After dinner, we retire to one of the hotel bars even though I’m dying to go to bed—so is he—three courses having almost killed us off. When he asked for my opinion earlier, on what we should do after dinner, I said I’d like to go for a drink, purely because I’ve been left in shock by his revelations. Also, when I went to the powder room between dinner and dessert, I googled him and sure enough, there he was, statistics and all—weight, height, eye colour, teams he’d played for, then a lot of articles ruminating on his premature retirement from football, though the official stance was that it was a family tragedy which led to his decision. I have no doubt, however, the constant headlines about his partying forced his agent and manager’s hand—and he was pushed out.
We’re tucked away in a quiet corner overlooking the courtyard and Ruben appears thoughtful, a glass of whisky and ice in his hand, ready to sip whenever.
“What drugs were you taking, then?” I ask, hoping to catch him off guard. He contemplates his answer and while he takes his time, I sip a vodka and lemonade gratefully, the refreshing tang taking the edge off all that rich wine and sauce of earlier.
For several long seconds he stares at my breasts and similarly, I can’t help but look past the low table between us to gaze longingly at his crotch. My god, he’s magnificent, and fuck is this man clever. For two years, he made me believe he didn’t fancy me—and lied about his career. I need to be careful, because if he knows he can lie about one thing, potentially he might lie about a million more.
It doesn’t matter to me if his drug taking was recreational or to increase his potential on the field, but maybe it’ll help explain what motivates him.
“I was taking everything that made it possible to party harder, but I’m not an addict,” he explains, eyes scanning the room. “Anyway, I did say I’d much rather talk about this in private, did I not?”
I look around us, flailing my arms around dramatically. “It’s mid-February, in Paris, this place is hardly banging. Nobody can hear us. We’re tucked away here, alone. If not here, then where? Nowhere, I imagine, because you’d rather not speak at all. You’d rather continue stringing me along than show some balls.”
His nails tap annoyingly on the wooden edge of his chair arm. He’s aggravated. His jaw ticks and all that masculine energy he’s brewing should alarm me, but all it’s doing is arousing.
“What’s this family tragedy I read about then?” I ask, folding my arms.
Well, if he isn’t going to tell me straight off, he needs provoking.
He seems to shake in response to my words. I fear I’ve said entirely the wrong thing—that he’ll march off and I’ll never see him again…
Then, after several long minutes of lip-biting on his part, he puts down his drink and pushes both hands through his hair.
He stares out of the window and finally talks, albeit with a tight line for a mouth. “My brother was going to be a designer… he was a genius. He was quite a bit younger than me and I should have known better… should have provided him with a better role model, but I didn’t. He saw me having the time of my life with my team mates and maybe he thought he could do that, too. It’s the best of us it gets, Freya.”
I reach across and hold my hand against his knee. “I’m so sorry. I wish you’d told me ages ago. I wish I’d known.”
He turns his eyes towards me, a sad smile playing on his lips. “It’s easier to avoid, right? To not open the can of worms. What happened to him still haunts me even though it was three years ago. I blame myself despite there being outside factors… I can’t help it.”
He holds his forehead and rubs at his temples. I’ve never seen him like this before. I never imagined he could even be like this.
“He died of an overdose?” I ask gently, squeezing his knee.
There’s a lot of nodding, various veins popping out of his forehead, then a tear or two is shed. “He was nineteen. His heart just… stopped. He was never as strong as me, though he wanted to be and tried to be. He wasn’t, though. He couldn’t differentiate between having fun and being dependent.”
“So, that’s why you left football? His death?”
“Partly.” He takes a deep breath, shuddering, perhaps glad to have got it out. “I was in a dark place for a long time after he passed, but then I decided to try and make good. Football wasn’t making me happy, in fact I don’t think it ever did. That’s why I trained to become a counsellor and set up a charity to get kids educated before they even start down that path.”
“It sounds to me like you wanted to go straight. You don’t do drugs anymore, right?”
“No, Freya. No way. Never again.” He looks relieved when he stares into my eyes.
