He cuts me off before I can finish the thought, and I’m grateful. I’ve no idea what the thought was going to be, in all honesty. And besides, it’s better this way. Everything is better this way, because he doesn’t cut me off with some words of his own.
He does it by crossing over to where I’m sitting, so abruptly that my sentences fail me. Whatever was supposed to come after that just dies in my throat, and is replaced by something else entirely: a little sound, maybe, and most certainly a smile. Oh, I’m smiling so hard I fear my face might crack – mainly because it’s obvious why he’s done this. He doesn’t even have to do anything else.
But I’m glad he goes ahead anyway.
He takes my hand, without looking in my direction. He just does it while staring straight ahead, as though it’s nothing at all, really – even though it’s clearly taking every bit of willpower he has. The palm pressed against mine is slightly damp. I think he might be vibrating just a little bit.
And then he tells me, in a slightly unsteady voice:
‘Yes. I believe I will choose to stay.’
* * *
Things are different then, our meetings are different. Not hugely so, but if I look hard I can see the shift. Oh, he still likes to arrange everything, and be completely in control. And when he lets slip some hint of emotion or passion I can see that panic on his face. I can feel him vibrating with the urge to just cut out on me before things get too real.
But I can also see him resisting all of those impulses.
He’s resisting them now, as I put him through the conversation from hell.
‘There must be something you want.’
‘There are lots of things I want. I’ve done most of them to you.’
‘Well … I can’t argue with that.’
‘So what more could there be?’
‘There’s plenty more, and you know it.’
‘I know nothing of the sort.’
‘Come on – share your deviant secrets.’
He snorts, and I suppose I should be offended.
I can’t be, however. I know just what he means when he says:
‘I doubt you could handle my deviant secrets.’
‘I’ve handled stripping and semi-public sex and bondage.’
‘That was hardly bondage.’
‘So you want to twist me up like a pretzel. You want spreader bars and ball gags and blindfold and butt plugs?’
He snorts again and gives me a ‘no’, and sadly I can tell he isn’t lying. He really doesn’t want any of those things – though I’m hard pressed to uncover what he does want. Ever since we started playing the game the other way around, it’s been less of a kinky trick and more of a battle of wills.
‘Something worse, then. Something appalling.’
‘Like pliers and fingernails?’
‘I didn’t really believe that, OK? Stop bringing it up!’ I say, but I can tell he’s teasing me before I’ve even finished speaking. He’s got that gleaming-eyed look on his face that says he’s come out of this triumphant. He’s made me take a different path – just like he always does – and I hardly even know I’m lost until I glance around and discover I’m surrounded by gnarly old trees.
‘I think you did really believe that. You think I’m secretly some sort of mobster.’
‘I do not. And stop changing the subject.’
‘This was hardly a subject change. It was just a little diversion.’
‘Yeah, I know all about you and your diversions. Next thing I know I’ll be sprawled all over the bed with your face between my legs, and then I’ll hardly be able to think about any of this at all.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’
‘No?’
‘Absolutely not. I wasn’t thinking of going down on you.’
‘Well, good,’ I say, and yes I’m aware that I sound singularly unconvincing. My voice wavers all over the place, and now my head is full of nothing but the feel of his mouth on my spread sex. The problem is that he’s just too good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He can get me to concede anything just by talking about licking my clit or fingering my pussy.
I’ve never had oral sex that made me come so hard or want it so much. In fact, I’ve never really had much oral sex, full stop – and he knows it.
And he knows other things, too.
‘I was thinking of taking you out onto the balcony, so everyone can see. And then … maybe just lifting your dress a little …’
‘That’s so … that is very …’
‘Rude? Yes, I’m aware. So shall we?’
He puts a hand out, and I almost stand to take it. I teeter on the brink for about ten seconds, muscles tensing in readiness, body sliding forward to send me off the edge of the chair. In fact, my ass is actually off the seat, when I suddenly realise.
‘You know, you almost had me there,’ I say, and to my great delight he snaps his fingers. The way other, sillier people do, when their plans have been foiled again. Curses, I think, and then am filled with the strangest glee.
He’s becoming a different person right before my eyes, and oh, I adore him for it.
‘Damn, I thought I’d gotten away with it.’
‘You’ll never get away with it any more – you know that, don’t you? I did learn from the master, after all.’
‘I’ve created a monster.’
‘I won’t deny it. Now, where were we?’
‘You were telling me all about the appalling things I might want. Apparently, exposing your pussy to the whole of London wasn’t quite enough.’
‘Well, it’s probably enough for me. But I doubt it’s enough for you.’
‘And you’re sure of that?’
‘I’m absolutely positive. When I hit the truth, you tend to glance away.’
His eyes widen a little at that – but not in a way I’ve ever seen before. This expression is still ripe with shock, but there’s something else there too. There’s a hint of disbelief, as though he never imagined I’d guess. And more importantly, I can see he kind of likes it.
I think he might even be a little impressed.
