Good Girl

by Christy McKellen

  Once we have our drinks, we stand by the bar and I watch the crowd of people around me. They’re all so confident and full of life, laughing and flirting with each other. I have a pang of longing to be one of them. To be part of a scene that I feel welcome and comfortable in. It must be lovely, being so assured of yourself and your place in society. I turn to look at Sandro, who’s staring over at the other side of the room where there’s a long, green velvet curtain pulled across what appears to be a doorway. A tall, burly bouncer is guarding it and, as I watch, he gives a nod to a man and woman who approach but stops a small group of men from entering.

  I wonder what can be going on behind that curtain. Is there a smoky room full of card sharps back there, perhaps? Or a cool nineteen-twenties-style speakeasy, or a jazz cabaret? My heart leaps with excitement. I’d love to walk through that curtain and into the middle of one of those things.

  ‘Is there a poker game going on back there?’ I wonder aloud to Sandro.

  He gives me an indulgent sort of smile. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘So what is it?’ I ask, irritated that he apparently knows and is enjoying the fact that I don’t.

  ‘It’s a playroom.’

  ‘A what?’ I have a vision of a room full of adults all playing with train sets and building blocks. It’s a weird idea, but then people can have strange fetishes—or so I’ve heard.

  ‘There are beds in there where people are having sex.’

  ‘In—in front of each other?’ I choke out.

  There’s that indulgent smile again. ‘Yeah. Some people get off on that.’

  Suddenly I can barely breathe. This is the sort of thing that only happens in stories, though, right? Surely people don’t actually have sex in public in real life?

  From the look in Sandro’s eyes I’m guessing I have an awful lot to learn about ‘real life’.

  ‘Want to go in and check it out?’ he murmurs.

  My first instinct is to say hell, no and get straight back to the safety of our apartment, but something in his face stops me. He wants me to see it. To experience everything there is to know about sex. Just as I told him I’d wanted to on the plane.

  So I swallow down my fear and give him a shaky but affirmative nod.

  He nods back. ‘Okay, then.’

  Taking my hand, he leads me towards the doorway. I think for a second we’re going to be denied entry, as the bouncer looks us up and down, but then he holds back the curtain for us to slip through. I feel a rush of fear about what we’re about to see, but I keep walking, allowing Sandro to lead me inside.

  And straight into an orgy.

  I stand there, frozen in shock, my heart pounding in my chest as though it’s trying to break out and escape as I stare at a huge circular bed in the middle of the room upon which a big group of people is doing all manner of unnerving, intimate-looking things to each other.

  I jump as Sandro slides his arm around my waist.

  ‘Quite a sight, huh?’ he murmurs into my ear.

  I nod stupidly, but no words will leave my mouth. My body seems to be petrified. Despite my determination to throw off my prudishness while I’m here in Italy, I know for a fact right now that I’m not going to be able to handle being here. I really don’t want to stay. I really, really don’t.

  Panic wells in my gut as I watch the surreal scene of entwined limbs and heaving bodies playing out before me. What if Sandro expects me to join in with this? I won’t be able to. There’s no way. An unnerving tremble that began in my hands seems to be spreading through my whole body now. I can’t move. I’m too terrified even to take a step. I have a sudden mad vision of one of the people on the bed reaching out and dragging me into the mêlée, where I’ll be suffocated under a pile of naked bodies.

  I’m uncomfortably aware that Sandro is looking at me and I turn to meet his gaze, seeing a slight frown on his face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I can’t even shake my head because my neck is too tense.

  My expression must have alerted him to my discomfort because gently he draws me back behind the curtain with him, the security of his embrace helping to unfreeze my limbs. Cupping my face, he looks into my eyes, then frowns and sighs.

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken you in there.’

  Now I’m behind the curtain with the sex show safely hidden on the other side, I’m finally able to speak. ‘It kind of blew my mind,’ I mutter.

