My Book Page 4

  Oh, God. Shut up! Shut up!

  ‘Enterprising.’ As he hands me my glass, his eyes make a quick sweep of my body, his eyebrows retracting before his expression is quickly schooled again.

  ‘What? I have clothes on now.’ I look down, half expecting that I’ve somehow forgotten to actually pull on my skirt, or for there to be a heinous stain on my T-shirt.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. Let me know if you need any help,’ he adds as, at the same time, I whisper a quiet curse.

  This isn’t my T-shirt I’m wearing but one of Heather’s. She must have left it here when she stayed over last weekend. Heather has . . . quite radical views when it comes to the differences between women and men. She also has a build slightly smaller than my own. Say an A cup to my C? Basically, I’m bursting out of a T-shirt that proclaims

  Free the nipple

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s accompanied by an embroidered motif of two Band-Aid-style tan crosses, currently stretched over my nipples. A little off centre, or off nipple, but still.

  ‘It’s not mine.’ I place the glass on the countertop to free up my hands to stretch the cotton as much as I can. ‘And these nipples are going nowhere.’

  ‘You’re sure? Tonight seems to be the night of wardrobe malfunctions.’

  ‘Not for you.’ Though he has ditched the tie and folded his sleeves to his elbows, he still looks like he’s stepped from a GQ ad for some expensive aftershave. Totally delish. I turn away because not only is staring impolite, but it’s also nowhere near the vicinity of playing it cool. Picking up my drink and bringing it to my lips for a tentative sip, I’m determined not to add to the uncool factor by spluttering over the peppery liquor. ‘Not bad.’ Surprisingly, I mean it. It’s quite nice once the burn dissipates from my tongue, leaving me with a warm, smoky taste in its wake.

  ‘I defy anyone not to enjoy a single malt.’ As I take my position pressing my back against the wall oven, or ovens I’ve yet to master, he leans forward, one forearm on the worktop with his glass clasped in his other hand. ‘Is this what you do for a living? Look after pets?’ I’m pleased to report there isn’t a trace of condescension in his delivery.

  ‘No. I work for a start-up during the day. In marketing. What about you?’ And why didn’t anyone ever tell me about whisky? How it warms not only your tongue and throat but also all of your internal organs. And your limbs. Even on just my third sip, my muscles are feeling sort of liquid-y.

  ‘I’m in acquisitions.’ As he answers, I slide my bottom along the counter, bracing my palms on it before hoisting myself to sit on top.

  ‘Ow.’ I wince and press my hand over the graze, hoping pressure will ease the sting.

  ‘You’d feel much better if you’d let me clean it.’

  ‘I think I’d feel much better if I let you top up my glass.’ As I answer, I find myself holding out my glass.

  ‘You’re supposed to savour it,’ his low voice rumbles as he picks up the bottle and makes his way to my side of the kitchen.

  It’s no wonder my heart does a little skip as he reaches me, pulling off the corked bottle top with aplomb. I bet there isn’t anything he isn’t good at. He’s probably one of the lucky few blessed with good looks and good fortune. Never been cheated on in the worst of ways or betrayed by his best friend. Never had to play piggy in the middle between divorced parents who, while living in the same house, veer from arctic indifference to blinding rage.

  Charmed. That’s what he looks like with his hair golden in the light. Like some bloody mythical deity.

  ‘You look deep in thought.’

  ‘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. B
een 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.

  ‘The boyfriend, or current lack thereof, may be the reason for my shopping spree.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. He has a thing for novelty underwear.’

  ‘More like he was the reason I needed cheering up. And the reason we’re no longer together.’ There. That didn’t sound so loser-ish.

  ‘My commiserations,’ he murmurs as I allow him to take the glass from my hand a second time. ‘He must be very stupid.’

  ‘Or very unfaithful. But I don’t want to talk about him anymore.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk about him?’ he asks carefully. ‘Or you don’t want to talk anymore?’