“I wish you’d told me the moment we met. We’d not have wasted all this time. We’d have been together.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to be a better person.”
It’s been bugging me all day… that little voice in the back of my mind. If his feelings for me are as genuine as he’s professing, then why did we waste all that time? Unless he’s not genuine at all and last night was just a good opening for him to start up with someone new. Or, behind the façade, he’s just as fucked up as me… maybe more so.
“So, okay. You said last night… all the time, these past two years… you’ve wanted me… and yet, you bedded other women. So, you misled me about that, too? Or, what? You only decided last night you actually wanted me? Maybe, the other women were fill-ins… I’m sorry, but I’m getting all these mixed signals, Ruben.”
“No, no,” he exclaims. “It’s not… I can’t explain it, but whatever this is between us, it just happened. Slowly but surely, I fell for you, and I didn’t see it coming. It’s got nothing to do with my brother or my work or anything. It’s about me… and who I am. I think I’ve been in denial. About everything. About my feelings for you. But now it’s all clear. Now, I see. I see I’ve been avoiding this because I knew you’d make me feel things I don’t want to. You make me see clearly. It was so much simpler when we were just friends, and when we met two years ago, I certainly wasn’t ready for anything this intense, I still don’t know if I am. The honest truth is that I can’t hear about your sex life anymore, not unless it has me in it.”
I hold his serious gaze for a moment, then my face won’t stay still and I throw my head back laughing. He hears himself back and joins in, shaking his head at himself.
“I’m a fucking dunce,” he curses.
“Yeah, you are. Now, how about you make it up to me?”
He’s off his chair in an instant, hand extended to me. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Six
This, I Understand
As soon as we’re in the elevator alone, Ruben pulls me towards him, my mouth possessed by his, my hands in his hair, our bodies flush and aching. It feels different this time—it’s more urgent, freer… clearer. He lifts my leg and I curl it around his hip, groaning when I feel his erection push between my thighs. Ruben fastens his hands to my buttocks and pulls us tight together, rubbing himself against me at the same time as stealing my breath with kisses so insistent, the beard chafing itself is almost as unbearable as the lack of oxygen. I want him inside me this instant, just as much as he wants to fuck me. Let’s just say, if there’s a camera in this thing and someone’s watching right now, they’re getting a show, all right.
Inevitably the doors on the lift open and we spill out into the corridor, Ruben’s hair skewwhiff and my dress almost pulled up to my waist. I don’t even try to wriggle it back down as we chase towards the room.
He has a hard time stuffing the card in the slot and eventually, I take the lead and do it for him, as I’ve done on hotel rooms a million times before.
As soon as we’re inside, I’m pinned against the wall, facing it. My hands are placed either side of me, flat against the surface, my breasts crushed, his chest compressed against my back.
“God, Frey. I need you right now.”
“Oh god, I�
�m ready. Please, Ruben. Please. Fuck me.”
His tongue lashes violently against my throat as he hurriedly lifts my dress. When he finds the slip of my thong to move it out of the way, he discovers it’s saturated.
“Jesus. You’re so wet,” he groans, as he slips a finger into me.
“I was wet before dinner. You think I don’t have discipline, oh yes I fucking do.”
He growls in my ear and bites my lobe before unbuckling his belt and tearing down his zipper. I hear his trousers tumble to the floor and then his hot, bare thighs are pressing against the back of mine. I spread my legs and lean into the wall, pushing my bum out. He swirls his finger inside my pussy before brushing the head of his cock against my entrance.
“No taste, no pleasure,” he says, offering me the finger.
I lick it clean until he turns my head and dives into my mouth, taking the taste for himself from my own tongue. Then, out of nowhere, I’m shunted forward, stuffed to the core, as he grinds into me all the way, balls deep, his shaft a sudden, excruciating, blissful intrusion.
“I never wanted any woman more than I want you,” he whispers, shuddering inside me.
“Show me,” I gasp.
He covers my hands with his and digs his teeth into my shoulder. “You’re so engorged.”
