Page 14 of (Not) The One
‘You ditched the bow tie.’
‘Ah, yes. The monkey suit.’
‘Black tie suits you.’ He quirks an eyebrow as I realise my mistake. It wouldn’t do to admit to having spied on him working out in his own garden. ‘Or whatever. Most men look good in evening wear.’ That’s not much better, but I find myself ducking my head sideways for confirmation of the satin stripe at the seam. Though I don’t really need to after getting up close and personal earlier, when a good eyeful was had if you know what I mean.
His agreement is more sigh than confirmation.
‘A bad night?’
‘A long one. And one that cost me quite a lot of money.’
‘Too bad.’ I bring my glass to my mouth again as he leans over me ostensibly to put the bottle down, but I’m not even that naïve. He smells as good as he looks, like bergamot and wood with a hint of rich leather.
‘It has improved immeasurably since.’
‘You must be easily entertained.’
‘Far from it.’ He sends me a sly glance, and there’s a kind of darkness to his next words. ‘I’m actually rather demanding.’
This is so out of my comfort zone—so far from fiancés who lie and boys who play silly games, and though my voice may be cool and my demeanour very calm, as he lifts the glass from my hand to take a sip from it himself, my heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest. Only, instead of drinking from my glass, he does something much more shocking as he hooks his hand under my knee. My heart skips a beat as he lifts it, bringing it almost in line with his hip before he splashes a little of the amber coloured liquid over the abrasion.
I try not to cry out, pushing out a long and hard breath.
‘You okay?’ His tone is even, but there’s a glint of something wicked in his gaze.
‘Sadist.’
‘Perhaps I just know better what’s good for you.’ Before I can form a retort, his lips gently purse as he blows a soft breath against my skin.
I inhale sharply as something inside blooms warm and tight.
‘Is that okay?’ His gaze meets mine, blue and electric and shining with such challenge as his lips purse once more, warm breath blowing against my heated skin.
In the absence of words, I nod, then wet my lips, my whole existence suddenly parched and screaming with a thirst for him. Never in my life have I been so turned on as, still holding the glass, he hooks his little finger under my skirt, pulling the hem a bare inch up my leg, his warm breath following the movement.
‘Still okay?’
I nod again as he readjusts his grip, widening the gap between my legs, his breath trailing my inner thigh now. Everything inside me draws tight as I begin to pant with tiny sucking sounds. If I had a thought in my head, I might wonder how the edge of the kitchen counter hasn’t cracked under the pressure of my grip.
More pale thigh is revealed, the trail of his breath reaching higher and higher until I forget I’m supposed to be breathing, too. It’s like each of his exhalations steals the air from the room, and each inch caressed is like a new experience.
‘Good?’ I nod even though I know his next breath will be cold as it hits my wet underwear. I roll my lips inward, muting an anticipatory whimper. ‘I agree,’ he murmurs, lowering my leg. Wait, what?‘A little sugar always eases the pain.’
He leans over me again, pulling the cork free before splashing more whisky into the glass. As he straightens, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he twists the glass in his hand, almost as though to examine the contents.
‘This is a twenty-five-year-old single malt. But do you know,’ he adds rather conversationally, ‘that it’s a poor substitute for what I want to taste?’ A pause.Does he mean what I think he means?‘You should tell me if I’m reading this wrong.’ As he returns the glass to my hand, lashes lowered, he looks almost contrite, but I bet he’s never been sorry a day in his life.
‘I’d say that all depends on what you’re planning.’
‘And I’d counter, that would be telling.’ Wicked. He looks as wicked as the day is long. ‘What about this boyfriend of yours?’
‘What about him?’ I’m surprised my response sounds so unaffected, considering how close he is, and considering I have my hand on his chest.How did that get there?He braces his hands either side of my thighs, sending me a look so intense I can literally feel my blush.
I’ve had boyfriends. Been engaged. Slept with more than one man.But less than five.Done things under the cover of darkness that I’d chosen never to think of again. But right here, with his lashes lowered and his pulse thrumming steadily against my fingertips, my reaction is visceral. My own pulse pounds in a place it has no business to, my nipples strain against my bra, and I think my cheeks are redder than they’ve ever been.
‘Do you sneak him in like a naughty babysitter when your little charges are asleep?’
Do I tell him the truth, or do I lie? Does it make a difference? Keep on channelling this sophisticated and very grown-up femme fatale, or speak the words that stick in my throat, the words that make me feel weak and like an idiot? Because I’m not that girl anymore, the girl who will be taken in by love and by men.