‘So you think I have a tell, like in poker’ he says, but I’m certain he’s just trying to deflect.
He knows he has a tell.
‘And you often check yourself for flaws that aren’t there,’ I say, and he gives me the strangest look. I don’t even know how to describe it. His eyes almost close, but I can see him rolling them through the little slits he leaves. And he lets out such a breath, too. It’s almost a frustrated snort, but not quite.
If I was going to pin a label on it, I’d call it withering regret.
But the word ‘busted’ seems to suit, too.
‘I’m going to have to stop doing that.’
‘You really are. It’s very revealing.’
‘Yes, I can see how it would be.’
‘I mean, it’s not just the fact that you do it when you’re uncomfortable or trying to avoid the truth. It’s also the act itself – searching yourself for flaws, doing your best to remove them, making sure you’re completely perfect …’
‘All right, all right,’ he says, but he’s smiling when he does. And his smiles are getting so much broader, too. They almost have substance, now. I see teeth on at least two out of every three occasions. ‘You win.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. And I can see how much you like it, too, so don’t pretend,’ he says, then, after a moment of the best sort of bliss, he goes one better. ‘You are so inescapably lovely when you smile. I can hardly begrudge you it.’
I blush at that – though he needn’t think he’s off the hook.
I know he’s still trying to get away from the main topic.
‘That’s really nice of you to say so. But I think we were discussing something else …’
‘Ah, yes. I keep forgetting.’
‘Of course you do. But don’t worry – I’m here to remind you. We were talking about the awful things I imagine you migh
t want.’
‘Oh, they’re awful now?’
‘Terrible. Taboo. Completely forbidden.’
His lips part over his teeth, like a shark sensing dinner.
He’s just too easy. How did he get this easy?
‘Still illegal in parts of the country?’
‘Quite possibly. Certainly, you will probably think so.’
‘So you really think you’re going to shock me.’
‘I’ve succeeded a few times now. It’s not beyond the bounds of reality.’
‘Getting confident, then?’
‘I think that would be an understatement.’
‘It doesn’t pay to be too sure of yourself. You never know what might happen.’
‘I know what’s going to happen here.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’re going to try and get out of it.’
‘That bad, then?’
‘It’s bad. But I know you want it. You’ve said as much to me before today, though I don’t think you knew you were doing it. You were just teasing me.’
His gaze goes a little flat after that – in a way that suggests he’s running back through our every conversation, searching and searching for the exact right thing. Was it when he spoke to me about the island? Or did the need to see me strip give him away?
‘It’s going to be something non-sexual again, isn’t it?’ he says, after a second – and is it my imagination or does his voice sound kind of defeated when he does? There’s something in there, at least. Something that reminds me of the feeling I get when stuff goes horribly, horribly wrong.
It’s like a pocket of air dropping down through your body.
‘It might well be.’
‘Something that I no longer do.’
‘Yes, I believe that’s true.’
‘And if I lie and tell you I don’t want to …’
‘You know I’ll know.’
‘I can’t hide from you any more can I, szeretett? You have me now,’ he tells me, and I’m so overwhelmed by the sentiment and the sound of his voice and that word – the one he thinks I don’t understand, but always do – that I speak in this big rush of emotion.
‘I hope I do. Because there’s nothing I want more than you,’ I say, sure and certain in the feeling but bracing myself for his reaction anyway. Maybe he’ll turn away from it, or tell me I’m foolish.
But he doesn’t.
He looks at me with eyes so bright and soft, instead. And his voice when he speaks is almost unbearably tender.
‘Then say. Say what it is,’ he urges me, and I can’t help smiling – slow like flowing syrup, and so completely happy.
‘A date, of course. You want a date, with a kiss on my wrist at the door,’ I say, and in response he gives me a thousand ways to say no, and all shot through with laughter. ‘No, nyet, never, non,’ he says, ‘impossible, improbable, I deny it with my last dying breath.’
But he only does it because he knows what I’m going to say.
There’s only one thing I can say.
‘Liar.’
Chapter Twelve
He’s much calmer sitting in the limousine than he was in the hotel room – as though he’s rearranged himself into the necessary shape to successfully go on a date. He’s had a few days to let the idea sink in, and now he’s completely on board. He’s dressed to the nines in a suit that probably cost more than my entire life, and he smells so utterly divine I almost maul him right then and there.
But I resist. I have to resist.
I’m supposed to be poised and elegant, now – though I know I’m failing badly. I’ve put my hair up and can already feel it coming down. Little tendrils are kissing the back of my neck, which isn’t a good thing on two levels. The first being how shabby I look, and the second is simply the sensation.
It reminds me of his mouth on my skin. It has me humming before we’ve stepped out of the car, and that doesn’t bode well for the rest of the date. I’m not even sure if I’ll make it through dinner, and I think he knows it.
I think he’s leaning on it a little, in fact. As we walk into a building I’ve never seen before – with no sign on the door, just like The Harrington – he slips a hand around my waist. And it’s not a casual hand, either. It’s very insistent, and so tight against my body I could probably make out every whorl on his fingertips if I tried.