“You feel so good, Ruben. I want you.”
He remains deep inside me, only slowly rocking his hips, his cock barely moving. I push back against him as much as possible, crying out for more. He’s so heavy against my back, it feels as though the wall I’m clinging to might cave beneath the pressure.
“I love your gorgeous, beautiful tits,” he hisses in my ear, “and later on, I’m going to suck them raw while bouncing you on my cock. Right now, I don’t think I can hold on, though. I need to come deep in your cunt… immediately.”
“I’m going to blow any second now, please, just fuck me. Don’t be afraid to fuck me. Please, Ruben. Please.” I have no idea what he’s waiting for. I love him, desire him… even still trust him, despite the recent revelations. I just want to be with him.
He rears back and the squelching sound is so loud as he pushes deep into me.
“Ah, god, yes,” I cry, my forehead resting against the wall, my hands and chest and knees braced, too.
“Yes?” he groans, repeating the same move.
“Fuck yes, yes!” I beg, and he responds with several hard thrusts, my pussy tightening around him, the kneading of my muscles already wildly out of control.
“Yes?” he growls.
“Faster,” I demand.
“Like this?” he commands.
He grinds his long, hard shaft into the very recesses of my sex, my cervix receiving a thrashing. I shut my eyes tight and cry out, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop…”
Ruben fucks me so hard and fast, I almost can’t believe it, the slapping and squelching and rising heat inside me so intense, visceral, carnal…
“Oh fuck,” he groans, “yeah, your tight, wet pussy. Oh god, uh…”
“Don’t stop,” I beg, my cries unrestrained this time, so natural.
I can be a woman now, dying beneath the caress of my man, totally taken and pleasured, immeasurably, under his command. Without that nonsense in the background at home yesterday, I’m utterly his, for the first time. I’m his.
The painful, soul-splitting urge to bear down overtakes me and I lose my stability as I start to endure the most terrifyingly intense orgasm of my life. Ruben stabs his cock at my weeping entrance and doesn’t stop, however. He’s an animal now, taking what’s his, mating with his chosen woman. He grabs my hair with one hand and yanks my head back, my buttocks pushed even further against his body, my pussy devouring him just that inch more.
I lose most of my senses as the core of me floods and clamps around him, my thighs shaking, legs weak, the whole of me depleted. Ruben wraps his arms tight around me and holds me up, finishing with one final, deep blow inside me, his sharp heat following.
I’m so weak as I catch my breath, my cheek pressed against the cold hotel room wall. Ruben slips out of me and I immediately feel a thick, gloopy mess slide down the inside of my thigh.
He unzips my dress carefully and the material slides down and off my body. Then Ruben turns me to face him and wriggles down my knickers. I’m fascinated by his savage, still-erect cock, vulnerable in its own way, unashamed and undeterred.
Ruben steps out of his trousers, removes his jacket and shirt, then tugs my naked body to his, urging me to wrap my thighs around his waist. He carries me to bed, pulling down the covers before helping me inside.
We hold one another, his nose stroking mine, his lips gentle and tender against my mouth, his tongue leashed, at least for now. I slide my hands through his hair and seek some reassurance that he’ll tell me everything—even if not today, eventually.
“What about your father?” he whispers, and of all the times we’ve caught one another off guard today, this seems like the most vicious and cruel—at least it does to me, because I’m the one who’s endured that horrible man’s bile, all my life.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I mutter, turning my face away.
He takes my chin gently in his hand and pulls me back, his eyes locking on mine. “If you say he’s a bastard, I believe you. If you say he’s not worth your time, that’s okay by me. If you say you need me to not ask, fine. If you want me to hold you while you cry about it, just say. Or else I’ll take you in my arms again and we can forget all about it.”
I push my lips together, fighting tears. “The last one, I think.”
“Okay.”
He leans in to kiss and caress me, until plunging into me again, this time so deep I scream. I scratch my nails down his back and open my legs as wide as I can. I need him so much, but mostly I need him like this—because this, I understand.
