To buy himself a little more strength, he pressed her back to the wall without once breaking the kiss longer than it took to take her mouth from another angle.
Courtney broke the deep kiss to pepper his cheeks with tiny pecks. “I can walk, Ozichu. Sounds like I’m too heavy for you, what with all that grunting.”
“I’ve got you, love. Just one more floor. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
To the sound of Courtney’s laughter, they made it, but he didn’t know how. Maybe it was her brilliant smile at his use of her kitschy line that carried them on wings. All he was really capable of understanding was his cock wanted inside her in the worst way. Beside the bed, he let her legs down to the floor. Once more she took him by surprise. With only two fingers in the middle of his chest, she pushed him down onto his mattress.
Dumfounded, he watched while she began divesting herself of first her jewelry, which she wore almost like armor. A dozen or more thin enameled bracelets slid off her arms and clattered when she set them on his bedside table, reminding him of that night in her hotel room. Next came large dangly earrings, followed by the string crossing her body holding a tiny bag. Probably didn’t have room for more than a lipstick in there, he guessed. Only once did she sway a little, reminding him she was still drunk and liable to pass out at nearly any moment. He’d catch her then, and hold her all night long, just as he had the previous Sunday night. Heaven and torture at the same time, but he’d survived that night; he could do it again.
Only this time it would be worse because he intimately knew exactly what was under her incredibly tight dress. So tight he could clearly see her nipples and a hint of the texture of her areola. At once his mouth started watering remembering having those luscious nipples in between his lips.
Courtney reached for the hem of her dress and started tugging it up over her creamy, bare thighs. No stockings, which was partly a shame, but not really because he’d surely ruin them at some point in the night.
The way she wiggled, it looked as if the poor girl needed assistance. He sat up and, gripping her hips, pulled her between his legs.
“You look like you could use a hand or two.”
“Mmm, Ozimantis the helpful,” she all but purred.
But she didn’t push his hands away. Oh no, he slipped his hand down over her flared hips to the hem of her stretchy dress. From there it was easy to slip up underneath, the fabric gathering and pushing upward like a wave before a boat leaving a tiny blue lace thong behind.
The dress was easier to push upward than he’d originally calculated. He’d figure it out another time, but for now his tired muscles were glad so little effort was required. At her waist his fingers nearly met at the small of her back. Sure he had large hands, but she was tiny in the waist. It was damn sexy.
The fabric gathered at her waist was easier for her to grab, arms crossed over her stomach, pressing her breasts closer, deepening the already gorgeous cleavage. Now his head was spinning, and he hadn’t had more than a sip of his drink.
In the act of tugging her dress upward, Courtney swayed again. Right. Pissed. Drunk. God, he really shouldn’t be planning his moves for making love to her.
With the dress now half off and covering her face, she wiggled, then all motion stopped and he watched as she drew in a deep breath, then huffed it out with a quiet, “Damn.”
He couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. “Um, need a little help there?”
Her body slumped and she said miserably, “I’m stuck,” in a tiny voice.
“Well, it seems you have a knight on hand. The armor isn’t shiny at all, but he’s quite handy.”
“Please,” she whispered. “I can’t breathe all that well.”
Oswald stood, took the upside down hem in hand, and pulled straight up. A second later the dress nearly popped as it came off. He tossed it in the direction of a chair in the corner of his room.
“One damsel de-distressed.” And what a damsel. Her stretchy lace bra matched the thong, the items clearly making the most of her hourglass figure.
The look she gave him was disgruntled to say the least.
“What’s wrong, love?” He crooked a finger under her chin and noted the wobbly lower lip.
“So much for my grand seduction. I had it all planned to do it in such a way you’d tackle me to the bed and ravage me.” The lip wobbled again. “And I messed it up. Had to ask for help like a toddler.”
Oswald wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Aw, love, now there’s where you’re wrong. First of all you’re nothing like a child, thank God. And second, there’s not a man alive who wouldn’t be thrilled to rush to your side to help you undress.” With her hands on his chest, creeping up toward his shoulders, it took but a heartbeat to release the catch of her bra. “See? There I go, helping without complaining a bit.”
Courtney laughed, her natural cheer reasserting itself. “You are so, so helpful.” The way she cooed at him was beyond sexy.
Too bad her next move was to fall asleep in his arms. Standing up. Just his luck.
Chapter 26
Birdie knew it was an awful cliché to say she woke with a drum corps in her head and desert in her mouth, but that was exactly how she woke when a sunbeam tried to burn a hole into her forehead.
She rolled over in hopes of putting the evil light out of her sight and immediately realized she wasn’t in her own bed. The pillow didn’t feel right, and the sheets smelled of…Ozzie.
Memory crashed into her the same time queasiness hit her stomach.
Upon cracking one eye open she discovered what she’d already figured out. The bed was empty, but Ozzie had slept there last night. That much she remembered from stirring a few hours earlier. She had a vague recollection of him helping her find the bathroom and forcing her to drink a full glass of water.
At the edge of the bed, beside a pile of her bracelets, sat a glass of what looked like tomato juice and a bottle of aspirin. Universal hangover cure.
