by Donna Alam
Her breath hitches, and her tirade stops.
‘And I want to keep you. Can I keep you?’
Chapter Twenty-Four
BEA
He’s going to kiss me right here in front of everyone. And I’m going to let him. Then there’ll be questions and answers demanded—and more complications than a bowel reconstruction on a two hundred kilo patient.
And just as much shit.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Rory’s tone is gruff, and from my limited vision, Fin looks stunned. And my head is still in Kit’s hands.
My head in his hands, my heart in his gaze.
I blink rapidly and try to turn away, rubbing my eye. ‘Kit’s helping me get some grit out of my eye.’
Is it wrong that I regret losing the heat of his hands?
‘Oh, let me take you to the ladies.’ Fin’s suggestion has far too much enthusiasm for some eye grit. ‘The light in there is much better. I could help?’
Not a chance. No bathroom interrogations just now, thanks. I have other things to sort out.
‘It’s all fixed. Kit helped me see things much more clearly now.’
I slip my hand under the table and squeeze his knee. Maybe I’ve just gone mad because I’m not even frightened as he lifts his head, his smile developing in small increments.
Mad, definitely. Clinically insane.
I came here tonight expecting to find Kit with another. Man? Woman? I wasn’t sure. The only thing I could admit was that the idea of him interested in someone other than me made me feel sick. And before that, I had my proposal. The pitch I was going to make to him. But what was that if not an idea born from the desire to spend more time with him? Yes, mostly I envisaged us screwing. But in essence, that’s what he’s asking for. More everything with the word dating balanced between.
This leap of faith is large, but at least we’ll be jumping together.
‘Looked like you were arguing,’ Rory says gruffly, pulling out Fin’s chair.
‘Who, us? We looked like we were arguing?’ I attempt a look of incredulous innocence, a finger pointing at Kit before myself. ‘I wonder why that was?’
‘It’s why we came back,’ adds Fin. ‘You both looked tense.’
‘I expect it was his suggestion,’ Kit responds. ‘He can’t dance for long on account of his ugly flat feet.’
Rory’s retort is to tell him to piss off.
‘Something seemed to be going on,’ Fin says softly. ‘Not that you have to tell us, of course.’
‘Looks like we’re busted, Bea,’ begins Kit with a wicked gleam in his eye. No, surely he’s not going to . . . not here? Not without discussing it with me first. ‘I may as well tell you, but I’d best move my legs out of kicking distance first because you’re right, Bea is annoyed with me.’
I inhale a deep breath, not sure what I’ll say in response. Mainly to Kit because if this is the way he thinks a relationship works—
‘And embarrassed, I suppose, because I busted her on her Rumblr tastes.’
Fin starts to laugh. Meanwhile, I do a fabulous impression of a puffer fish. Indignant and huffy. My mouth agape. I might not have wanted to announce our relationship plans tonight, but I didn’t want my gay GIFs outed instead!
‘You absolute—’
‘Quiet ones are always the worst,’ he says, cutting me off. ‘But this one?’ He hooks a thumb in my direction, and with a slow shake of his head, he says, ‘I was so shocked, and her a person of such professional standing. What she has on there had me clutching my pearls.’
‘Aye, more likely your dick,’ interjects a laughing Rory.
‘She likes them rough and ready.’
‘And hard,’ adds Fin.
‘Whose side are you on? I’m never sharing anything with you again!’
‘She’s got me now, hen,’ says Rory. ‘Fin doesn’t need Rumblr kicks.’
‘You wouldn’t be up for half the stuff she’s got on there.’ Kit taps my phone with his index finger. ‘It was shocking to me, and I’m a man of the world.’
‘You’re a cock, that’s what you are!’ Okay, so he has a big cock, but really? I get that he’s trying to throw them off the scent, but my Rumlr feed? And so sneaky!
Fin and Rory continue to laugh at my expense as Kit comically regales them with the amount of man-loving I have stored on my phone.
