by Amy Daws
“It’s what I think is best,” I grind out, the words as painful to say as they are to hear. She stares back at me with barely contained fury, and a sick part of me wants to laugh. She’s cute when she’s mad. “Don’t be angry, Sloan. We’re in a marathon, not a sprint.”
An audible growl rips from her throat as she tears off my T-shirt and fumbles to yank on her coat, affording me the glorious sight of her body one last time. It’s an image that will help me later.
“For someone who wanted a woman to take charge, you sure seem to be calling a lot of shots.”
She stomps around the bed toward the door in long, hacked off strides. I have to conceal my smile because, bloody hell, she’s dazzling. I trail after her down the stairs. It’s involuntary. She’s like a fucking magnetic force that pulls me in.
“I’ll call you later,” I say as she bends over and picks up the bag she dropped on the floor by the front door.
“No, you won’t!” she exclaims and twirls on her heel to face me. “I’ll call you if I can still stand you after this.”
A laugh breaks its way from my chest. “You’re awfully hostile for someone who just had two orgasms. I’m the one with blue balls here.”
She looks down at my dick and the fire in her eyes has it stirring again. “Don’t you dare jerk off!” she states, her golden eyes flashing up to me with sudden renewed determination. “That bulge in your pants is mine, not yours. If I decide I can handle your mood swings, I’ll be the one to take care of it.”
My stomach somersaults. In a heartbeat, Sloan has all the control again. I swallow slowly and reply, “Very well, Treacle.”
She narrows her eyes and growls a deep rumble as she turns and storms out of my house. I lean against the doorframe, shirtless, barefoot, and hard as stone all over again as I watch her beautiful figure get smaller and smaller.
Gareth, you’re a fucking idiot.
“GOOD MORNING!” FREYA SHOUTS TO me over the noise of the sewing machine as she strides in through the back door of the house. Her face falls to what I’m working on. “What is that?”
I lift my foot from the pedal and take a sip of my coffee. “A suit.”
Her face screws up. “I can see that. Why are you sewing it?”
“Because I feel like it,” I reply through clenched teeth and pull the fabric out and cut the thread with my scissors.
She looks down at what I’m wearing. “Why are you still wearing your coat?” I frown up at her and sniff as she adds, “Why do you look like you’ve not slept?”
“Because I haven’t,” I mumble, shoving the fabric under the needle and pressing the pedal to full speed again. “And I’m not wearing much underneath this.”
I’ve been up all night making this suit, carefully cutting out the custom pattern I drew to be exact to Gareth’s measurements. Regretfully, I’ve just barely finished the pants. I’m out of practice. I shouldn’t have let my sewing skills rot these last few years in Manchester.
Yet another way I’ve let men control my freaking life.
My machine suddenly stops. With wide, confused eyes, I look over and see that Freya has pulled the power cord from the wall. “What are you doing?” I bark, rage bubbling up inside of me.
“Explain why you look like a hungover Jackie Kennedy, then I’ll give you power back.” She props her hands on her hips and taps her foot expectantly.
“Because Gareth Harris is infuriating!” I growl loudly. “He wanted me to have all the power, but just when I started to get my footing, he ripped the rug out from under me.”
Freya’s green eyes are wide with excitement as she drops down on the chair beside me, plug still in hand. “Are you shagging Gareth Harris? Oh, God, please say yes because it would be the perfect sort of real-life fantasy my therapist says I need to engage in!”
“I didn’t even get a chance to shag him last night!” I peal, my voice nearly an octave higher than normal.
She glances down at the sexy bra peeking out from under the trench coat. “You showed up in that and nothing happened?”
I narrow my eyes and point my scissors at her. “Oh, something happened.”
She plasters on a fake smile and slowly clasps my hand in hers and lowers the scissors. “Let’s not use sharp instruments for vocabulary emphasis when you’ve had no sleep, shall we?”
Her sing-songy tone does nothing to calm my rage that’s been bubbling all night. “We messed around and then he told me to go home and think! What is that about?”
