Good Girl

by Christy McKellen

‘I’ve never had sex on a roof,’ I murmur as I come up alongside her on the landing. She looks at me with shock in her eyes.

  ‘What? We can’t have sex here.’

  ‘Of course we can,’ I say. ‘We’ll be discreet. No one will know.’

  She pauses for a moment, as if needing to think about it, then nods, her mouth widening into a mischievous smile. ‘Okay, then. I guess there’s no harm in adding it to our catalogue of sexual experiences.’

  Our. I like that word on her lips.

  The door to the terrace is locked, but I pull out a credit card and jemmy it a bit until it unlatches.

  Juno looks at me with awe. ‘I had no idea I was sleeping with a master criminal.’

  I give a nonchalant shrug. ‘I spent a lot of time in my youth figuring out ways to escape from places.’

  ‘Which places?’

  ‘Locked detention-classrooms at the school I went to mostly.’

  She shakes her head, her expression dismayed, but I’m too busy thinking about what we came up here to do to worry about her reaction.

  It’s a good-sized roof terrace with creeping plants clinging to an ornate, chest-height, wrought-iron railing that runs one length of the building. We both stand and stare at the cityscape in front of us for a moment, entranced by its higgledy-piggledy beauty.

  ‘Wow,’ Juno murmurs, walking to the railing, her hips swaying provocatively, her ass looking incredible in her tight shiny dress.

  I stride over to stand behind her, pressing the front of my body to her back so she can feel exactly how much she’s turning me on.

  ‘Yes, wow,’ I say, pushing her hair to one side and bending to kiss her elegant neck. I feel her shiver as I brush my lips over her skin. She smells amazing—clean and fresh, but with the spicy undertone of her own unique scent. My mouth waters as I move across to kiss her bare shoulder and slide my hands round to cup her breasts.

  Pressing herself back against me, she leans into my body, using me for support. And it’s another perfect moment. Her scent in my nostrils...her beautiful body under my hands.

  I don’t want it to end. But I know it’s going to.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed with anger, bitterness and frustration.

  Why wasn’t I born with astounding intelligence instead of my useless fucking looks? Why can’t I be the kind of man she wants to spend the rest of her life with?

  There’s only one reason she’s with me right now and I guess I’ll have to play that to my advantage.

  I want to ruin other men for her. I want her never to have sex with anyone the way she has it with me. And I want her never to find anyone else to satisfy her the way I can.

  I want her like I’ve never wanted anything or anyone before. Just as I’ll never be the same again if I can’t have her.

  I ache for her, my body a throbbing mess of torment.

  Skirting my hands away from her breasts and over her stomach, I bunch the skirt of the dress in my hands and lift it up till I can slide one hand between her legs. I drag in a guttural breath as I discover she’s not wearing knickers, my cock jumping with excitement at the discovery.

  ‘Not wearing any underwear out to a fancy party like this?’ I mutter teasingly into her ear. ‘Bad girl—wicked, filthy girl. I should punish you for that.’

  She makes a sound, as if she agrees with me.

  Gathering up her beautiful mane of hair in my left hand, I wrap it round and round my fist till I’m clutching it in a tight knot at the base of her skull. She’s all mine to control now. With my right hand I slide my fingers between her pussy lips and find that magical bundle of nerves, running my fingertip gently over and round it.

  I hear her gasp in pleasure as she jerks at the intimacy of my touch. ‘Yes. Yes, just there, touch me there,’ she urges.

  She’s already wet with excitement and I use the silky lubrication easily to glide two fingers into her pussy. Her body rocks against me, juddering with pleasure as I begin to finger-fuck her, sliding the pad of my thumb over her clit.

  ‘An orgasm with a view,’ I murmur and she lets out a throaty laugh, her body wiggling seductively against mine.

  ‘I want you to fuck me,’ she whispers, turning her head to look me in the eyes. ‘I want to feel your cock inside me.’

  I’ve never been more willing to do something in my life.

  I slide my hand away from her and release my grip on her hair, then quickly undo my tux trousers and pull out my cock, which I quickly cover with a condom that I stashed in my pocket earlier. Just in case.

  ‘Spread your legs,’ I instruct her roughly. As soon as she does this, I pull her hips back towards me and slide inside her, taking myself right to the hilt in one quick, smooth movement.

  ‘Ooh!’ she moans, but it’s a happy sound. The sound of relief.

  I begin to pound into her ruthlessly, possessing her entirely. I want her never to forget this. Never to forget me. To yearn for this time we’ve spent together for the rest of her life.

  She’s tight and hot around my cock, and is pushing her ass back against me now, taking my hard thrusts, her breath panting out of her throat in rough, vocal gusts.

  ‘Sandro, I’m so close. Please, please...’

  She wants my hands on her too. I know she does. She needs to come desperately, but can’t quite get there. I’m totally in control of her pleasure and she’s begging me for mercy...

  And suddenly I’m coming—spurting hot and forcefully inside her. My head rushes with lights and colours and my whole body jerks with the ferocity of my orgasm. And I ride it, on and on, still thrusting inside her until the feeling finally begins to subside and my senses return.