  He rubs his hand over his eyes, then shoots me a look of concern. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to join in with it, you know. I just thought you might find it interesting after the conversation we had on the plane about not needing to be in love to have sex. You said you wanted to understand and experience everything, so I thought it’d be a good opportunity to see other people being totally uninhibited in the pursuit of pleasure. I thought you’d be able to handle it, but clearly I read the situation wrong.’

  ‘That’s the understatement of the year,’ I mutter, my humiliation turning to frustration with myself.

  He lets out a low, exasperated sigh. ‘Yeah, okay. We should go home.’

  ‘Home?’ I panic for a second that he means he’s going to dump me back in London and my time with him will be over before it’s even begun. That I’ve blown it by pretending I’m okay with our deal, only to prove tonight that I’m really not.

  Am I a lost cause?

  I want to cry.

  ‘Back to the apartment,’ he says gruffly.

  I relax a little, but only a little. I can’t look at him now, though. I’m so dispirited.

  ‘Yes. Okay. Let’s go back,’ I mutter, pretty sure this signals the end of our deal. How can he possibly hope to help me when I freak out so badly at the sight of other people having sex?

  I’m so convinced I’ve ruined everything, I fully expect him to ask me to pack my things and leave as soon as we get back to the apartment.

  Shame and disappointment take turns to sink through me.

  So much for my sexual liberation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sandro

  SHE DOESN’T SAY a word on the short walk home.

  I feel like such an asshole, I can’t even bring myself to make any throwaway conversation.

  How could I have thought it would be a good idea to take her into that playroom? I guess I assumed it’d be okay because she’s been acting pretty offhand about what we’ve come here to do. In the bedroom earlier I sensed she was keen to get on with it, but I held back because I wanted to take things slowly, to have some build-up—to show her I wasn’t the easy lay she thought I was. I imagined going to that club might create some anticipation. That she’d get all hot and bothered at the things she’d see there. In my mind, it had been just an extension of foreplay.

  It’s crystal fucking clear now, though, that all that confidence she’s been projecting about having sex has been a front and I’ve been too distracted by my determination to control the situation to notice.

  She’s so subdued as I let us into the apartment that I’m afraid she’s beating herself up now for not being more gutsy.

  My chest aches at the anxiety I’ve caused her.

  I need to make it up to her, pronto.

  ‘Let me run you a bath,’ I suggest as we kick off our shoes in the hallway.

  ‘A bath?’

  From the look on her face, you’d think I just suggested she go skinny dipping in the Arno.

  ‘Sì. To help you relax after your shock.’ I throw her a teasing smile, hoping a bit of humour might lighten the mood.

  She blinks at me, then nods. It’s a jerky movement and I’m suddenly terrified she’s about to cry.

  ‘I’ll fix you a glass of wine to drink while it’s running,’ I say, turning away quickly and heading for the kitchen.

  There is a low pull of shame in my belly as I yank open the fridge
door. I can’t stand to see a woman cry, especially if it’s of my making. That’s one of the reasons I don’t do long-term relationships. No emotional fall-out to deal with.

  I find an ice-cold bottle of champagne and pour a generous measure into a flute. Pausing for a moment, I take a breath and give myself a good talking-to before heading back to deliver the drink to her. I find her in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa as if she’s expecting me to throw her out any second and is primed to leave.

  ‘Here you go,’ I say, holding the glass out to her.

  She takes it with a small, grateful smile and I nod, relieved she’s not burst into tears in my absence.

  ‘I’ll go and run that bath,’ I tell her, heading straight out of the room before she can reply.

  I fill the enormous tub almost to the brim and add lots of lavender-scented bubble bath for good measure. Then I light all the candles that are positioned in colourful little semi-melted mounds around the edge and turn off the main light, casting the room into a soft, comforting glow.

  If that doesn’t help her relax, I don’t know what will.

  Except for an orgasm, of course. But that’s the next step in my plan to win back her good favour.

  She looks at me with wary eyes when I come out to tell her the bath is ready, murmuring her thanks before slipping off, her shoulders hunched and her chin dipped.