Her brows crumple. “Maybe he is worried it’s too soon since your divorce?”
“That shouldn’t be his concern. It should be mine!”
Freya exhales slowly. “Sloan, love, Gareth Harris isn’t a man about town. He’s not pictured in the papers with women, ever. He doesn’t even take women to red carpet events. He’s advertised as England’s sexiest loner! If he’s entering into some sort of relationship with you, he’s probably just being extra cautious.”
“That’s an overly nice way of putting it,” I snap. “You know what I think he’s being? A cock-tease!”
She snickers but quickly sobers when I don’t crack a grin. “So, how did you leave it?”
“The ball is in my court again. I’d already taken the ball and bounced it in a fucking trench coat. Now I have to put myself out there all over again.” I prop my elbows on the table and massage small circles on my temples.
“Well, that’s far better than rejection, love.” Freya rubs my shoulder encouragingly.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” I murmur.
Freya looks at the cut out patterned pieces of navy stretch cotton strewn about the table. Knowing Gareth’s texture issues, I am confident this fabric is one he’ll love. The very mild stretch also means that it can be fitted to his body to look more expensive than it is.
“Who is the suit for?” Freya asks.
I roll my eyes. “Who do you think?”
She lifts her brows. “Making a custom suit for a bloke must mean you like him.”
“I’d like to have sex with him! The suit is a…commitment of some sort I suppose.”
“Well, you’ve done the hard work of designing and cutting everything. Why don’t you go brush your teeth and get some sleep? A hot shower would do you good as well. I’ll take it from here.”
My face softens. “Do we have the time?”
“We most certainly do. Today we were going to start prepping pieces for that awards gala so many of our clients are attending. Last I checked, we had a dozen people to style for that night. But we have some time. Go take a sickie, Sloan. I got this!”
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I do, indeedy!” Freya beams. “Besides, this angry, hostile, scissor-slinging Sloan is a vast improvement from the moping mess you usually are when Sophia is gone.”
My heart lurches at the mention of my daughter. Then I marvel over the fact that I went an entire twenty-four hours without crying and worrying about what Sophia is doing or how she is feeling. I can’t remember the last time I did that. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind brushing my teeth.”
“Yeah, you don’t want to get your stink on this nice fabric.” She smiles and helps me out of my chair. “Off you go. Take a nice bath and close your eyes. I have a feeling things will look a whole lot better when you wake.”
A few hours later, I’ve slept, showered, and groomed myself. Dressed in a neat pair of houndstooth shorts with black tights and a white blouse, I feel human again. A phone call from Sophia telling me she’s home from school cheers me up even more.
But, unsurprisingly, my thoughts drift back to Gareth as I head downstairs and lay eyes on the suit I designed that’s now hanging on a clothing rack in the foyer. My hands run over the seams, the stitching, the lapels, the navy button closures. Freya’s been busy. She even finished off the blue-and-white-checked pocket square. The two-piece suit has been pressed and sprayed with my signature vanilla essential oil that we spritz on the inside of all the
clothes we send out to clients.
I lean in and inhale, imagining Gareth’s thick muscles inside the fabric, soaking up the scent of me. The stirring between my legs is all the sign I need to know that I’ll be delivering this to him today.
“Does it meet your superior standards?” Freya’s voice chirps from behind me.
I turn and give her a full, genuine smile. “Exceeds them, as usual.” I eliminate the space between us and pull her into a hug. Getting choked up over a suit is silly, but it’s such a representation of the life raft Freya has become in my life. “You are a true friend, Freya.”
“You’re bloody well right I am.” When I pull back, she hits me with a serious look. “You know this earns me some dirty details, right?”
I laugh and hug her again. “In due time, Freya. In due time.”
After a thousand more thank yous, I find myself in my car and on my way to Astbury. Freya gave me a calculated stare when I tucked Sophia’s booster seat into the concealed tailgate of my vehicle but let me escape without any questions.
I can’t explain exactly why it’s so important for me to keep Sophia a secret from Gareth. I suppose it’s since this is just a sex thing, I don’t see a need to share our life stories. Telling him I’m a mother also might change the way he sees me, and I don’t want that.
