Chapter 19

 

What’s on the cards for trouble today, Trouble? It’s past four o’clock, and I’m at the hotel when my phone dings with Keir’s text.

No ballet classes and ice cream afternoons for this girl, I type out, referencing his plans for the day. I’ve stopped by to help Chastity. With work.

It’s definitely a statement that wouldn’t stand up in court. I may have shown up at the hotel under the impression Chastity needed my help, but the reality turned out to be something else.

‘Have you lived in the UK for very long?’ Troy asks. Yes, that Troy. In the flesh. Not in the movie or even Iliad Troy, but the one Chas mentioned just this morning. Just this morning. The sly beast. She didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed about railroading me into meeting him. Just introduced us at the bar before turning tail and getting the hell out of the place.

And I have a lot to say about that. But in the meantime, it looks like I’m having a drink. With Troy. While talking to Keir via text.

‘I’ve lived over here for more than two years.’

‘You’re from Upstate New York Chastity said?’

I nod and take a sip of my wine. It’s cold but kind of vinegary. Or maybe that’s just my mood. It’s not Troy’s fault—and he seems like a decent guy. But he’s not my guy. Not that I’m suggesting Keir is mine, but I can only concentrate on one man at a time. Hard enough trying to talk and text two men.

You’re working on a Saturday?

People have been known to have sex on a Saturday, I type back, giving Troy an apologetic smile. No doubt he thinks I’m talking to Chas. Under normal circumstances, I might be. But it’s hard to convey anger via text satisfactorily. Some might suggest they do their best work on the weekends.

Really? comes his immediate response. I thought Friday nights were perfect. Certainly enough to see you through, given the way you looked when you left the hotel this morning.

I bite back a smile. I thought he was sleeping. He wasn’t, and he still let you go. A niggling voice echoes inside my head even as much lower pulses with remembrance of the evening. I looked well and truly fucked. Because I had been—right into the early hours. But at least I’d taken clean clothes. I’ve learned since our first Friday together. I might leave looking well rode, but I’m also usually well dressed. Matching shoes and everything.

I’m not having sex today, just pointing out the industry I work in.

Troy engages me once more in conversation, asking polite questions which I try to concentrate on. But as my phone burns a hole in my skirt with its incessant buzzing, I’m finding it hard. Keir really is going to town with his texts.

When Troy excuses himself to visit the bathroom, I quickly unlock my phone. My heart sinks.

You’re sure you’re working?

You’re not, say, sat at a hotel bar?

Talking to some nerd

In a sweater

A nerd who wouldn’t know the first fucking thing to do with you

My heart beats like hooves pounding in my chest, my shoulders rolling inward as though their shadow could deny the evidence of his words. I almost don’t want to look behind me for fear of what I’ll find. But I know I don’t have much time before Troy comes back. He doesn’t deserve this. Neither does Keir. Neither do I!

Chastity. What the hell have you done?

It’s not what it looks like, I text without turning.

Look at me, comes his response. Turn around and look at me.

I turn slowly in my seat. He’s easy to spot, sitting ramrod straight, his expression so fucked off, his eyes burning bright. And not in a good way.

My phone dings again.

Your date is on his way back to the table, and the man who’s fucking you wants to know what the hell is going on

Please understand, this isn’t what it looks like, I type back. Give me five minutes.

I don’t look at my phone as it chimes again.

‘Troy, I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go. I-I’ve just had a text from Chastity. She has’—a death wish—‘some kind of emergency.’

‘How awful.’ As I stand and gather my jacket and bag, Troy also stands. ‘Let me walk you to—’

‘No!’ In a much saner tone, I add, ‘There really is no need. Thank you for the wine. I-I’ll be in touch.’ Sometime never.

I don’t shake his hand or do the European two-cheeked kissing thing that Londoners are so fond of. In fact, I’m pretty sure I must look like the hounds of hell are chasing me as I hightail it out of the bar and into the hotel reception.