I sit quietly, drink wine, and stew. I might send him a few murderous looks, too, because he must’ve gotten a really good look. So much for keeping those interests to myself.
‘Come on; I’ll make it up to you.’ I suddenly realise Kit is standing by the side of my chair. ‘I’ll stop teasing you if you’ll dance with me.’
‘Manipulative and sneaky,’ I grumble, placing my hand in his.
As we step down onto the dance floor, Kit’s light-hearted mask falls away. His cool grey gaze now filled with heat, his eyes almost smouldering.
We face each other as, one hand at my waist, his other lifts mine to shoulder height. I feel so small in his arms as I place my palm on his chest. And strangely at home.
‘Those images turned me the fuck on.’ His head bent, his words are raspy hot breath against the skin of my neck. ‘Let’s table what it all means for a discussion some other place. Like your bed.’
‘I like your thinking,’ I whisper in response, my body moving seamlessly with his. I should’ve known he’d be a fabulous dancer on account of all the moves he has between the sheets.
‘That would mean letting the pussy out of the bag, which,’ he responds, ‘for the record, I’m in favour of.’ It must be obvious I’m missing his point as he says. ‘Rory’s place still looks like a bomb site.’
‘So he’s staying with Fin?’
‘Yep. Unless you have some other plan?’
My heart sinks to my stomach. ‘No, and I’m working tomorrow.’
‘Sunday?’ he growls.
‘I’m going to the christening; flying up to Scotland on Saturday evening.’
Kit hisses a curse. ‘This would be Fin’s friend, Ivy, and the movie star? That’s this weekend? Do you have to go?’
‘To a christening in a castle with its own church and moat?’ Of course, I’m going! Weren’t you invited?’ I find my smile slipping, desperately wondering if I can get him added to the invitation list.
‘I have an invite. I met Dylan Duffy at the last hotel we opened. He’s a good bloke, actually. I just hadn’t planned to go. My PA made sure the wee one got a gift.’
‘You should come,’ I say immediately, and his mouth curls in a sexy smirk.
‘I plan to,’ he replies suggestively. ‘It just looks like I’d be doing so in my hand tonight.’
‘Come on; it’ll be fun. I’ll make sure it is . . . ’
‘And stay in the castle with Rory and all your friends? What I have planned for you is going to take some time, darlin’. Stone walls might muffle the noise of your ecstasy, but next time I get you into bed, we’re staying there for some time.’ His eyes gleam with suggestion and sex as he adds, ‘They’d send out search parties.’
My heart begins to race at the possibilities, the pictures his words paint.
‘You should definitely come,’ I say quickly, though he smirks again. ‘We can stay somewhere else, and being there together will be our statement. Fin will be so busy with Ivy and the baby, and Rory—’ Oh, hell, Rory. What about him? ‘What will he say?’
‘I’m almost sure you’re saying something of note, but it’s hard to concentrate when your nipples are waving at me.’
I look down and quickly back. ‘They are not. Be sensible; Rory!’
‘Two words that should never be said in the same breath,’ he grumbles. ‘Rory will be fine. Surprised, but okay. He knows I’ve been with women before; he’s just under the impression it’s one or the other and that I prefer men.’
‘And you don’t . . .?’
‘I prefer you,’ he growls.
In a moment of madness and a spike of courage, words shoo
t from my mouth. ‘Would you be interested in men with me sometime?’
Kit throws back his head and groans so beautifully. ‘Now I really can’t concentrate on account of all the blood flowing from my big head to my little head.’
‘It’s hard to tell which is which,’ I say with a giggle. ‘But I think I’d like to. With you, I mean.’ As we dance just out of Fin and Rory’s gaze, I lift to my toes, placing my mouth against his neck. I feel him swallow under my lips, his arm feeding around my back and pulling me to him.
‘I heard you were bringing someone tonight,’ I whisper against his skin. ‘I didn’t like it.’
‘So you thought you’d torture me just now?’ His tone borders on sardonic, one questioning eyebrow raised. As I lick his neck, he curses, murmuring something that seems to accuse me of having sadistic leanings.
