by Donna Alam
‘It’s Kallie, actually. Can I speak to her? Sadie, I mean?’
‘You could try a clairvoyant?’ I offer.
‘Oh my God, you haven’t killed her, have you?’ she asks, giggling again.
‘I’m sorry, but she wouldn’t put the lotion on the skin or the basket.’ I sigh protractedly before beginning again. ‘I haven’t killed her, but vodka might have.’ I glance down at the woman collapsed on my bed. A missed opportunity? Just a delayed one, I decide. It’s only on rare occasion that I don’t get my dick wet when I take a woman out. It happens, of course, but not regularly.
‘I imagine she’ll have a killer hangover. The strange thing is, she seemed perfectly coherent until—’
‘All of a sudden she was in a heap on the floor.’
‘Something like that.’
‘I did warn you she’s a lightweight, assuming I’m talking to the hot man in the suit I spoke with earlier. And not Julian.’ The latter she adds as a sort of afterthought.
‘How do you know I’m not Julian?’
‘Call it experience. Men who sound too good to be true usually are.’ She doesn’t give me a moment before forging ahead. ‘So she’s not with the fair Julian and she’s not dead. I’d ask if she was passed out, stupefied by satisfaction after a thorough servicing, courtesy of my credit card, but I received an email from the agency. Apparently, my pick of James Bond-esque escorts had to cancel at the last minute.’
‘Fancy that.’ I tsk, pulling off one of Sadie’s deadly heels. I hold it up to examine it. I wonder if I can get her to wear these while I fuck her? There’s nothing like a little lethal threat to keep a man in check. Obviously, at some point when she’s sober. There’s nothing fun about a screaming girl and a punctured lung. ‘Man Whores R Us is such an unreliable outfit,’ I say.
‘Who are you, Will? And where’s my girl?’
‘So my name is Will,’ I say, camping it up. ‘I’m a Capricorn. And I’m well versed in vaginas, though I haven’t had the pleasure of your friend’s.’ Quite yet.
‘Or the business of it, come to that,’ she says, chuckling.
‘Did you know she hasn’t been fucked in three years?’
‘Will!’ Kallie chastises. ‘A gentleman never kisses and tells. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?’
‘My mother and I kept our conversations strictly PG. But I’ll tell you, Kallie, it’s a rare friend who books an escort to get her bestie laid. Some would say the best kind of friend.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ she drawls. ‘He was only meant to be arm candy. Someone to fall back on should the worse happen. Sadie would never have a one-night stand, let alone—well, you know.’
‘Sleep with a professional?’ I chuck the heel on the mattress and pull off the other one, a little disappointed. ‘My friend envy is officially assuaged.’
‘But she’s okay, isn’t she?’ she asks a little more hesitantly. ‘How did the evening go? Was she devastated?’
I pause. ‘She didn’t appear to be so.’ Especially when she was riding my hand. ‘I think she’ll survive.’ Give it another couple of days, and she won’t even remember his name.
‘I hate that the one time she puts herself out there, she gets kicked in the face. I wish I was there for her.’
‘Breathe easy, Super Bae, the lovely Sadie passed a pleasant evening in my company. And is currently shit-faced drunk and sleeping in my bed, which happens to be one floor above Mo’s apartment.’
‘You know Mo?’
‘I do. Not only are we neighbours, but we went to school together.’
‘Where?’ she asks suspiciously. ‘And remember, I have pictures of you on my phone.’
‘You flatter me, Super B. By all means, run them past Mo. And to answer your question, he and I went to Karterhouse together.’ The boarding school where I spent my teen years, though I’m sure my father would’ve carted me off at the age of three if he could’ve persuaded the school to take me earlier.
‘So you’re a real posh boy. Shame on you for not having your way with the nice American girl who has a thing for the accent.’
‘Ocht, hen, I can do a Scot’s accent, too, hen.’ I’d meant to give her just a hint, though come off sounding a little like something off kid’s TV. ‘Does she usually smile in her sleep?’
‘How would I know?’ she answers, beginning to laugh again. ‘Contrary to male popular opinion, not all women enjoy homoerotic sleepovers filled with pillow fights.’
