressure, panting hard, almost unable to breathe, because his hand clamped on the back of her head was holding her right against him, his tongue even deeper in her mouth now, echoing exactly what his cock wanted, very badly, to do to her. I could come like this, she realized, amazed, her hips throbbing, her entire body pounding, desperate for its release. I could come like this, right here, right now, again and again and again . . .
And that was what stopped her, like a bucketful of cold water thrown in her face. She froze dead where she was. If that happened, some huge Rubicon would have been crossed, and then nothing would stop them from actually doing it, from having sex right here on the sofa that Matt shared with Devon . . .
The thought of having sex with Matt was so overpowering that Deeley had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands until pain stabbed through her to distract herself from the vivid mental images that were flashing before her. Pulling away from him was the hardest physical thing she’d ever done; it was as if they were superglued together, as if she were ripping away layers of her own skin as she managed to sit back up. Every millimetre of distance she gained between their bodies was a hard-won victory.
‘We can’t do this,’ she said in a tiny, stifled voice.
‘No . . .’ Matt managed to say, jerking his own torso back from her as best he could, and wincing in pain as the rapid movement sent a spasm down to his injured ankle.
She was sitting up now, catching her breath, trying to still the mad race of her heartbeats; Matt dragged his hands off her as she pulled away, dropping his hands to his sides. As she watched, he actually slid his hands under his legs, wedging them under his thighs, as if he needed to make absolutely sure that he couldn’t impulsively reach out and touch her.
Deeley glanced briefly at his face, lit by the flickering firelight, and had to look away immediately. It was too painful. Swinging her feet to the floor, she scrambled off the sofa, taking a few steps away from him before she stopped and got her balance, reaching out to grab her jacket and bag. She practically ran to the living room door, each step on the polished wood floor sounding as loud as a thunderclap in the utter, funereal silence. Grabbing onto the doorjamb, she stopped for a second, feeling that she ought to say something, ought to clarify that what they had just done was terrible, horrendous, that it would never, ever happen again; but then, tears already starting, she knew that she didn’t need to say a word. They were already
both drowning in guilt.
Stumbling out into the hall, she ripped at the handle of the door to the back stairs. She practically fell down the steps, she was in such a hurry to get away from Matt, away from temptation; and when she tumbled through the connecting basement door, she actually turned and slid the bolt that locked it from the outside. She didn’t think for a moment that Matt was going to pursue her, limp down the back stairs on his crutch to try to start things up again where they had left off. No: the lock was symbolic, a message to her. That door was totally off limits, now and forever. She was never, never going up into that house again.
Gasping for breath, she ran into the bathroom. She was so riven by different emotions that she didn’t know how to cope with the physical sensations: she wanted to cry, to scream, to throw herself down on the bed and pound it with her fists like a child. And she also wanted, very badly, to go back upstairs. To fuck Matt senseless, to grind herself into him, to forget anything she’d ever learned about loyalty and honour and moral behaviour, to spend the entire night having wild sex with Matt till they both passed out, exhausted, in a tangle of arms and limbs and bed sheets . . .
No! Deeley twisted on the cold tap with quick, frenzied jerks of her wrist, then plunged both hands under it, gasping at the cold water on her pulse points. She looked at herself in the mirror, and winced. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright as stars, her skin glowing golden and radiant. She looked like a woman in love, or at least the full blush of lust.
Filling her palms with cold water, she splashed great handfuls over her face. She didn’t stop till she was dripping, water running down her nose and chin, splashing back into the basin. Until she had got some kind of grip on herself, taken down her temperature. Grabbing a towel, she blotted her face, not caring if her make-up was running, her hair wet. Rubbing her face as if she were trying to do an inexpert microdermabrasion, she went swiftly back into the living room and stood there for a moment, thinking fast. Almost in spite of herself, her gaze swung around the room to the locked door in the wall, the door that led up to Matt, and she felt her features soften, her body start to yearn for him.
I can’t stay in this flat a moment longer. This is much too dangerous.
Throwing the towel on the floor, she strode into the bedroom, pulled out a big soft leather Anya Hindmarch overnight bag, and started throwing clothes into it. Jeans, t-shirts, sweaters. Nothing smart. A handful of her favourite lace Leigh Bantivoglio French knickers, a couple of bras, some sports clothes, an Etro swimsuit, silk La Perla pyjamas, socks, her cashmere slub-knit Signoria throw in pale heather, big as a blanket but fine enough to pull through a slender bracelet, her ultimate comfort wrap.
Comfort clothes, in fact. Not only nothing smart, definitely nothing sexy. Picking up the bag once it was nearly full, she ran into the bathroom and scooped everything into a big Clinique toiletry bag. Dumping that on top, she closed and zipped the overnight bag and slung it over her shoulder. Pale yellow leather, she thought with a flicker of humour, looking down at it. Get me, what a rich bitch! What the hell was I thinking, spending all that money on a bag that’s bound to get dirty as soon as I actually travel with it!
Oh, that’s right. It wasn’t my own money. She pulled a face. Well, enjoy this bag while you can, Deeley. And keep it clean. Because you’re going to be selling it on eBay soon enough, just to get a roof over your head.
All her vital documents were in the Fendi handbag. She added that to the weight on her shoulder, and made sure everything was turned off before she locked up. Deeley didn’t know where she was going, but one thing was sure: when she came back to Green Street, it would be just to clear out the rest of her stuff from the basement flat. No way could she spend one more night under her sister’s roof, accepting her sister’s hospitality, when she had nearly just had sex with her sister’s husband.