Today I’m going to be a sex goddess. Today I’m going to stroll into Gareth’s home and command his attention. I’m going to be the strong woman I know I’m capable of being, and I’m going to quit letting him tell me how this is all going to happen.
I pull up to his gate just as the sun begins to set. It’s so much brighter in the country than it is in Manchester. Maybe after Cal’s mother passes on, I’ll feel more freedom in where I live and I can move out to a place like this. Mind you, a much cheaper version.
I press the button on the security panel, and my heart jumps when a woman’s voice peals through the line. “Hello? Who is it?”
The flirty words I had prepared for Gareth get stuck in my throat, clearly unsuitable for whomever is on the other end of the line. In all the times I’ve been out here, a woman has never answered Gareth’s intercom. It’s always been him. Every freaking time. Whomever this is must be very familiar with Gareth if she’s answering his line.
Is this why he kicked me out of his house last night? Was someone due to come home? A girlfriend? Freya said he’s never seen with women, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have some secret girlfriend he hides from the public eye.
I look down the lane that leads to exactly where I want to be. The place where I imagined stripping naked and losing myself for an hour or more. Clearly, someone has already beat me there.
“Hello, is anyone there?” The woman’s voice chimes into my car once more and my hands tense on the steering wheel.
“Yes, I’m here,” I reply as anger replaces shock. I lean out my window and shout into the speaker, “And I have a message for Gareth Harris. You tell him that I’m not taking a number and that he should find someone else to mess with!”
“What?” the lady asks, but I don’t hear what else she says. I slam my foot on the gas pedal to reverse and a loud thump startles me from behind.
My hands tighten as I press my forehead against the wheel with a groan. I think I know what I hit, and I dare to say it didn’t survive the collision.
I slide out of my car and wobble on the gravel in my heels to see what I’ve pummelled. A stupid stone bird bath that was once a quaint, ornate, little thing now rests in a heap of eight pieces on the side of the road.
“Son of a bitch!” I exclaim and move to look at the damage to my car. A lovely bird bath-sized dent is imprinted on the corner of the bumper. “Freaking hell!” I cry and kick some rocks because this is just my luck. Why wouldn’t I damage my car in a blind jealous rage over a man I’ve barely started a relationship with yet? This makes perfect sense.
Gravel crunches from a distance. My gaze swerves down the driveway in response to find Gareth jogging right toward me. My traitorous eyes do a double take. His pecs are ridiculously bouncing under his T-shirt with each gallop he takes. He has a lot of nerve.
“Christ, Sloan, are you okay?” Gareth’s face is full of worry as he presses some numbers into the keypad on his gate. As soon as it’s open enough, he slips through and runs across the road to where I’m standing.
“I’m fine,” I reply in a warning tone and move past him toward my car door. “I’ll pay to replace your bird bath, but you should think about putting it somewhere besides directly behind your driveway. That’s unsafe.”
“It’s not my bird bath,” he argues. “It was here when I bought the place.”
“You still should have thought to put it somewhere that makes more sense!” I snap, opening my door and wrapping my fingers around the frame where the window is open. “I mean, what kind of birds are going to bathe themselves next to a road?”
“It’s a private drive,” Gareth barks, crossing his arms over his chest. “It only leads to mine and Hobo’s driveways.”
“Well, you clearly have guests!” I flick my hands toward the house where his lady is probably gawking out the window at us as we speak.
“Most people drive forward out of my driveway. You know… because they actually enter my property.” He hits me with a fixed narrow stare that I don’t altogether appreciate.
“Oh, believe me, I know! I had a nice chat with your current houseguest. She sounds oh-so lovely on your little speaker. She probably has a future in telephone porn if she wants one.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, his body tense like he’s on the verge of springing at me.
I slam my door shut, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning toward him. “The woman who answered when I called just now. Please, don’t let me delay you from servicing her.”
“Servicing her?” His forced laugh causes a thick vein to pop out on his neck. “You think someone I’m fucking would be answering my security gate?”