  Then the shame hits me.

  I feel as though I’ve just regressed ten years.

  Because for the first time in my life I’ve lost control of my own need. The one advantage I had, the thing I’m so good at, so proud of—the thing that drew her to me specifically in the first place—has just shattered into a million useless pieces.

  ‘Oh!’ she mutters. ‘Did you come already?’

  I hate the sound of confused disappointment in her voice. But I’m not about to let her see my distress.

  Ignoring the insistent aftershocks of my orgasm, I spin her round and push her against the railings. Then I drop to my knees and lift her leg to hook it over my shoulder and suck down hard on her pussy, finding her clit with my tongue and lashing at it over and over again. She begins to jerk and twitch against me.

  ‘It’s too much, Sandro, too hard!’

  Through the heat of my humiliation I force myself to be more gentle and take my time with her, slowing my movements until I feel her begin to move with me instead of against me.

  Her hands grip my head, her fingers tugging at my hair, and I allow her to guide my movements, giving her the control for once, letting her win this.

  A few more strokes of my tongue and she starts to come, making breathy, satisfied sounds in the back of her throat and gripping my hair tightly between her fingers until she’s finally satisfied.

  And I know in that moment that that’s the end of it. The end of us. I’ve taught her everything she needs to know now. She’s surpassed me. There’s nothing more she can learn from me. So I’ve served my purpose. Now I have no unique selling point.

  I don’t want to look at her. My heart is thumping so hard I think it’s going to break my ribs. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.

  Adrenaline shoots through my bloodstream, making me antsy, and all I can think about is getting out of here. Getting away from the curious look on her face and the gnawing sadness in my gut.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  The confusion in her voice only adds to my sick feeling of guilt. Whatever I say right now, it won’t be enough to stop this falling to pieces right in front of me.

  I’m itching to ge
t out of here now. So instead of answering her I take the coward’s way out.

  ‘Let’s go back to the apartment. I think we’ve had about as much fun as we’re going to have here,’ I say.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Juno

  I FEEL DREADFUL. My head’s a cloudy mess and my body is tense with mortification.

  I’d not meant to sound so critical when, for the first time ever, Sandro had come before I’d had a chance to. But I’d been so close to orgasm, with him hitting the perfect spot inside me, it was extremely frustrating when he suddenly stopped.

  Not that he hadn’t made it up to me.

  But now there’s a strange, fractious sort of atmosphere between us. It hums in the air like a dangerous swarm of insects just waiting to strike. My heart races as we make the short drive home, with Sandro sitting tight-lipped beside me, his powerful body rigid and his concentration fully focussed on the road ahead of us.

  Perhaps he’s deliberately withdrawing from me now our time together is nearly up.

  My heart contracts painfully at the thought of leaving Florence. Of leaving him.

  How can I even think about going back to my steady, closeted life in London when I know there’s so much more for me out here? With him. Not that that had ever been on the cards. He’s been pretty clear all the way through that he’s not interested in having anything serious with me. And why would he choose me anyway? I’m nothing like the women he’s dated in the past. I don’t have the pizzazz or street smarts he seems to go for.

  I wonder whether he’s beginning to worry that I’ve become too emotionally attached to him and that’s why he’s going cold on me—to make it easier on us both when I leave. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s incredibly intuitive like that.

  In fact, now that I’ve finally grown up, I realise he’s actually the kind of man I’d like to spend the rest of my life with. Someone who excites and inspires me, brings me out of my shell, encourages me to explore new facets of myself without judgement. There’s so much more depth to his character than I’d given him credit for when we first met. I’m actually ashamed of myself now for judging him on such superficial terms. Clearly there’s a lot going on with him that he’s not been able to express because of the strictures of his family’s expectations of him.

  ‘Sandro?’ I ask tentatively. ‘Is everything okay?’ I’ve already asked him this once but he ignored the question.

  This time he gives me a nod, but it’s terse, and so unlike the warm responses I’m used to getting from him.

  Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but I’m determined not to let them fall. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to emotionally blackmail him. That wouldn’t be fair at all. Not after what he’s done for me—without ever asking for anything in return.

  I suppose I should start to get used to the idea of letting our time together go. But it’s such a horrible thought I immediately push it away.

  Not yet.

  Luckily, there’s a free parking space right outside our building and Sandro pulls into it and we both get out of the car.

  I’m still so deep in thought I don’t realise what the bright flash of light that nearly blinds me is for a second.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Sandro shouts at the photographer who’s just run up to stick a camera right in our faces, pushing me behind him to try and shield me from the lens. ‘Leave us alone, you piece of shit!’

  The guy just leers at him with a contemptuous expression. ‘You’ve changed your tune. Last week you were begging me to take photos of the two of you. What’s this meant to be—some kind of stunt to eke out your popularity in the gossip columns?’

  ‘I said fuck off!’ Sandro says again, this time stepping menacingly towards the guy.

  The photographer takes a step back, dropping his camera to his side, as if he’s afraid Sandro’s about to snatch it. ‘You fucking celebrity socialites make me sick.’ And he spits on the ground at our feet before stalking away.