‘Kallie,’ I complain. ‘Stop ruining my boyhood fantasies.’
‘Just a minute, posh boy. You’re Will Travers, aren’t you? The Right Honourable Will?’
‘I believe that’s what it says on my passport.’ I try to keep the strain from my tone. I hate what this means to those outside of the fold. Especially as I’m purposely and permanently outside the fold, it means fuck all to me. ‘Does that put you at ease, knowing your friend is being tended to by the son of an earl? A peer of the realm?’
‘Does it hell,’ she answers. ‘If anything, it makes it worse!’ Good woman. Good instincts, at least. ‘But what eases my womanly anxiety is the fact that Mo is fond of you. I’ve heard of you, Will Travers,’ she adds playfully.
I snort. ‘So you’ve heard Mo wants into my boxer briefs?’ He has since 2003. ‘Alas, I find I can’t bat for his team. Where is he, anyway?’
‘Would you believe he’s gone back to India to view a perspective bride.’
‘I would not . . . touch that with a ten-foot pole.’
‘See, I knew there was a reason I liked you so much! Get Sadie to call me when she resurfaces, would you?’
We say our goodbyes, and I toss the phone on the nightstand and stare down at the beauty in my bed for so long I feel like a bit of a pervert. The length of her spine and the swell of her curves. There’s nothing for it, though. She can’t sleep in her dress, so I lean down and slide the thin straps from her shoulders, slipping my arm under her waist to pull it down under her breasts.
‘This must be what it’s like to work in a morgue,’ I grumble, laying her down again when she suddenly twists, throwing herself onto her back. ‘Though, if a corpse did that, I think the workers might need a trolley next to the stiff.’
Speaking of which, I palm my semi, the results of the almost naked girl in my bed.
Pulling the fabric of her gown down and off her legs, I contemplate her naked form for a few moments more. You know, just because.
‘Sadie,’ I whisper with a slow shake of my head. ‘You’re enough to make a grown man get down on his knees. But that’s for another day.’ Eating out a comatose woman is statutory rape. Reluctantly, I pull the duvet from under her body and cover her with it. Her hair shines gold in the soft light, and as I brush the tangles from her head, I’m drawn to placing my lips on her forehead.
‘I hope you don’t wriggle too much in your sleep,’ I murmur. ‘I know it’s a big bed, but I have to warn you, I’m a cuddler.’
Switching off the bedside lamp, I straighten and head off to take care of Sir Lancelot.
Chapter Nine
SADIE
‘Oh, God. Why is my brain bleeding?’
I quickly clamp my eyelids closed again, holding my hands to my head, sure something viscous must be leaking somewhere. Eyes screwed tight, I ride the phantom roller coaster of nausea until it passes and I feel well enough to swing my legs out of the bed.
‘Bleurgh.’ A shiver wracks my body, and I wonder if my tongue would taste any better if I took it out, scrubbed it on the sidewalk, and then shoved it back in. Must be wine flu season because I feel like something Sir Lancelot rolled in. And I’m also naked. I never go to sleep naked.
And I mean, ne-ver.
Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I contemplate the possible reasons for my nakedness, deciding my dreams are responsible. My pleasant, drink-induced dreams. I was being spooned—I was the little spoon, content from the solid weight of an arm wrapped around my waist, and the manly ha
nd tucked between my legs.
Wouldn’t that be something.
I stretch and decide I’m good to stand, quickly reassessing the situation as I wobble across the room—yep, still a little bit drunk—and swipe my nightshirt from the chair as I make my way to the bathroom.
I take care of business—pee, wash the crud from my eyes, brush my teeth, all without raising my eyes to the mirror. Hello, morning glory? More like hello, morning gory.
As my stomach rumbles, I shuffle my way into the open plan living room.
‘Too bright,’ I grumble, squinting and holding a hand up to shield my eyes.
‘Good morning, Goldilocks.’
A deep and regrettably happy voice stops my progress. I squeak—I might have even jumped. Hand over my heart, I wait a beat before speaking. You know, to make sure it doesn’t try to jump from my throat.