“I don’t know your life!” I turn to reopen my door, but in one swift move, Gareth storms up behind me, grasps my arm, twirls me to face him, and slams my door closed.
“Running away again, Sloan?” he seethes, pressing in so close to me, I have to arch my back to keep my face from touching his. “This is exactly why I told you to leave last night. You don’t have the strength to be level-headed with this arrangement. Things get a little uncomfortable and you run away like you did a year ago.”
“I’m not running!” I exclaim, shoving against his chest. “Do you think I drove out to Astbury to admire the English countryside?”
“Then why are you leaving?” he asks, his nostrils flared as he hunches down an inch so we’re nose-to-nose.
“Because, casual or not, I don’t want to be one of many!” I nearly howl, so I clench my teeth together to maintain some control. I’m completely overreacting, but I can’t help it. All I can think about is Cal and his Lady Godiva, and it’s making me regret putting myself out there again. “This is the worst kind of déjà fucking vu for me, and I’m not signing up for it again.”
“Sloan”—he grabs my arms so I stop struggling to get my door open—“the voice you heard was not someone I’m sleeping with. It was my house manager, Dorinda. She’s here until a security guard arrives to check my cameras because there was a break-in at Hobo’s house this morning.”
“Oh my God.” My breath catches in my throat as my hand reaches up to cover my mouth. “Are him and Brandi okay?”
“Yes,” he replies with an exhale, his eyes blinking slowly as he changes his focus. “Hobo and I were both at practice, and Brandi was with her mum in London.”
I awkwardly cross my arms over my chest, wishing I could shrink down to the size of a pebble. “What happened?”
Gareth shrugs. “A couple of blokes got through his security gate and stole a bunch of stuff. Trashed the property. Could have been worse if they were home.”
“How awful.” My voice is small
, and I can barely look Gareth in the eyes as I turn to gain some space from him. I’m such a freak for assuming the person who answered was someone he is intimate with. This is mortifying. “Please extend my apologies to Dorinda.”
Gareth looks at me, releasing a heavy sigh. “You actually met her before. I’m surprised you didn’t recognise her voice.”
I lean against the hood of my car, staring down at my feet in shame. “You want me to dominate you and you’re over there assuming logical things? None of this is logical.”
I steal a glance at his reaction, and the intensity in his gaze nearly takes my breath away. He moves over to me and places his hands on either side of me, caging me in like the wild animal I am right now. “I don’t want you to dominate me, Sloan. I just want to surrender to you.”
“Why?” I ask, wondering if I’ll ever feel secure about this crazy notion.
“Because, on some bizarre level I don’t fully understand, I need it. And I think you need it, too.” He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands to my waist, squeezing his palms around me to hold me captive. “Asking you to leave last night was fucking brutal, but I had to create a degree of separation between us to ensure that our lines stay clear and never blur. This is truly just about sex after all, and things got incredibly intense last night. Similar to how they did our first time together. I just felt like if you could leave and still come back, then we could do this together properly. Am I right?”
“I’m here aren’t I?” I retort, trying hard to ignore how much I love the warmth of his hands on my sides. This is intense, but everything with Gareth is intense. He’s an intense sort of guy. I don’t like him doubting me, though.
Gareth’s eyes crinkle with a poorly concealed smirk. “Technically, you’re in the middle of the street with a broken bumper.”
I scoff and ignore the way his body vibrates with silent laughter. I ignore the way he watches me as I look away. But I can’t seem to ignore the question on the tip of my tongue. “Gareth, I have to ask again…Why me?”
His eyes close as if he’s weighing his answer in his head before giving it to me. When he opens them, the dark smoulder in the hazel depths is knee-trembling. “Treacle, I want to surrender to you because I sense that it’s been a long time since you’ve been with someone who put your needs first.” He brings his hands to my face and runs his thumbs along the hollows of my cheeks. “I’ve watched you come into my house for years, style me, fill my closet, do your job. But it wasn’t until that night we slept together that I felt like I saw the real you.”