Crazy, Undercover, Love

by Nikki Moore

  I’m overthinking this. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.

  Walking back into the bedroom, I find Alex engrossed on his phone, frowning and tapping the screen rapidly. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

  He gives me a slow sexy smile, ‘It is now,’ he says huskily, before carelessly throwing the phone on the floor. Something in my chest catches at the action. He’s willing to put it down for me. Flinging the covers back, he tugs me closer by the hem of the shirt, ‘I got bored, so I decided to check the markets. You took ages.’

  ‘A few minutes,’ I counter.

  ‘It felt like forever.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Never mind,’ he says, gaze fixed on where my boobs are pressed against the fabric of the top, before dropping to my bare thighs. ‘Come here.’ He pulls on the hem of the shirt again and once I’m on the bed switches his hold to the collar to bring me in for a sweet, unhurried kiss. ‘Better,’ he says, sitting back. ‘Now hand me those menus. I’ve worked up an appetite.’

  We lie curled up in bed together later, surrounded by plates scraped clean of aromatic Spanish dishes, both of us full to bursting. The room smells of spices and tender meats and fiery vegetables. I guess when you stay in a suite costing about a grand a night the kitchen never closes. Rain lashes against the windows, running down the glass in random patterns. It’s cosy. I feel content, way more than in a very long time. I can worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. There was an uncomfortable moment when Alex insisted on accepting delivery of the meal alone in the lounge, but he was so thoughtful in passing me cutlery and napkins and condiments when we camped out on the bed (a suggestion he pulled a face at until I accused him of being uptight) that I forgave him wanting to be discreet.

  Groaning and shifting, I press a hand to my overfed belly. ‘I feel so fat.’

  ‘Yes, you look it,’ he agrees gravely, getting up and clearing the plates into the lounge.

  As he climbs back into bed, I punch his arm playfully, ‘Hey!’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he lifts the covers and pretends to leer, ‘you know you’ve got a gorgeous body.’

  I’m incredibly, proudly flattered. ‘Right answer,’ I joke. ‘You can have a brownie point.’

  His shoulders rise and the movement rubs his wide chest against my side. ‘It’s only the truth. Anyway, you women are too obsessed with how you look.’

  My mouth swings open. ‘Maybe that’s because any woman over a size six is considered obese and catwalk models are still skinny. Maybe it’s because according to the media we’re supposed to have impossibly glossy hair and long eyelashes and smooth dewy skin that defies the ageing process. And anyway, isn’t that a bit hypocritical? I bet the women you normally socialise with are all slim.’ Why on earth did I say that?

  ‘I’d love to say you’re wrong.’

  ‘But you can’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t think the majority of them started out tiny though, I think they battle with each other to be the slimmest. They put that pressure on each other. What they don’t realise is men are simple animals. We’re not that bothered about your weight or dress size as long as we get to touch it all, and play with it.’

  I smother a laugh as his hand creeps under the covers to squeeze my thigh. ‘You’re right,’ I concede, grinning. He seems thrilled at my surrender, until I add, ‘Men are animals.’

  ‘Well, in that case—’

  And just like that I’m flat on my back, pinned down.

  ‘No, no, I’ll pop, I swear,' I giggle. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay.’ He frees me.

  I roll onto my side and within seconds he’s settled in behind me, lean hips spooning my bum, a large hand resting across my ribs and holding me close. My back is against his toned chest and he presses a kiss to my hair.

  ‘Night,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Night.’

  This feels so easy. So right. I feel cared for, happy.

  Alex gives a deep mutter of satisfaction and is asleep within minutes, but wrapped up in his warm hard body, my hormones and emotions are out of control, bouncing up and down. I lie wide awake for a long time, staring into the darkness. What have I done?

  Chapter Twenty One

  DAY FOUR

  – Monday –

  I wake on my stomach to murky dawn creeping round the edges of the curtains and a warm mouth surrounded by raspy, delightful stubble running a set of open kisses down my spine. I murmur drowsily, the muscles between my thighs clenching as a whiskered jaw moves to rub over my shoulder. My hair is gathered up and tucked into my neck. A hot muscular body slides against my back, pressing me into the mattress.