  While she’s in there, I pace the room, agitation making me antsy. I know I’ve got a lot of making up to do to restore her faith in me. The last thing I want is for her to decide to go home tomorrow, convinced I don’t have her best interests at heart. My father would not be pleased to hear I’d pissed off the youngest daughter of Maxim Darlington-Hume in twenty-four hours flat.

  And, to be honest, I’d be gutted not to get the opportunity to get to know Juno better. I’ve really started to like her. She’s such a smart, fascinating woman who clearly has her own issues with family, which has made me feel closer to her. It seems we’re more in sync than I’d initially thought.

  Twenty minutes later she emerges from the bathroom wrapped in an oversized towelling robe with her long hair freshly washed, dried and hanging in a smooth sheet down her back. I have a strong urge to wrap it around my hands and pull her close, to drag that robe from her curvaceous body and do all manner of pleasurable things to her. But I know I need to tread carefully here. I don’t want to spook her again. This requires some careful handling.

  ‘I thought you might have gone to bed,’ she says in a quiet voice, tapping the brush she’s carrying gently against her thigh.

  I move towards her, holding up my hands in a peace offering. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’ Taking the brush from her, I gesture towards the nearest sofa. ‘Sit down. Let me brush your hair.’

  ‘Seriously?’ she says, her nose wrinkled in surprise.

  ‘Sì. I want to feel it in my hands.’

  ‘Uh, okay.’ She sits on the seat nearest to her, turning her back to me, and I sit down behind her and take the long swathe of her hair in my hand. It’s beautifully lustrous and feels soft and smooth against my skin. I forcibly have to stop myself from letting out a groan of pleasure as the strands slip through my fingers.

  I begin to smooth the brush down her hair, from her scalp to the very ends, and I smile when I hear her let out a small sigh of pleasure.

  ‘You like having your hair brushed?’

  ‘I love it. Though you’re the first person, other than my hairdresser, that’s ever done it for me.’

  ‘It’s such a beautiful colour. Like autumn bonfires.’

  She lets out an mmm-hmm sort of noise, but doesn’t say anything else.

  ‘Why do you keep it tamed all the time?’

  She leaves a small pause hanging in the air before answering, as if she’s deciding whether or not to tell me the truth. ‘Honestly, it draws too much attention to me when it’s down, and I find that hard to handle.’

  I shake my head. ‘Well, I think that’s a travesty.’

  Her breathing quickens as I continue to stroke the brush through her hair and after a few moments I see her visibly begin to relax, her shoulders dropping and her back arching as if it’s giving her real pleasure now.

  ‘I’m sorry about tonight,’ I mumble quietly into her ear.

  She tenses a little and I move the brush back up to her scalp and run it from the crown of her head to the base of her neck until she relaxes again.

  ‘You know, I think I freaked out so badly because I was afraid you might expect me to do sexual things with you in front of all those people,’ she says in a small voice.

  I stop what I’m doing and get up from the sofa, moving to sit in front of her instead so I can look into her eyes.

  ‘That’s not why I took you in there, I swear. I genuinely thought you might find it “fun and...er...sexy”.’ I flash her a humbled smile, hoping she’ll realise I’m referencing the first awkward conversation we’d ever had about sex. That I’m suggesting we’re both as bad as each other.

  I’m relieved to see her smile back, even if it is a little restrained.

  I rub my hand over my face, wishing I could take tonight back and start again. So much for my reputation as a world-class seducer of women.

  ‘It’s not that I didn’t find it sexy, exactly,’ she murmurs. ‘I was just surprised by how full-on it was.’

  I nod. ‘I guess I’m a bit desensitised to how extreme that place would seem to the uninitiated. But we don’t have to go anywhere like that again,’ I promise her. ‘And from now on I want you to tell me immediately if something makes you feel uncomfortable. Communication is really important. I want you to feel safe and in control, okay?’