  My grandmother believed in the restorative powers of whisky, often likening it to magic. And maybe she was right. Maybe whisky is its own kind of magic as I find myself gripping the front of his shirt to pull him closer. His lashes cast dark shadows against his cheekbones before his mouth meets mine. His lips are so full and soft, but his kiss isn’t tentative, even if it’s occurring at my instigation. One hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair as he holds me in place. Our kiss deepens at that moment, and the idea of been held by him for him ignites something deep inside me. A primal urge to fight him. To mark him. To make him mine. For the moment at least, as I sink my teeth into the lush flesh of his bottom lip.

  My hot neighbour—I can’t call him James because we’re not friends, and after tonight, I somehow know I won’t see him again—releases a masculine groan, pulling back, his fingers reaching to touch the sting. In an instant, his hand tightens in my hair, his mouth a husky rasp at my ear.

  ‘You’ll pay for that.’

  ‘Promise?’ My answer sounds rough with need, and I’ve no idea where it came from as he draws my earlobe into his mouth, testing it with his teeth. My breath hitches as he flicks his tongue over the sting, my exhalation stuttering as he wraps his arm around me, banding my back.

  ‘Where’s your bedroom.’ It’s not a question but more like a demand.

  ‘Upstairs.’ As I answer, I’m pushing my butt from the worktop.

  ‘Not so fast. I haven’t finished kissing you.’ And he holds me there, just taking his time, kissing me. And kissing me. Glorious lips and sensuous tongue until I’m aching and desperate like I never ever have been before.

  It’s not the whisky but him that’s making me lightheaded. Drunk on his kisses. Who would’ve thought that was even a thing?

  My first one-night stand, the little devil whispers. Better make it count.

  ‘The things I’m going to do to you.’

  ‘I respond much better to kinaesthetic learning over aural.’

  ‘You want me to show you, not tell?’ His amusement is in his velvety chuckle. ‘Or perhaps that was your way of telling me I’m not allowed to eat you out?’

  Such coarse words in that refined accent.

  I splutter and maybe even choke a little. I’ve never had any man say that kind of thing to me. I mean, I’ve had vulgarities hurled at me from passing cars and been leered at by drunks in clubs, but never . . . not up close and personal.

  Worse, I think I might like it.

  Do all boys grow to be men like him? Men with the power to tease a woman to the brink? Because it’s clear I haven’t been held by such power before.

  ‘You didn’t answer the question.’ His deep voice rumbles against my cheek, his face pressed against mine. ‘I believe I can feel you blushing.’

  ‘Am not.’ His chuckle is a puff of warm air against my ear, and he wraps his arms around my waist, my feet suddenly touching the cold floor and leaving me staring at his broad chest. I know from his workout sessions that the man is ripped, and that he’s tall and so very well put together. But right here, standing next to me? Crowding me in? He’s like some kind of bronzed god.

  He reaches for my hand. ‘Let me take you to bed.’

  ‘I think you have that the wrong way around,’ I reply, leading him from the room.

  The hallway is dark and full of shadows, but I don’t go looking for the light, not as his strong arm bands around my waist, bringing my back flush with his chest. His free hand gently gathers my hair to one side, his fingers light against the nape of my neck already making me quiver. I close my eyes and stifle a moan as he presses a small, sucking kiss against my neck.

  My kryptonite

  ‘I thought we were going upstairs.’ Any further protest I might have disintegrates as his hand feeds from my waist to my breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple. My stuttering moan hits the air, my body reacting as though struck by electricity.

  ‘You like that, do you?’

  ‘If you have to ask, you’re not doing it right.’

  His answer is a sharp pinch that almost makes my knees buckle.

  ‘You’re going to be fun. I can tell.’ His words may be cool, but his kisses are gentle and hot. So hot. ‘I take it that worked better for you.’ In the absence of words, I nod. Then his hands are sliding down my body, long fingers slipping into the elastic waistband of my skirt. ‘Let’s get you out of this.’