Moving slowly, she pulled herself up and leaned against a firm headboard of tufted leather. It felt cold against her bare back. A struggle to pile some pillows behind her followed; then she pulled the white sheet up over her breasts, tucking it beneath her arms. That much effort required a few minutes of resting, eyes closed, and forcing her lungs to exchange some air. A fresh breeze scented with rain came from a window opened a few inches. Air was good, she decided.
While she rested, she listened to the house, hoping for some sound indicating Ozzie was nearby. Or not, in this case. She could only imagine what she’d looked like last night and how much worse she looked this morning. If she had a mirror nearby, she might see a green cast to her skin. She certainly felt green.
Well, sitting there thinking about it wasn’t going to make her feel better any time soon. Cracking one eye, she glared at the juice and aspirin on the far side of the bed from her. Wincing, she shifted her pillows and crawled to his side of the bed. Settled once more, she reached for the glass and sipped the thick red juice. Tomato. No fancy seasonings added. Or vodka. Just the straight stuff. Hard core.
Fifteen minutes later the aspirin started kicking in and the juice had settled her stomach. The house remained silent. As the clock read well after eleven, she wasn’t entirely surprised. He’d had plenty of time to shower, dress, eat a four course meal, get in a full workout and probably do business with half a dozen offices around the globe.
Certainly he didn’t have the time or desire to deal with her pathetic ass.
Somewhere she found the strength to make her way into his bathroom, large enough to nearly take up half of the top floor. Sure enough, he had a Jacuzzi tub big enough for four and a shower filled with nozzles and bench seating for three, deep enough one could lie down.
She turned on the simplest of the nozzles and dug into his vanity looking for a toothbrush while the hot water came up from the basement. She found one in the bottom drawer, along with a bottle of her
favorite shower gel. Well. That was a surprise.
Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, she appropriated both. With a minty fresh mouth, already a huge improvement, and another full glass of water in her, she grabbed the gel and stepped into the shower. She wanted to linger, wanted to play with all the settings, but also didn’t want to get caught in his house when he came home.
Ten minutes later, wet hair combed out, towel wrapped around her, she frowned at the clothes she’d worn the previous night. Really, she had little choice, and remembering her shoes, she grimaced. Steal sweats and a T-shirt, then walk home in platforms? No. She’d have to do the walk of shame in her own clothes. Or take more time digging through his closet for a raincoat.
Decision made, she dressed, grimacing at the dirty clothes on a clean body, gathered her jewelry, tucked it into her purse, and inventoried her remaining cash for a cab. Surely she had enough. Ozzie’s house wasn’t that far from the flat. Cab or walk it in her silly shoes? Cab. Surely she’d pick one up on the next street over. It’d be faster than calling. And she’d feel like a streetwalker the entire way. At least her face was now clean of the makeup mess and her washed hair combed.
Deciding to forego the streetwalker parody, while she walked down the stairs, she pulled out her phone and checked it for the number of the cab her dad had insisted she keep there. She also noted half a dozen texts from Anne and Phillip. Anne’s included an offer to pick her up and take her home at any time. If Oswald didn’t take her home, that was.
No, Birdie remembered her behavior the night before. There’d be no calling a friend, or shouting out to an audience member for that matter. Nope, she was on her own today.
She called the cab, then started searching the floor for her shoes. It took a little doing, because remembering how he’d held her while removing them created a heat flow to rival a lava eruption.
Oh, yeah, he’d tossed them into the room with the TV. Once she had them on, she stood and faced the door.
On it was a sheet of printer paper with one word written boldly across it.
Stay.
Birdie snorted over the fact her heart stuttered just a little at his command. Why use five or ten words to explain where he was when he could use one to demand obedience. Like a damn dog.
She didn’t think so.
Outside she heard the beep of the cab horn. Relieved the cab had arrived so quickly, she swung open the door, stepped out, and slammed it shut behind her.
Oh, she survived the trip home, and the stares from other residents in the building’s lobby and elevator, but other than thanking the cabbie, she didn’t say a word to anyone. Just kept her head up and eyes forward.
The relief at being home was intense. And stifling. If she stayed there, Ozzie might come looking for her. Well, it was a good day to get out and see a few sights.
Changed into jeans and a light sweater, she pulled on her raincoat and hit the sidewalks under drizzly skies. To drown out the city noise, she pushed earbuds into her ears, set her playlist to rock loud enough to filter all but the loudest car noise, and headed for Vauxhall bridge. She could have jumped on the Tube and head north, but she wanted to walk and breathe in the atmosphere. Besides, how did one explore the gardens and shops on the north side of the river from an underground train?
Halfway across the bridge, she slowed, her attention caught by the river itself. So wide and placid looking. With the sun beginning to burn through the mist, her raincoat became too warm. Setting down her overlarge shoulder bag, she shrugged off the jacket and shoved it into the bag. With her back to the railing, she looked downstream. Like a wide road, the water lay flat. The view showed a few tall buildings, more than a few cranes building newer, taller ones, and in the far distance she could see the London Eye. Just out of sight by a bend in the river were Big Ben and Parliament. Not on her agenda for today, but maybe tomorrow she’d play tourist over there.