And oh, the way the fabric moves beneath his touch …
I shouldn’t have worn this dress. I see that now. It’s far too thin and much too revealing. He barely has to do anything at all to caress me and fondle me and make me go insane, which isn’t the best position to be in while dining at a place like this. The entranceway alone is enough to put me on edge – all gloss and glamour, capped by a maître d’ who fawns over Janos like he’s the second coming.
‘So glad to see you again, Mr Kovacs,’ he says, while giving me a look that could strip paint. I actually see his nose wrinkle, but I can’t let it bother me. I have other things to contend with – like the dining room we’re swept into.
Oh, God, the dining room.
I think the walls are actually made of leather, and everything has this glossy glow that almost hurts the eyes. Even the patrons seem to glitter, to the point where I have to look away. If I see one more person dripping with diamonds I’m liable to lose it. At the very least, I want to take off the silly ring I have on my middle finger – just plain old silver, with a stone that probably came out of a plastic moulding machine.
And my dress … oh, I shouldn’t have worn this dress.
I can see people looking at it already. They’re probably wondering why it doesn’t have any interesting accents – it’s plain black, with a little nip in the middle to give me an hourglass shape. And if they’re not wondering that, they’ve got to be puzzling over the material. It’s not silk or satin. I think you could most kindly call it a jersey-ish material, and I know that fact is showing.
I know I look drab next to Janos – but he doesn’t allow me to linger on that thought for long. It’s just too hard to keep up with those kinds of concerns, when the man you’re with can’t stop touching you. He takes my hand and guides me into my seat, then once we’re sitting down he does something even sweeter.
He touches a finger to the side of my face and brushes away a hair that’s fallen there.
I swear, it’s the tenderest caress I’ve ever been party to – and not just because of the feel of it. There’s something about his intent in touching me that way. Something about the way he looks at me when he does it.
It’s like only I exist, in this room swimming with sophisticated people.
And he wants to make sure I know that, above all other things.
‘What would you like, then?’ he asks, but he keeps that hand on me as he pores over the menu. Now it’s at the back of my neck, stroking and stroking, almost hypnotically. I can hardly pick up my own menu to look – I’m too preoccupied with him and his attentions.
But who could blame me? It isn’t just the solicitousness. It’s the whole of him, from the black of his hair to the cut of his suit. He’s so handsome I can hardly stand it, and in ways I hadn’t really appreciated before. I like the lines around his eyes – so deep below and yet fainter as they fan out – and the firm slant of his jaw. Just below his lower lip is a little groove, faint as a thumbprint.
It’s completely compelling, and I can’t help exploring it with my eyes.
Much to his amusement.
‘Are you enjoying the view?’
‘I wasn’t staring that much.’
‘No? Ah, well, that is a pity.’
‘Why is it a pity?’
‘Because I like the thought of you looking,’ he says, and oh, I don’t know what to feel after that. There’s some embarrassment and a touch of indignation, swiftly followed by the sweetest surge of warmth that spreads and spreads through most of my body. He likes me looking. He revels in my appreciation, just as I revel in his.
It’s wonderful –
even if I still feel the need to explain.
‘I can’t seem to help it.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. The feeling’s mutual,’ he says, before doing his best to prove it. He pulls me closer in one firm move, sliding me over the soft red velvet cushions of this booth we’ve commandeered. And when our bodies are almost sandwiched together – knee to knee and hip to hip – he puts an arm around my shoulders.
And that’s not even the good part.
No, the good part is the feel of his hand on my back, spreading out to touch every inch he possibly can. It’s the long slow rub he does, back and forth and back and forth and finally … there’s the way he cups my face. He actually combs his fingers into my hair, and rests his thumb on my jaw.
And then he strokes me there, in such a familiar way it’s almost as though he’s done it a thousand times before. We sit like this all the time, with his hand on my face and his eyes exploring every facet of my features. There’s nothing the least bit unusual about any of it, despite the pounding of my heart and the shaking and this overwhelming certainty –
‘You want to kiss me, don’t you?’ I whisper, and though I don’t intend it to be a game of truth and lies, I can see he takes it that way. He struggles for a second, mouth tightening. Eyes half-amused and half-frustrated – unable to say yes but knowing what no will mean. No will mean he’s a liar, and liars have to pay the price.
Which leaves him stranded between the two, just like I always am.
‘I didn’t appreciate how hard this game was, before,’ he says finally, and I can’t help laughing. Just a little – more of an exhalation than anything else.
But it suits my words so well.
‘You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.’
‘That’s a good way to put it.’
‘So should I just not ask?’
‘You don’t really need to,’ he says, and then after the most excruciating pause of my life he says the rest. Oh, he says so much more. ‘I want to kiss you. I want to so badly I can barely think of anything else. When you enter a room it’s my only thought, and it torments me night and day.’
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