‘You scared the pants off me!’ I yell, pulling the hem on my nightshirt down because, no pants, and also because, from across the expanse of gleaming white kitchen, Will stands. Smiling like the cat that ate the canary, spindly gnarled legs and all.
The bright morning sunlight is kinder to him, casting his tan skin in a hue of gold. And a lot of muscles. Not that he’s big—like, bodybuilder big—but he’s solid. I have a thing for manly shoulders; they make me all kinds of crazy. And Will has shoulders. Broad ones. And biceps for days. Not to mention, abs like an old-fashioned washboard. And, sweet baby Jesus, from behind the kitchen countertop, I think I spy the suggestion of a deep V. You know—that V. The one that steals brain cells from bright girls. The one that makes you want to lick it like a Tootsie Pop.
‘Are you ogling?’ he asks, kind of delighted. I freeze, apart from the bit where I appear to be lowering myself back to my heels. Dammit. ‘It definitely looks like you were ogling.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Apart from being the big spoon. But I don’t remember inviting him to stay, after we . . . after we . . . come to think of it, I don’t recall much about the evening at all. I roll my lips inwards to prevent my next burgeoning question. Unfortunately, it seems to happen the other way around. ‘Are you naked?’
Did that sound excited? It did, didn’t it?
He laughs, and in answer, plucks the waistband of a pair of low slung track pants.
‘I almost wish I was now, but hot eggs and testicles don’t mix.’
‘Just answer the question,’ I demand. ‘What. Are. You. Doing here!’
‘Here?’ He points at the floor with his finger. ‘In this apartment—my apartment—you mean?’
As his words settle into my woolly brain, I glance around. Yes, my current surrounds are similar to Mo’s, in layout, at least, but this apartment is bigger and less extravagantly decorated, I suddenly realise. Very tasteful in a dozen shades of pale.
How did I not realise I wasn’t in Mo’s place when I woke? Apart from the fact the place still feels unfamiliar each morning when I open my eyes, I have only been here a few days. What’s another strange apartment, hey?
‘Personally, I think it has more to do with the vodka.’
I look up, realising my stream of consciousness had actually streamed live.
‘Please, just tell me, what am I doing here? And where exactly is here?’
Will scratches his sandpapery chin as he considers his answer. And yes, his stubble is almost exactly that colour. ‘I’d say you’re standing pretty much above Mo’s kitchen.’
My gaze drops to the floor, then moves over his shoulder to the window at the other side of the kitchen to a view very similar to Mo’s. Royal parkland. Regents Park, I think Kallie said.
‘You live in the same building?’ He nods. ‘How do you live here?’ How can he afford it, more importantly?
‘I think it’s called squatter’s rights.’
‘Squ—what? I can’t be somewhere illegal!’ My hands cradle my head as it begins to pound painfully. ‘I’ll get kicked out of the country!’
‘Relax,’ Mr Shoulders says, laughing again.
His eyes drift from my face, down over my body to where, from beneath the hem of my nightshirt, I’m possibly showing more than just a little leg.
I’m not sure how, but I feel his gaze like a physical thing, and with it comes a whoosh of remembrance of yesterday evening. The heat and smell of his skin as he’d leaned in to kiss me. His hands possessive and sure. The throb of need as he slid my panties down my legs. It’s all there now, in glorious technicolour, and in the imprint of his fingertips across my skin. And he can see it, too, I’m sure. Just as I can still feel them. Just as sure as I’m standing in front of him.
Who does this pussy belong to? The husky toned question echoes in my head, my core beginning to pulse as though desperate to confirm his ownership.
Oh, my heart. I almost got laid last night.
I came by another’s hand. And mouth. But not . . .
Vodka or not, the decision was mine to follow Will into that room, and I did so with a clear head. Kind of. And I followed him with a purpose; to move on from the crushing realisation that my coming to London was a mistake.
I close my eyes as I remember the sensation of his tongue pushing into my mouth, wondering what it would feel like between my legs.
I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
But still, this is kind of mortifying. Morning-after awkwardness—and other things that don’t make much sense.
Maybe I need coffee.
‘Please tell me you’ve woken to stranger situations than this.’