I lick my lips, a motion he doesn’t miss. ‘After the night at the hotel, I had it in mind to proposition you.’
‘That sounds better,’ he purrs. ‘Go on; I’m all ears.’
‘I was going to offer you myself. An arrangement, sort of.’
‘You were interested in a fling?’ His hand tightens on my waist, heat burning through my boring dress.
‘I was thinking more of a . . .’ My brow creases, hesitant now to say the words. ‘A sort of set date for sex thing.’
‘You wanted to use me for my body?’ I wince, his chest moving under my hand as he laughs. ‘And in your mind, were we syncing our calendars tonight?’
‘Don’t tease,’ I mumble. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘And now?’
‘I find I want something I’d never considered.’
‘At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl, ouch.’
‘I’d never considered it because I never foresaw us as a possibility. I really didn’t think you were that sort of interested in me.’
‘Not in the café, or hotel? Not when I had my fingers between your legs? I’m not some kind of sex fiend. I do have to like the people I fuck.’
‘And you like me.’ My voice seems small.
‘More than you seem to appreciate. I don’t know how to put it any plainer than to tell you thoughts of you fill my fucking head. I can’t work for thinking of you. When I’m at home, I wonder what you’re doing. I’m driven mad by the need to know you—obsessed with knowing your real name!’
‘It’s really not that interesting,’ I answer, laughing. ‘You’re going to be so disappointed.’
His hands tighten again as he says, ‘Never. I’m interested in everything about you.’
I feel so dizzy—so deliriously happy. I feel like I never want this dance to end.
‘So we’re going to date?’
‘It would never have worked.’ My heart misses a beat, starting again as he qualifies his statement. ‘Casual sex wouldn’t have been enough for us.’
‘What are we going to do now?’ As Kit continues to twirl me around the dance floor, I let my eyes glide to Fin. She’s still watching, though pretending not to. Goodness knows what she’s making of this.
‘We tell them.’
‘But not tonight.’
‘You think you’re fooling her?’ Kit follows the direction of my gaze.
‘No, just keeping you all to myself for one more night.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
BEA
Saturday I’m back at the hospital, though my mind is anywhere but here. I can’t ever remember feeling as distracted as I do today. But it’s a good thing. I mean, I’m not so unfocused I’m threatening lives.
I’m just . . . a little love-struck and teenager-y. Which is a very new sensation for me. Maybe I’m dick drunk? But I don’t think so. The sex is great, and Natasha was absolutely right about bisexuals because Kit is like the sexual unicorn personified. Without the whole horse thing, unless we’re talking about him being hung.
Truthfully, I think the appeal has less to do with Kit being bisexual and more to do with him just being him.
As in, as dirty as all get-out.
No clinics are held on Saturday, and while it sometimes sucks to work weekends—especially when your friends have already left for Scotland for tomorrow’s christening and movie star schmooze—the day is usually a little quieter. So much so that, when one o’clock rolls around, I’m able to grab some lunch in the staff restaurant.
Management says restaurant. I ask, where is this place?
It’s definitely more of a canteen than anything.
I queue, pay for my sandwich, a bottle of water, and a slice of pre-packaged carrot cake, and then head off to find a secluded table to eat and scroll through my phone. Because no one wants to be overlooked during their Rumblr perve. As I make my way to a table by the window, I swipe an abandoned newspaper from one of the tables I pass, wondering how often Kit or Rory get pap’d.
Rather them than me, I think.
I eat and I scroll, making a few mental substitutions for Kit’s face in a couple of the GIFs, and then, as I’ve a few minutes left, I flip open the paper for a quick read.
Ick. The newspaper might be a cast-off rather than one I’ve bought, but even I have better taste than this tacky tabloid. Had I realised it was from one of the country’s most inflammatory presses, I’d have been more inclined to leave it or pick it up and chuck it in the bin. Not interested in the rubbish a rag like this prints, I decide to get back to work.