  ‘You still want to help me?’ she asks, sounding surprised.

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. ‘Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?’

  Her shrug is awkward. ‘I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d be disappointed with me for being such a wimp and not want me here any more if I’m not going to be any fun.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a wimp, Juno.’ I lift my hand to her face and smooth my thumb over the soft skin of her cheek. ‘I just think we need to take some time to get to know each other. To figure each other out. What I really need is for you to be open and truthful with me when we’re in bed.’

  ‘I’ll try, but I don’t think I’m going to be good at sexy talk.’ She glances down and frowns at her hands which are so tightly linked in her lap the tendons are standing out.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be sexy. It has to be honest. If you don’t want to do something, or don’t like something, you have to say so. Don’t do it just to try and make me happy or to spare my feelings.’

  I feel her begin to tremble under my touch and I can see from the fast tick of the vein in her throat that she’s nervous.

  ‘We’ll only go as far as you’re comfortable with. And we’ll take it slow.’

  ‘In the interest of being honest, I have to tell you... I’m nervous about how inexperienced and...ordinary...you’re going to find me,’ she blurts, colour rising to her cheeks. ‘I know the kind of women you usually date and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to compare favourably to them.’

  I shake my head, mystified that she’d be concerned about that. ‘Juno, you’re a very attractive woman with an incredible body.’

  She won’t look at me now though and just shakes her head.

  ‘What happened to you to make you doubt how fucking sexy you are?’ I ask roughly.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t have any experience of being made a fool of, but it strips you of your confidence,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Who made a fool of you?’

  There’s a small pause before she answers. ‘My first boyfriend, when I was sixteen.’

  She lets out a long-suffering sigh.

  ‘I’d had men trying t
o get close to me before I met him—because of my family name and the attention it brings—but I genuinely thought Malcolm liked me for me. He was twenty-three and seemed so mature and cultured. He was also really possessive and attentive, telling me all the time how beautiful he thought I was. And even though I know I’m no real beauty I lapped it up. I really needed to believe it at that point in my life.

  ‘Truthfully, I’d taken my mother’s death really hard and he seemed so understanding about how hollow and lost I felt. Like he understood me and had my back. That he cared. He seemed so sincere. And I...believed at that point I was in love with him. I planned on losing my virginity to him. I thought what we had was real, you see, and I wanted to trust him with it, to prove to him how much I cared about him too. But then I found out from a friend that he was only dating me because I’m a Darlington-Hume.’

  She pulls a disgusted face. ‘She overheard him talking about the sacrifice he was making being with the runt of the litter instead of someone “more in his league”, like one of my sisters. He told his friends he was “taking one for the team” by pretending to be in love with me so he could reap all the privileges that come with my family name—to benefit both himself and them, if they were nice to him. It was all a power trip. He thought being with me would open all sorts of doors for him. Once I started asking around about him, it turned out that pretty much everyone knew he was like this, except for gullible old me.’ She shakes her head. ‘I was utterly heartbroken and it put me off dating for a long time.’

  ‘What a prick!’ I say roughly, furious on her behalf. I know exactly the type of guy she’s describing—someone who’s happy to wreck a woman’s self-esteem just to get ahead.

  I try not to think about the fact I’m also using her for her name right now. It’s not as if we’re in a relationship and I’m pretending to be something I’m not—or to care about her more than I do. This is an entirely different scenario. No one’s going to get hurt here.

  I watch her playing with the cord of the dressing gown as she continues to speak. ‘I’ve never had a lot of confidence in my looks. Somehow I ended up with the trifecta of bad luck in that department in my teens. After my mother died I started comfort eating and put on a lot of weight. Then my face broke out in acne. Basically, I was an overweight, spotty redhead and I got bullied a lot at school by some of the other girls. And then, later, by the press. Journalists seemed to love drawing unfavourable comparisons between my sisters and I. You’ve met them, right? They’re beautiful—knockout beautiful—and so confident with it. I’m just not like that, no matter how hard I try to be.’