She shouldered her bag again and turned to look upstream. To her left, the very modern St. George Wharf, across the road from the building housing MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. Definitely one of the most impressive building complexes in London, she had yet to take full advantage of living there. Time to do more exploring, although she found the cafés convenient. Beyond the Wharf, an even taller building stood. And beyond it, more cranes, on both sides of the river.
But it was the water she was drawn to. Leaning her elbows on the railing, she stared straight down at the gentle ripples of the vast quantity of greenish water slipping below the bridge.
So different from the cold beaches of Northern California with the Pacific pounding on their shores. Not much like the waters of the Bay, which could be still or whipped into a frenzy of white caps and the white sails from weekend warriors racing across the water.
Here, the Thames flowed just as it had for thousands of years. So old. So massive, at the moment so calm and non-threatening. She knew it was only one face of the river that could become wild with floods, wind, tide, and careless boaters. It had a history all its own.
The water was calming to the thoughts in her head. She could feel the burn of her shame from the last fifteen hours cooling, slipping away like the mindless water below. She let it go, washing away to eventually find the sea.
God, what had she been thinking storming Ozzie’s house last night? Throwing herself at him only to… She didn’t remember anything clearly after he carried her up the stairs. Or did she? She did remember him grunting as he carried her up the last flight, and laughing at his use of her silly phrase. Far too silly for someone as dignified as him to use. Guess she’d better slow down on the chips and booze if she ever wanted him to carry her again. There, there was the burn of embarrassment.
Once more she focused on the water and let it and the music carry away her shame.
When had life grown so difficult? Oh, she understood her problems were small in the overall scheme of things. But she’d never had these troubles before. Friends had never been an issue before. She’d been known for the ability to fit in with many groups. Here she was so clearly the outsider. She’d always made friends at school or work, and if not close friends, at least her co-workers had been cooperative. Was it the change from school to career? The move from California to England? So many changes in the last eighteen months. Twenty months.
She bent her head to rub her temples. She’d never felt so unprepared for anything in her life as she had the big changes she’d been so eager to embrace, and, as long as she was admitting things to herself, she might as well put Ozzie at the top of the list.
Why had she ever thought she could get him to take her seriously? Especially here, in his world. Maybe her problems settling into London life stemmed from not knowing her place in this arena. By being related to the Robinsons, she had history here. Deep roots. But they didn’t feel like her roots. On her mother’s side she had deep roots in California. She’d been born and raised there, each year growing with the state. There she had friends. Family she’d known all her life. Here she was the newcomer. Sort of like being new money. Crass and unpolished, unlike the old money folks who were as polished as the marble that lined their homes. Here she was raw and uncut. Her father might say a diamond in the rough, ready for shaping into something indescribably beautiful.
She smiled thinking of her father. Fathers. Wyatt had been the daddy of her childhood. Court was the daddy of her adult life. She’d have much longer with him, God willing, but they’d missed so much. For all the time she tried to spend with him, they’d never have the years of him teaching her to ride a bike, how to swim, or even how to drive a car. They’d had some time of him teaching her to drive in right hand drive cars on left hand driven roads. But it wasn’t the same. Not really. And he was supposed to be here teaching her the family business. Instead, he and her mother were off touring Europe.
Which she had to admit was fair. As much as she wanted him here, and her mother too, of course, she was the one who
had demanded no preferential treatment at work while she learned her way through the different levels. Yes, she was impatient to be working side by side with him every day, but she did have to learn and this was the best way, as much as she found herself resenting it. Had every assistant worked their way into their position from the mailroom up? She didn’t think so.
The main reason she didn’t like her current situation was because she was in limbo. Not really one of the workers, separated by her family relationship, and not truly free to make friends with those workers her own age. There was a wall there she couldn’t, wouldn’t breach. They didn’t want to make friends with her because one day she’d be in charge of them. She couldn’t bring the entire company up with her. They had their roles, and hers was outside of their spheres. Did that make her the poor little rich girl, forever outside, beyond, never belonging? Well, she did belong somewhere, but her place was populated with middle-aged managers and people like Drew’s friends who were all raised within a privileged system she couldn’t truly understand. Again, she was the outsider. The only person she knew who also felt like an outsider was Oswald. She just didn’t know why he felt that way.
Even then, he wasn’t as far outside the inner circles as she was. This past week had only drawn a big black line around that fact. He was keeping his distance from her, but other than vague references to some sort of class difference, he wasn’t exactly convincing. He said he wasn’t worthy of her, when in fact, she wasn’t worthy of him. He called her princess, but in reality he was far closer to royalty than she’d ever be.
Lord, she was depressing herself. She dropped her forehead to her hands folded on the wide rail of the bridge, feeling more pathetic than she’d ever felt in her life. It didn’t help that Celine Dion was wailing in her ear about not wanting to be all by herself anymore. A cover of the Eric Carmen song her mother had on her playlist. Well, she could take care of that. She straightened, pulled her phone from her pocket, and pushed the fast forward button on her player app.
Her Improper Affair Page 26