The chair grates against the floor as I push it back, gathering my trash. I flip the newspaper closed then quickly open it again. Something about the photograph under a screaming headline stood out.
The image is of a man in a suit coming out of an elegant building, clearly shocked by both the flash of the camera and the presence of a tabloid reporter.
He’s not draped in women dressed like prostitutes and doesn’t appear to have a bag full of kittens to throw into the Thames. So it’s not immediately clear why the headline screams The Right Dishonourable!
Until the familiar setting and the text all fall into place.
MP Member of Exclusive SEX CLUB! reads the subheading.
In the big splashy front page pic, the he in question—apparently a British Member of Parliament—looks horrified. And well he should; he promotes himself as an upstanding family man and is apparently calling for a government crackdown on what he terms as ‘Britain’s degeneration into vice’. At least, according to the article. As well as horrified, he also looks pretty horrific, the bright camera flash shining off his balding pate, and his mouth open in a silent threat.
Front page news that might mean something to those interested in the lives of others or perhaps the government, but for me, it’s not the article or the headlines that grab my attention.
Just the building. One I recognise, at least from the outside.
The uniformed sash windows. The black front door with the gleaming brass letterbox, and the tall bay tree sentries. The same club I saw Kit leaving the morning I almost punched him.
Despite feeling icky about reading this awful rag, the tenuous connection I have to this story urges me to continue reading. After scanning the tiny column of text—most of the page taken by photographs and the headlines—I turn the page to a double page feature spread. It’s littered with photographs that appear to have been taken without any of the subjects’ notice. A married couple who present a breakfast show, an actor or two, and other persons of note, all coming or going from the building I recognise. With a small jolt, I notice an image in the bottom left hand corner is of Kit Tremaine.
The picture was definitely taken without his knowledge and during the evening, though it’s hard to tell if he’s leaving or arriving as he stands with one hand on the door and the other on a woman’s ass. It’s captioned as Kit Tremaine, Playboy Hotelier Plays. It’s very unlike how he was described in the article I read the other day. That the woman isn’t me is . . . okay. I’m not keen on the whole “playboy” thing, but it’s not like he was created for me last week, totally fuckable but virginal and
unused. There were women before me. And men. All totally cool, except . . . he’s wearing the same suit as he wore last night.
And he was as hard as a rock when we parted ways.
That doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. A man doesn’t say he can’t function daily for thoughts of you—doesn’t ask if he can keep you—and then go fuck at a sex club the same day. Night? Because, in this picture, he must be fucking, or at least about to, by the way his hand is placed.
His body language is so territorial and something I understand because I feel . . . angry. Irrationally betrayed. And a little bit sick as I scan the text for further clues.
The club, rumoured to be called the Den, is owned by a wealthy property developer by the name of Daniel Masters. Ken Pritchard, member for Ross under Lyme, was photographed leaving the building at 1am this morning. Mr Pritchard was unavailable for comment at his constituency this morning . . . blah-blah-blah.
Membership fees are rumoured to be in the tens of thousands and include a cover charge for kinky shows, orgies, and the use of exclusive themed rooms. More blah.
When contacted, Mr Master’s office declined to comment. Hardly surprising.
So many famous and wealthy clients, proven by the photographs taken over just . . . one twenty-four-hour period.
He was there.
Kit was there last night after leaving me.
My beef sandwich turns to a lead weight in my stomach. I swallow strongly against the idea of its reappearance, doing what I can to shut my emotions down.
I carefully fold the newspaper closed, the sheer force of my own will preventing me from breaking down. I glance at my watch and calculate how much longer I have to be here at work. It doesn’t do to see the doctor crying, even if she feels like her heart has been dropped from a great height.
Fin is, of course, in Scotland when I get home. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.
Could this be over before it has even begun?
Why am I hurting? How come it was so easy to let go of Jon, yet Kit’s words feel like they’ve pried open my chest? This is exactly why I should be stronger, why I should avoid relationships. I should’ve gotten in my keep-it-casual proposal first . . . and I really am an idiot if I believe that would’ve kept my heart from his reach.