Page 48 of (Not) The One
‘Wasthatan invitation?’ Her tone is dark and velvety, and as I pull back, her expression is one of triumph. But I don’t answer. I can’t because she has her hand on my cock, her thumb stroking the head. The place where every single one of my nerve endings seems to have decided to congregate.
Goodbye language skills, hello dress over your head.
Our mouths fuse once more, and though I don’t hear the car approaching, a rough yell of encouragement draws up my head. I pull my hand from its path to her underwear because this is the kind of fuckwitted audience neither of us needs.
‘It wasn’t an invitation.’ I clear my throat and will away the action in my pants as I slide my hand down her hip, ostensibly to straighten her dress. In reality, it’s because I can’t keep my hands to myself. ‘It was a promise.’
* * *
She’s almost silent in the car on the way home, which is unexpected. I watch her from the corner of my eye, the streetlights washing her with light only to steal it away again. It might be late, but London’s never really dark, never really quiet. If you listen hard enough, there will always be the sounds of tyres on the road or the wail of sirens in the distance somewhere.
But Miranda sits quietly. There isn’t the suggestion of her earlier snark or her haughty manner, which I think comes from a fear of being judged, a manner she’s worn tonight as her defence. A defence I’ll enjoy taking down inch by slow inch until she’s raw and exposed and so desperate, she’ll never look at me with those thoughts again.
At the back of my house, the garage door opens slowly as we wait on the driveway.
‘I thought you lived in St Johns wood?’
‘No, I told you, I was pet-sitting.’
‘Be serious.’
‘That’s my father’s house. My childhood home.’
I pull in and shut off the engine, but she’s out of the car before I can get to her side to open the door.
‘Nice parking.’ She presses the door closed. This is one of the few houses in the area that has a garage. A heritage listed building; it has such a narrow footprint the space is pretty limited. Especially when you take in the fact that there are two cars in here along with a motorbike. From the front elevation, this house is just a narrow mid terrace, but to those in the know, this is a place that won’t leave you a great deal of change from thirty million pounds. Belgravia happens to be a rather exclusive enclave of London.
‘Thank you.’ I close my own door with a quietthunk. ‘I’m sure you remember just how adept I am at fitting large things in tight spaces.’
‘Oh, my God!’ She giggles. ‘You are so . . . ’
‘Hard.’ I take her hand in mine and press her palm against my cock, arching into it. ‘I think that’s the word you’re looking for. What are you going to do about it?’ Her expression softens, her pink lips falling open as she inhales softly. ‘You shouldn’t look at me like that,’ I whisper, bending to ghost my lips over hers. ‘After the trouble you’ve put me through tonight, I might just find something to fill that pretty mouth with.’
As though in answer, her fingers tighten around my girth.
‘Sweetheart, if you want to be treated like a bad girl, just carry on because you’re giving me all kinds of ideas. Bad, dirty ideas but I’d like to at least get through the door first.’
As though bringing her attention to our surroundings, her spine snaps straight, and she moves the hair from her face with the back of one hand.
‘Lead on, Macduff.’ I chuckle at her Macbeth reference, and to my absolute surprise and delight, she doesn’t shy away as I reach for her hand.
‘Shall we play civilised?’ As I close the door, the space dims. There’s a light at the end of the hallway from a lamp left on farther inside the house somewhere. Stairs to the right, living spaces ahead, the kitchen behind. Where to go first? I take her hand in mine and move along the hallway, deeper into the house, pausing to kiss her at the base of the stairs.
‘Civilised,’ she repeats, stepping from my arms. She drops her bag onto the console table before turning to face me. Her expression is difficult to read. ‘What are my options?’
‘Would you like me to offer you a drink?’ Amused, I fold my arms and lean my shoulder against the wall.
‘Do we need that kind of pretext?’ she retorts. ‘Don’t you think I’ve had enough?’
‘I know you’re stone cold sober. I don’t fuck drunk girls.’
‘So I ask again.’ She steps closer, her head almost level with my chin. ‘My options are civilisedand ... ?’ This is verbal foreplay, the thrust and the parry, but a surprising theme running through it. ‘Something tells me you were holding back last time.’
‘Really?’ The word is all threat and drawl. ‘Am I to take from that my performance was lacking?’
‘No.’ She laughs, but she’s not looking at me, rather staring at the back of her hand as she places it against my chest. ‘You were more than enough. But things have changed since then.’
‘How so?’ I whisper, my lips just a breath from hers.