  ‘A little premature, don’t you think?’ God help me, I don’t know where these words are coming from. Whisky magic still?

  ‘Hasty really isn’t my thing. I prefer to take my time.’ Neck kisses and raspy whispers delivered like threats. Is this what magazines mean when they talk about men with game? I certainly feel like I’m being played with. And what’s more, I’m enjoying it as I step from the pool of flowery cotton. ‘Up you go.’ With his hands on my bum cheeks, he gently pushes me towards the stairs.

  The thought of him behind me causes me to approach the first couple of treads at a jog. I imagine this is what an impala feels like with a lion on its heels.

  ‘Slowly.’ His hands on my hips cause me to start. I turn my head over my shoulder, my mind trying to form a retort. ‘This is much too nice of a view to rush.’ In the darkened stairwell, I hold his gaze for a beat, then blink. And as I don’t have an answer that doesn’t include a little whimper or moan, I turn back and make my way more decorously up the staircase.

  He wants to watch.

  Watch my backside as I walk up the stairs.

  While wearing Batman under—

  My head whips around as I reach the landing, and his teeth press against my skin. I don’t have time to ponder the action—respond to the action—as with a feral kind of speed he’s behind me, turning me and pressing me against the wall in front of us.

  ‘You’re too much of a temptation.’ The way he’s looking at me makes my skin hum as he lowers his head and slides his lips across mine with a groan. It’s a kiss that steals my breath and feeds me his. A kiss that turns fevered almost immediately, my hands feeding into his hair as though I’m worried he might not be real. ‘Let’s take this into the bedroom.’

  I nod and lick my lips as his mouth pulls away, turning mindlessly in the direction of my room—I hope—as he takes my hand again.

  The bedroom is dark, and I pull my hand from his so I can turn on the bedside lamp. After stumbling over a pair of abandoned shoes, I eventually achieve my goal. Thank goodness for energy saving lightbulbs and salmon-pink lampshades filling the room with rosy glow at a snail’s pace.

  I might
hide my idiocy.

  ‘Are you going to remember this in the morning?’ His arms wrap around my middle, his mouth on the back of my neck, causing me to fight a whole-body shiver.

  ‘I suppose that depends on how memorable you make it.’

  ‘A challenge from the girl with the messy bedroom.’ I can hear the smirk in his voice, but if he knew me better, he’d know that I’d ordinarily take offence.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting guests.’ The words are delivered on a breath of a sigh as I tilt my head to give him better access. ‘And I’m not drunk, by the way.’

  ‘Not yet, you aren’t.’

  ‘And I don’t keep a quart of vodka stashed in my nightstand as part of my bedtime ritual.’

  ‘Fuck drunk. The kind that makes you lose control of your mind and your legs.’

  ‘Hah.’ Rather than divisive, my answer is little more than a squeak as his hands grasp the hem of Heather’s too-tight T-shirt before he pulls it over my head. In a gentle contrast, he then trails the back of his fingers against the soft swell of my breast. And the noise I make as he slips one hand inside my bra isn’t one of disapproval as my body arches on instinct, chasing his touch.

  ‘I can’t wait to get my mouth on you.’ The words pound deep inside as the pads of his fingers stroke and tease. ‘You like the sound of that. Lady’s choice, how should we begin? Standing? Kneeling on the bed? Or should we take the traditional route?’

  ‘You talk a good game.’

  ‘I never promise things I can’t deliver, lovely Miranda.’ My name on his lips is a distraction as my bra is suddenly loose, the blush pink straps a whisper down my arms. ‘Let’s just get rid of this pretty little thing.’

  ‘If you like it so much, I might let you borrow it.’ Sheer with embroidered polka dots, I drop the frivolous thing to the floor.

  ‘It’s very lovely, like its owner. Like her Batman underwear.’ As though I need proof, he presses a very large and a very hard something against my backside where the large bat signal logo is displayed.