The memory of what she had just done was a smack across the face. Flinching, she dashed up the outside steps and practically sprinted along the street to where it debouched into Park Lane; she was bound to find a cab there. Her hand was flung up as soon as she reached it, and almost instantly a black taxi squealed to a halt.
‘Where to, love?’ the cabbie said, swivelling to look at her, as she tumbled in, setting the bag on the seat beside her.
‘Heathrow,’ Deeley said. ‘No . . .’ She had a feeling that Heathrow was more for big international flights; wasn’t Gatwick the airport that served closer locations, did more charter flights? She’d have a better choice of last-minute destinations with Gatwick, surely?
‘Gatwick,’ she said, sinking back into the seat, closing her eyes, grateful that it was dark outside, that he wouldn’t be able to see her expression. ‘Take me to Gatwick, as fast as you can.’
Tears started to flood out, dampening her eyelashes, pouring down her cheeks. Finally, she could give way to some sort of physical release, and the relief was tremendous.
Deeley cried all the way to the airport.
Devon
Sod them all, Devon thought defiantly, staring at herself in the dressing room mirror. I’m going to be amazing.
She looked wonderful, which was the main source of her confidence. In the two-and-a-half weeks since her blowout at the meeting with the BBC, Devon had embarked on a crash diet, and it had definitely stripped away some of her excess weight. She’d spent hours on the internet, working out which regime would best suit her; she’d immediately ruled out anything that involved fasting (she knew she couldn’t manage that) or juicing (she needed to chew on food to feel satisfied). The meals that you could have delivered to your home on a daily basis all seemed to require you to put in extra vegetables, and for the amount they charged, that seemed a con.
Of course, she could have gone really upmarket, had a personal chef cook tiny diet meals for her every day, but how would it look if that leaked out to the papers? FAT PIG DEVON CAN’T COOK SLIMMING FOOD. She shivered at the mere idea.
No, she had to be discreet about this. And what she’d finally settled on had a simplicity that she liked a lot: plus, she could eat as much as she wanted. Which, for someone as naturally greedy as Devon, was perfect. It was an egg-only diet, which meant exactly what its name indicated. You hardboiled vast amounts of eggs, and you ate as many of them as you fancied. Nothing to dress them, no oil or, God forbid, mayonnaise. You could put spices on them. Devon had gone a bit mad with salt and sweet paprika, just to give them some interest.
There was only one downside to the egg-only diet. It played havoc with your digestion. In other words, it blocked you up and made you very farty indeed. Devon had started to add in cherry tomatoes, too, on the principle that they were pretty much calorie-free and would give her some fibre; they’d helped with the first issue, but not the second. For the last fortnight, she’d been sleeping in the guest bedroom; Matt had been noble and uncomplaining about the situation, but she got sick of apologizing.
And, to be honest, she hadn’t minded having an excuse not to share a room with Matt. The state of her marriage was not a subject she wanted to examine too closely at the moment. She was beginning to wonder whether her reluctance to have sex with her husband was really all down to her dislike of her own body, or a more fundamental sign that her marriage was in deep trouble . . .
‘Devon?’ A runner for 1-2-3 Cook poked his head into the dressing room. ‘We’re almost ready. Can I take you to the green room?’
He jerked his head back just as abruptly, having sensed a certain odour in the air.
‘Um, I’ll wait in the corridor,’ he said quickly. ‘Till you’re ready.’
Damn, Devon thought, standing up. Is it that bad? She’d lit a Space NK candle as soon as she got in here, Blue Hyacinth; she’d thought the sweet, heady scent would have covered any smells she had been making. Well, apparently not. Oops.
She shrugged as she surveyed her body in the mirror. I may be a bit gassy, but I’ve lost nearly half a stone already. So sod it – I’m thinner! That’s all I care about!
Devon had literally spent days picking out the clothes she would wear on live TV. A black crêpe Ghost blouse, fitted close to her now slimmer body, with a pretty Victorian round collar and black mesh yoke, slightly transparent. It was unbuttoned just to the start of her famous cleavage, giving a hint of bosom without showing so much that it would be unsuitable for daytime. Her denim Karen Millen pencil skirt smoothed down her bottom, and black patent knee-high boots drew attention to her newly slim legs. Underneath, of course, she wore a skin-tight slimming slip whose heavily-Lycraed material sucked her in as much as humanly possible. Its constriction meant she couldn’t make any sudden movements, but you didn’t want to do that on TV anyway. And it reminded her to keep pulling in her tummy, which was definitely a good thing.
Her hair and make-up were perfect. She’d brought Gary up from London with her for the purpose. Gary knew exactly what daytime TV required: he had blended on even more foundation than normal so her skin looked preternaturally perfect, while dialling down the eye make-up and lipstick. The women who watched afternoon TV would be alienated from a Devon who was made-up as if she were on the red carpet; what Gary had done so superbly was to make her look like a heightened, naturalistic version of herself. Only flawless.
‘All right, love?’ he said now, popping back into the dressing room, giving her a quick once-over, and rummaging through his silver train case for some lip stain, which he reapplied to her mouth. ‘I just saw Elton John in the corridor – oh dear, all that money, and he’s still got jowls hanging under his chin! I wanted to say, “Oi, bulldog-clip it, dear!”’ He giggled. ‘Now some more lip gloss,’ he continued, dabbing it expertly onto Devon’s reddened lips. ‘Ugh, it pongs in here! That candle really hasn’t worked, has it? You’ll have to hold them in while you’re filming, love. You don’t want to be farting all over the food.’
Bad Sisters Page 21