  I stand rooted to the spot, paralysed with confusion. All through that shocking incident I was mostly upset by the blatant disregard for our privacy—it brought back all those old feelings of humiliation from my teens—but now the guy has gone his words begin to penetrate my brain and a heavy feeling of dread sinks through me.

  ‘Sandro?’ I say shakily. ‘What did he mean by that?’ My heart’s thumping a heavy, painful beat against my ribs.

  ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it,’ he says gruffly. But I’m not going to let him fob me off. I reach up and put my hand on his jaw, turning his face towards me so he has to meet my gaze.

  ‘What aren’t you telling me? Why did he accuse you of asking him to take photos of us?’

  There’s a guilty look in his eyes now and cold panic spikes my chest.

  ‘Did you call him?’ I demand, with a sudden rush of fearful anger.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies hotly, turning away from me so I can no longer see his eyes.

  I stare at his rigid back as he strides towards the door to our building.

  ‘What? But...but you told me I was being paranoid about photographers following us round the city. You’ve actually been setting it up to happen?’ I shout after him.

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ he says, glancing around as if he’s worried there’ll be more press hiding in the shadows, taking down our every word.

  He heads up the stairs before me, not slowing his pace so I can keep up with him as he usually does. I’m out of breath by the time I reach our apartment and my blood rushes thickly through my veins as I try to prepare myself for what I’m about to hear. I’m already vibrating with tension, knowing it’s not going to be good. Why would he do something like this to me? I just can’t reconcile it with the Sandro I know. It has to be a mistake.

  He’s already inside as I walk through the door on shaky legs.

  ‘Why?’ Anger permeates my voice, along with panic. ‘Why would you do something like that when you know how much I hate being photographed by the press?’ I ask him.

  He doesn’t answer, just kicks off his shoes and shrugs off the tux jacket, then starts to walk towards the living area.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he mutters, his back to me.

  ‘Sandro? Talk to me!’ I demand, running to catch up with him and putting my hand on his arm to try and stop him.

  ‘Because my father told me to!’ he shouts back.

  I physically recoil, horror sinking through me. ‘Why would he do that? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because I needed to give the press some good pictures of us together in order to navigate a situation I created,’ he says, roughly shoving his hands through his hair.

  ‘What situation?’

  He sighs and rubs at his forehead. ‘A photo of me appeared in the society press the day after the party in Chelsea and my father wasn’t happy about it.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he happy? What’s the photo of?’

  ‘I got in a fight at the party after you’d left. A guy there insulted a woman I was talking to so I hit him.’ He holds up both hands. ‘But I swear to you, it’s not like me to lose it like that, which is why I didn’t mention it. I didn’t want you to think I was a violent person and walk away from our deal. I was just in a bad mood that night and I overreacted.’

  ‘Was the bad mood because of me? Because of what I...implied?’ The idea that I’d set this awful chain in motion horrifies me.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he says, batting away my words. ‘I was drunk and the guy was out of line. But my father wasn’t pleased about it getting into the press and wanted me to make amends. Which is why I needed you to act the part of adoring “good girl” girlfriend to help me convince him I was serious about restoring the family’s reputation.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ask me to go along with it?’ I ask, not quite able to believe I’m hearing this.

  ‘Because I th
ought you’d refuse after what you said about your experience with the press. I thought you wouldn’t agree to come to Florence with me, and I needed it to look real. I was afraid it wouldn’t look right if we were both pretending.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I can be a good little actress when I need to be. I’ve done it all my life. Pretending I’m okay when I’m not,’ I spit angrily.

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to ask you to do that.’

  ‘No, because you’re too bloody proud to ask for help, aren’t you?’ I jab my finger at him. ‘So you lied to me instead.’

  ‘I never meant to lie,’ he shouts back. ‘And I didn’t think you’d ever find out about it.’

  ‘So you’ve just been pretending to find me attractive all this time? Playing dumb to gain my sympathy, when actually you’re a smart, conniving con artist. You’re the one who’s been manipulating me.’

  ‘Playing dumb? I fucking knew it. That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How many degrees and awards someone has.’ The look in his eyes is so full of fury, I take a step backwards and wrap my arms around my body.

  Shame slides sickeningly down to my gut as I remember how I misjudged that side of things before I met him.

  ‘How much of what you told me about yourself was made up?’ I counter in defence.

  ‘None of it. It’s all true, every word,’ he bites back.

  ‘How do you expect me to believe that now though, Sandro? How can I believe anything you say to me?’

  All those memories of us together, where he’d shown me affection and been so kind, take a dark turn in my mind. Were all of them fake? They hadn’t felt it at the time, but maybe I’d been kidding myself, wanting them to be real. Wanting him genuinely to like me as I am.

  Had I gone and fallen all over again for the same trick that Malcolm had played on me?

  Panic and pain well inside me, making my head throb. I really want to cry, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of an emotional response.

  ‘You were so offended when I accidentally mentioned money to you, when we first talked,’ I blurt, using my anger to hold myself together. ‘But you were more than happy to whore yourself out for a few photographs in a newspaper. For publicity.’