  It wasn’t a dream, Alex is in my bed.

  And he stayed all night.

  My head is foggy from lack of sleep and I’m barely able to lift my eyelids. I don’t want to wake yet. Today is doomsday. Except I’ll only be telling him to be honest with him, not to ask him for help. I’m walking away from the claim too. I can’t pursue it. Not after spending this time with Alex. It’s clear to me now. Some things you have to let go. Some things are just not worth it.

  ‘Morning,’ he says throatily, nibbling on my earlobe. Squirming, all I can offer is a moaned greeting in return, a flush running over my entire body. I feel feverish. Big hands slide my hands above my head onto the pillow. I’m at his mercy and open my legs, feeling wildly excited and wired, breathless.

  ‘I thought we had to go over some work stuff this morning,’ I gasp.

  ‘It’s still early,’ he whispers, ‘and I definitely have time for this.’

  It’s dangerous being dominated by him. I like it too much. A thrill of lust shoots through me and I twist beneath him, breasts swelling and nipples hardening as my hips lift off the mattress. He takes his time, covering my back with more kisses, sucking the pulse at the side of my neck. I wriggle, panting, shaking, wanting him to do it, take me on another orgasmic trip deep into outer space.

  A scorching hand sweeps under my hip and a knowing finger finds the waiting heat and wetness and I grind myself against his hand shamelessly.

  ‘Charley,’ he groans, kneeling and tilting my hips upwards. I hear a rustle of foil and thank God that he carries condoms.

  My inner muscles clench with anticipation, the sense of it so strong I can’t breathe as I rest on my elbows. I expect a hard, demanding thrust and tense, but instead he fills me slowly, holding me steady so I can get used to the pulsing rigidness, feel every throbbing movement as he pushes in deeper. I close my eyes, arching my back, and only then does he start to move in and out, back and forth, leaning over me, his toned stomach and chest causing delicious friction across my damp back.

  A purposeful hand plays with one of my nipples, sweeps down over my stomach, holds me as he pumps in and out faster and faster, groaning hotly in my ear. ‘You’re so sexy, it feels so amazing being inside you.’

  Then we’re both coming and I’m lost in sensation, my hands bunching up the bed covers, and I’m sobbing at a rush of pleasure so intense I think I might fly apart under his hands.

  Sanity takes a long time to return. Will I be able to walk today? I wonder. Will he? Wow. I can’t believe his stamina. There’s something powerful and pleasing about someone being so desperate to have you they can go three times in twelve hours. But now it’s the morning after. Bright light is spilling through the curtains. I break into a prickly sweat. It’s time.

  I stare at Alex as he stretches and leans over me. Short dark hair standing in spikes and peaks from where I’ve grabbed onto it so many times, the stubble that grazed my body earlier is evident in the dark sexy shadow along his jaw. I breathe in the male scent of his skin. He’s out-of-this-world gorgeous, out-of-this-world spectacular in bed. And so different to what I imagined when first meeting him on Friday.

  ‘You’re what my brother Kristian would call isse omorfi,’ he tells me, splaying a hand over my tummy, translating at my puzzled look, ‘a beautiful woman.’

  ‘You should speak Greek more often. It’d be a s
hame to lose that heritage, though I guess it’d be unlikely given your colouring.’

  He pulls a face. ‘Don’t you like the way I look?’

  ‘No,’ I tease, blanking my face, ‘it really sucks to be in bed with someone tall, dark and handsome, being bedded by a six-foot-something hunk. But every girl makes sacrifices, I suppose.’

  ‘Right,’ he answers dryly, squeezing my hip just where I’m ticklish.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ I laugh breathlessly, trying to get away.

  He goes serious. ‘Am I your usual type?’ He studies my face closely.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He shrugs a broad, bare shoulder. ‘The stuff you said to your friend on Friday on the phone.’

  I roll over on top of him. ‘Forget that,’ I stroke his cheekbone, ‘I was having a bad day and you’d annoyed me.’