I wake feeling just as exhausted as I felt yesterday. New love is beautiful but taxing, too; you need nerves of steel and an infallible constitution to cope with all of this. I’ve never felt so satisfied and yet so unsatisfied simultaneously. My body is happy, but my heart wants so much, much more…
I’m wondering why it’s still so dark when I notice the time on Ruben’s watch, which he never took off last night. It’s a stunning timepiece—an Omega—but it’s telling me it’s four in the morning. How can that be? I suppose it’s going to take some getting used to, being in bed with another human being all the time. Perhaps his movements woke me, I don’t know.
I slide out of bed and he doesn’t budge an inch. Good. I tiptoe to the bathroom and urinate but as I’m washing my hands, staring at my battered and bruised soul in the mirror, I recognise my mind is now too alert for me to fall back to sleep anytime soon. Grabbing a hotel robe from the hook on the back of the door, I pad back through the room and gather the robe around my legs as I take a seat in the window, knees to my chest. We have a view of the central courtyard below and I can see all the other rooms of the cut-out building from this vantage point, the window boxes full of perennials, ivy climbing all the walls.
Everything is so quiet and dead, except for a couple of lights shining down below, perhaps the restaurant staff readying things for another day ahead. I find myself maudlin, wondering if my years holding the fort of my own hotel back home will ever amount to little more personal gain than the odd hiking holiday or cruise around the Baltics. Surely there is more to life?
You see it all in the hotel trade… mostly how base people can be. Married men meet their mistresses, married women sometimes are the mistresses. Sometimes a hotel room is just somewhere safe to get high. Sometimes it’s a night away from a troubled homelife (been there, got the t-shirt). Threesomes. Foursomes. Blood spilt everywhere. Bottles and needles left behind. I know everything that goes on because I’m the one who has to write the reports when something goes really wrong, like the kid of one of our guests picking up and eating a pill one of the hardworking but pressed-upon chambermaid’s missed. That biohazard clean-up tha
t will mean your room for the night, sir and madam, is actually the honeymoon suite and not the executive suite, with our compliments of course. You also never tell them a previous guest snuck their dog in and allowed said dog to run riot, leaving behind numerous messes. You just smile, deal with the messes, direct the staff as best you can, and watch it all go on around you like it’s all become the same—like human nature will never change, and neither will I.
I, Freya Carter, hotel manager, shall continue to be shocked and awed by the sheer predictability of life and the people taking it for granted. Still, I’m addicted to watching all you strangers pass me by, and I can’t help it—I’m a voyeur. I revel in your ignorance, but I’m watching, all the time.
The romance associated with hotel stays—even this one, the beautiful Plaza in stunning Paris—is just that. Romance. I’ve seen what goes on behind the scenes. I know how to run a hotel. I know what goes on all around me. I know how many people (approximately) have slept on and released bodily fluids into that same mattress you’re now dribbling on, too. I also know how many people died on that mattress. How many women almost gave birth on it or miscarried on it. How many men misfired and came on it. How many prostitutes got paid lying on it. I know how much feculence gets washed down the toilets because one summer the drains were blocked and we had to shut down for a month to get it fixed (I spent that month ‘on a course in Barbados’).
People are so reliably predictable, it irks me when they’re not. Like Ruben, for instance. He’s different. I knew it the moment I met him. It’s why we became friends. He’s special, I know it. It’s not because of what’s happened this weekend, either. No. I’ve always known he’s special. Since that very first night…
Chapter Seven
A Winter Wedding – Two Years Ago
Buckinghamshire in mid-February was freezing, silent and picturesque enough, blanketed by snow as it was, for a wedding. The newlywed couple, Mr and Mrs Frederick Lancaster, took to the parquet floor for their first dance as man and wife. The beautiful, ancient hall hosting the party, with its vaulted ceilings, timber beams and huge disco ball, seemed to glare back, sneering at all the fakery—or maybe that was just me. I mean, having a wedding so close to Valentine’s Day, when everyone else is miserable, told me everything I needed to know about this couple. Obviously, they were bloody crazy.
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