‘Absolutely.’ His tone is tinged with humour, and realising how ridiculous I must look standing in the middle of the room, not to mention exposed, I make my way across the wooden floor to the kitchen where I lean my folded arms on the island countertop.
‘I once woke up in a room completely covered in Hello Kitty décor,’ Will begins with a wry smile. ‘I freaked out, thinking I’d somehow ended up in Tokyo, which was bad enough, considering I’d started the night in Soho. Then I started to worry I’d been taken home by a girl of questionable age and the implications of that little scenario. But, as it turns out, my shit of a friend decided it’d be a laugh to deposit my drunk arse in his daughter’s bedroom while she was at her grandparents for the weekend. Worst Sunday morning of my life, I can tell you.’
‘Okay, so at least I’m not worrying about prison, right?’
‘It’s the little things that help,’ he says, turning to a large refrigerator and pulling out eggs, milk, and some sort of greenery. ‘But in all seriousness, this is my home,’ he adds kindly. ‘We both got a little drunk and a little handsy. Then we came back here. I hoped the fresh air would help, but instead, you collapsed on my bed. Though I’m game to pick up from where we left off.’
‘Ah-ha. Ha.’ It’s not a very convincing laugh.
‘I’m serious.’ And he does look so, apart from where his mouth quirks in one corner as his gaze drops to my breasts. To be fair, they do look sort of perky, balanced braless atop my folded arms.
‘Please, Will,’ I whisper. Only, I’m not sure if I’m asking him to be good or not.
He’d looked so handsome last night standing at the front door, suited and booted, as Kallie would say. And then later, he’d looked more like the devil as our eyes connected while he worked his dark magic between my legs. But this morning, with sun-kissed scruff covering his jaw, and his hair awry and screaming freshly fucked, he looks more tempting that any man should.
I wonder if he often brings his work home?
It’s not a question of a moral dilemma, given his career, but more one of physical need. Nevertheless, it seems like a question he isn’t asking me to take seriously as he moves the conversation on.
‘I spoke to your friend, by the way. Kallie? She called.’
‘But if you live in the same building,’ I continue, still needing answers, ‘why didn’t you just leave me at Mo’s place?’
‘Because my bed is very comfortable.’ He says this as though it’s a compl
etely reasonable reason. ‘And if we weren’t going to have sex, I was at least going to get a night of snuggling. I like to have somewhere to put my hands when I sleep. Plus, I didn’t want your death on my hands,’ he adds quickly. ‘Choking is a very real hazard for the vodka incapacitated.’
‘So you just wanted to get me naked.’ Suddenly remembering how I’d woken, I respond with a heap of snark in my tone.
‘I could’ve done that at Mo’s place. And let’s be honest, you were mostly naked well before that point. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at any table ever again, not without seeing you on it, back arched and crying out. And naked . . . so . . . naked.’
My gaping mouth snaps shut as Will’s attention turns to a large white bowl.
I’m not sure why or how, but I become sort of mesmerised by the movement of his elegant hands as he cracks a few eggs. I bite my lip as the cording of muscles in his forearms flex, the veins and prominent tendons standing to attention as he begins to whisk.
How can watching him make an omelette be erotic?
Three years without sex followed by last night, I suspect is the answer.
‘Earth to Sadie.’
‘What?’ I ask, rousing myself.
‘I asked if you were hungry.’ I nod, his question prompting my stomach to rumble as though on cue. ‘Where did you go just then? In your head.’
‘I was just thinking about’—those fingers between my legs— ‘all the women it must take to pay for this place. You must suffer terribly from chafe.’ Someone shoot me. Put me out of my misery, or at least glue my lips shut!
‘Thinking about me doing other women.’ Will shoots me a suggestive smile, reverting to type. ‘We must’ve cracked the seal last night, even if we didn’t get to fuck.’
I feel my cheeks heat and mumble something about it being too early for this sort of talk. Dirty talk.
‘And as for chaffing, as I recall,’ he continues, ignoring me, ‘when we got into the cab, my face was so wet from—’
‘Okay! I get the picture. You’re good at what you do.’ He’d have to be to afford this address. I squeal a little at the touch of something wet against my bare butt. ‘Oh, thank God, you brought Sir Lancelot!’ How could I have forgotten about him?