  ‘Uh-oh. No brownie points?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shake my head, ‘In all seriousness, you’re not my usual type. I usually go for creative guys. Tortured artists and struggling songwriters. Unconventional, free spirits.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry if my suits and conventionalism disappoint,’ he mutters stiffly, extracting himself and flinging the covers off, ‘still, you seemed to enjoy it.’ Picking his trousers off the floor and pulling them on: ‘We should get up.’

  A ball of steel hits me in the stomach, panic erupting. I’m not ready yet. Not ready to stop feeling wanted, and good.

  ‘You didn’t disappoint. And I’ve got news for you, Alex Demetrio,’ scrambling out of bed, I throw a pillow at his head as he turns around, ‘I don’t think you’re that conventional.’ The pillow hits him right in the face and he scowls. ‘Wanna play hooky?’ I ask, holding my breath for his answer.

  Glancing down at the phone in his hand, then at me, his scowl turns into a frown.

  ‘Come on,’ I pretend to pout, hands on my hips, ‘we’ve no meetings ’til after lunch, and the company won’t fall apart if you have a few hours away. When did you last take time off?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. Eyes landing on my jiggling chest, he throws his phone down on the bed. ‘Okay.’ He gives me a massive grin I wish I could take a picture of and carry inside me forever. ‘Race you to the shower.’

  Half an hour later we’re sitting at a plastic table in a run-down café just off Las Ramblas, the main series of streets running through the centre of the city down to the marina. We sip Café con leche y leche – a luscious coffee with a condensed milk and cream topping – and listen to the Spanish music playing from a tiny speaker in the corner, with a tangle of wires running from it. The paint is peeling and the cushions are tattered but I like it. It’s homely, and charming in its own way.

  I laugh as Alex struggles to shove a rolled up napkin under one of the table legs to stop it wobbling.

  ‘Bet this isn’t your usual type of place is it?’ I snort, popping a piece of fresh, warm pastry into my mouth and immediately wiping flakes from the front of my loose black jumper and tight grey jeans.

  ‘Not any more,’ Alex reappears from under the table. Picking up a teaspoon, he looks at its smudged, stained handle dubiously.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I went to Oxford, places like this were my favourite. The scabbier the better. I could be anonymous in them. It was probably the best time of my life.’ The corners of his mouth turn down and he looks sad.

  ‘Scabbier?’ I joke, trying to distract him, ‘I didn’t realise you knew such language, Mr Demetrio.’

  He smiles reluctantly, ‘Just because I speak formally in work situations, it doesn’t mean I always do.’

  ‘So why was Oxford the best time?’ I lean forward, interested in his response.

  ‘I could be who I wanted to be back then. If I wanted to pretend I was someone else I could leave the university and hang out in town where no one knew I had money or wanted to be with me because of the family business. It’s the youngest and freest I’ve ever felt.’

  ‘And?’ I prod.

  ‘And, when I think about it, I feel like I wasn’t young for long enough. Sometimes I feel life’s passed me by a little. I…’ A frown cuts a small line between his brows and he looks unsure, before confessing, ‘I suppose I’d like to be out in the world doing something different; experiencing new things and meeting new people. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do know.’ I run a finger over the back of his hand, feeling the connection between us. ‘Moving to London was absolutely what I wanted, but doing it at eighteen forced me to grow up fast, because Jess and I had to take care of each other. In a way, we became adults too quickly.’

  ‘Would you change it if you could do it again?’ Alex asks, turning his hand over to capture mine, toying with my fingers.

  My skin sparkles, body tingling. Like magic, if I thought such things existed.

  I mull over his question, biting my lip. ‘No,’ I shake my head at last, ‘because, well … I still have time to change things.’ Saying it helps me realise it’s true. ‘I have plenty of time left, and apart from a joint mortgage, very little responsibility. How about you?’

  ‘Unfortunately I have lots of responsibilities,’ he evades and pulls his hand away, looking grim, as an elderly couple walk into the café. ‘Charley, I don’t know how to say this…’

  ‘Say what?’ Is he telling me it’s over now? That’s it?

  ‘I can’t– that is– we have to be discreet.’

  ‘No PDAs you mean?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Public displays of affection. And I wasn’t asking you to hold my hand, Alex,’ I say, stung and irritated. ‘Or kiss me in the middle of the street.’

