Page 27 of Easy
‘I’m going to regret telling you that, aren’t I?’
‘Oh, you’ll regret lots more if you don’t let me put it right.’
‘But would that be on the cock or off?’ I ask saccharine sweet.
‘On, definitely.’ He nods solemnly. ‘On the cock. On my face. On your hands and knees, riding me, and if you have the energy, from behind while you hang onto that fireplace.’ He points the whisk in the direction of the vast fireplace. Marble, definitely original, and, like the rest of the open plan space, exquisitely tasteful.
I’m still staring at the fireplace as I replay the sentence back in my head. ‘On the clock,’ I say slowly, turning back to him. ‘I definitely said on the clock.’ Didn’t I?
‘Ehhh!’ He makes a noise like a buzzer. ‘Freudian slip, love. A dirty bastard that Freud. A bit like someone else I know.’ His smug ass needs a kiss—I mean, a kick.
‘You’re not going to let up, are you?’
‘I feel like you know me already.’
It turns out Will’s cooking skills aren’t as impressive as his shoulders.Or his abs. He makes beautiful scrambled eggs but terrible toast. The crumbling carbon tasting kind of burned toast. But as my hangover begins to abate, I still manage to eat two rounds slathered in butter along with a pile of fluffy, green flecked eggs. At the whitewashed kitchen table, we dance once or twice more around the topic of last night, but I just haven’t the heart to defend myself. So I’m sticking with drunk as an explanation. And it’s a reasonable one; drunk people do dumb things. True story.
Not that I’d call Will a dumb thing. Quite the opposite. He’s mightily annoying, and if innuendo was an Olympic sport, he’d have a cabinet full of medals. But he’s also incredibly smart and, dare I say it, naturally empathetic. A rare thing in a man, I’ve found. Take Julian, for instance—take last night, for instance.
How could I have been so wrong?
I’m sure Will would reason that my error is due to experience. As in, a lack of. And maybe he’s right—maybe that’s what makes him so good.
And what exactly is an escort, anyway? Does he really sleep with women for money, or is he just arm candy for lonely widows and businesswomen? I could ask, sure, but he won’t give me a straight answer. Whatever the intricacies of his career, it must certainly pay well, I think, as I glance at my surroundings once again.
It’s hard not to like him. Especially when his mouth is busy doing something other than talking. Like eating his breakfast.Not that I’m suggesting I shouldn’t like him purely on account of the work he does.Especially when he does it so well.Between my legs suddenly begins to pulse with remembrance. I came so hard and so long last night I feel like I’ve done a hundred crunches.
‘You okay?’ Will asks from behind his coffee cup.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You just pulled a face like you were in pain.’
See? Empathetic. Or else he reads people really well. ‘I’m good,’ I answer brightly, concentrating on the contents of my own cup. I saycup, but really, it’s a glass. ‘I’m just wondering how long before this is cool enough to drink. You know, given that it doesn’t have a handle.’ A cortado, I think he called it. And I thought my Keurig was pretty special.
‘Philistine.’
‘When in Rome, I suppose.’
‘And when in London, let Will f—’
‘When will it end? Lord!’ I cast my eyes heavenward as he laughs.
‘If you’re not going to let Will... reconnect you to the sexual world, what are your plans for the rest of your holiday?’
‘My what?’ I ask, almost spilling my coffee.
‘You said you were here for six weeks. What are your plans?’
‘I was going to... ’ Fall hopelessly and ridiculously in love. Marry the man of my dreams and stay in London forever. Or something like that. I think I assumed I’d just go back home, if I ever considered this thing with Julian coming to nothing. Honestly? I don’t think I allowed myself to think beyond last night. And right now, that sounds kind of pathetic. Almost as pathetic as realising he didn’t remember me. ‘I was going to do touristy things,’ I answer quietly. ‘I’ve never been to London before.’ I’ve never been anywhere before. ‘See the sights, maybe a show.’
‘Then we should definitely hang out.’
‘Hang out?’ I repeat doubtfully.
‘I could show you around, help you see the bits of England’s capital that other visitors don’t see.’ Elbow on the table, he props his chin in his hand. It’s wrong that he has such beautiful lashes. Wrong that he looks so good even as he wears that smug smile.
‘Like your bedroom, you mean?’