  ‘I know you’re not expecting anything from me, which is good.’ That stings too. ‘But I mean what I said Saturday night. I want my private life kept private, so when we’re out in public—’

  ‘Okay, I get it. We have to be careful. Noted.’ I force myself to smile. He may have annoyed the heck out of me but I don’t want our last few hours together ruined. I can also see proper anxiety in his expression. ‘Come on,’ I lick flakes of pastry off my fingers before gulping the aromatic sweet coffee down. Pushing the other pastry towards him: ‘We went to so much trouble sneaking out of the hotel, you’ve got to soak up some of the local culture. Eat and we’ll go for a wander, do a bit of window shopping, see if any of the street entertainers are out now they have to pay for licenses.’

  ‘How do you know that? Have you been here before?’

  ‘No. I watch a lot of travel programmes.’

  ‘That’s right. You said at dinner on Friday you want to travel.’

  ‘At some point, yes.’ It’s a dream that seems a long way off at the moment, but I’ll make it happen somehow, someday. Everyone needs goals. I raise an eyebrow as he starts devouring his croissant. ‘Hungry are we?’

  Cocking his head, he runs smouldering eyes over my body. ‘I burnt off a lot of energy last night.’

  I blush and joke. ‘Well, whoever she was, she’s a lucky girl.’

  ‘Very lucky,’ he says, staring at my mouth.

  Shifting in my seat, I cast around for a way to change the subject so I don’t launch myself across the table and break his no PDA rule. ‘We should do something about your wardrobe.’

  He pauses, mouth full of food, then swallows. ‘What’s wrong with it? These are expensive clothes, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I nod solemnly, ‘they’re stylish,’ I placate. ‘But they’re so … bleurgh, formal. You haven’t worn one casual thing, even yesterday.’

  He looks blank.

  ‘Sunday?’ I prompt. ‘The seventh day of the week, that people usually have a rest on.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I knew that.’ Taking another bite of croissant with white even teeth, chewing and swallowing: ‘I’ve got casual stuff at home.’

  ‘Which consists of what?’

  ‘Chinos, white shirts.’

  ‘Whilst the suave Jude Law look is pretty sexy, a pair of jeans migh
t be nice, especially if they show off your lovely rear end.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiles, looking ridiculously pleased at my comment, ‘but I don’t do that casual.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s an image thing. I have to think about the family reputation.’

  ‘What, are you royalty or something?’ I tease. Despite him being CEO, and his social status, it’s surprisingly easy to feel comfortable with him.

  ‘No. I told you, we have old-fashioned values.’

  ‘Come on, even princes go casual on occasion. Look at Harry and Wills. Is the world going to explode if you do? Will either of your parents keel over from a heart attack?’

  He holds his hand out in a see-sawing motion. ‘Fifty-fifty,’ he jokes. ‘The last time my brother Kristian turned up in jeans, Mum asked him to change and Dad locked himself in his study.’ He stares into space before shaking his head. ‘Fine, I’ll take the chance, but if it all goes wrong I’m blaming you.’

  ‘Not a problem, I’ve got lots of places to hide.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  His candid comment makes me stop and think. It must be awful to feel like you have nowhere to run to if necessary. Still, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt this weekend, he doesn’t appreciate being pitied. ‘You’ll find somewhere,’ I wave a hand, ‘and if you don’t, you’re rich enough to buy your own private island, Richard Branson style.’

  He throws a napkin at me and I duck out the way. ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ he says and I open my mouth to apologise but he dead-pans, ‘I can afford far more than one.’

  ‘Good for you. That’d be nice.’ I sigh dreamily, chin on my fist. ‘White sands, vast azure skies, swaying palm trees.’

  He flicks the tip of my nose to bring me back. ‘Are we going shopping or not?’ He leaps from his chair and pops the rest of the second pastry into his mouth.

  ‘Yeah. Come on then.’

  He throws a pile of money on the table without checking the bill. Although he doesn’t hold my hand as we leave, a warm hand trails a fiery path down my back, making me shiver in response. Though no one can see it, I know it’s there.