Keir follows. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking at this point.

The Bawdy House isn’t a large venue. More a boutique kind of hotel. There’s no marble reception or high-powered elevator, but rather the space looks like it could have been lifted from a BBC period drama. A grand sweeping staircase dominates the reception, the walls lined walled with oil paintings ranging from portraits of severe faced matrons to those a touch more erotic. I pause as the toe of my shoe touches the worn Oriental carpet at the base of the staircase, realising I still have the keys to the rooms Chastity booked.

Then I spot him. Keir. Maybe a dozen steps behind me as I turn to the staircase. A mixture of anticipation and excitement and, yes, fear fill my chest cavity as I place my feet one after another to climb.

What if he doesn’t follow me?

What if he does?

He looked so angry. So hurt.

At the third floor, I turn left and walk the length of the corridor, taking a sly glance at the open staircase and rolling my lips inward to hide my wide smile of relief. He’s following. But what next?

No modern key card at this hotel. Rather, a large ornate key on a large red tassel matches the plaque with the name of the room. Lillith. I push the door open, glad the room was left in some semblance of order, and ignoring the faint scent of lube in the air, I step inside and leave the door ajar.

Leaning against the frame of the wrought-iron four poster bed,

I breathe in. Breathe out. Try to ignore the hammer of my pulse as I feel him drawing closer. Hear his footsteps. Feel his eyes on me.

I wet my lips as his words wind their way around my ear as his fingers brush a lock of hair from my cheek.

‘You. Are. Trouble.’

I open my eyes to his impassive expression. His strong arms crossed over his chest. Flecks of green and gold glow in his hazel gaze; his lips relaxed, but his jaw tense.

‘It’s not what it looks like.’

‘What did it look like?’ his low voice almost growls.

‘Like I was on a date.’

‘Drinking wine. In a hotel. With a man trying to impress you.’

‘He wasn’t—’

‘Trouble and oblivious. And a liar?’

‘I am not.’

‘But you like him?’

I wet my lips and roll them together. Neither answer works here. If I say yes, I’m a conniving bitch. If I say no, I’m a liar. Could I see myself dating Troy? Yeah. Before Keir, I actually could. Now? I can’t see anything but the man in front of me.

‘You wet for him?’

My heart begins to thud. He has no right to ask me something like that, and I don’t have to answer him . . . even as I find myself widening my stance.

Keir sighs, conflicted. At least, that’s what it looks like as he takes my hands in his and encourages me to grasp the hem of my skirt. I wriggle it upwards until it’s gathered at my waist—it’s so tight it stays there. But I don’t have time to feel even slightly ridiculous as he takes my hand, slides it down my stomach, and tucks my fingers under the pale pink silk of my panties.

‘You show me,’ he demands, covering my hand with his.

I don’t know whether to concentrate on his gaze or the path of my fingers right now. They’re both equally as unravelling. Equally as demanding.

‘Spread your legs wider.’ The heat in his gaze is unhinging; the low, seductive bass of his tone as tempting as the devil himself. ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘If I touch myself and I’m wet, you’ll think I’m into him.’

‘Will I? Or maybe I’ll just get off on watching you touch yourself. Come on, trouble. You brought me up here for a reason.’

Did I? An unconscious decision to be with him. ‘It’s not even Friday,’ I whisper, tilting my hips, my fingers toying with the thin strip of ribbon above the silk.

‘I’m good with that,’ he murmurs, toying with a lock of my hair. Flicking the ends across my skin, he then pushes it from my shoulder. ‘Touch yourself. For me.’ A shiver shimmers across my skin, desire jumping between us like the dance of electricity as he watches me wet my parched lips, his eyes falling instinctively to where my hand slips under the ribbon adorned waistband.

At the first brush of my own clit, my legs begin to shake, and I whimper from the sensation. Keir presses his lips against mine, whispering a soft hush into my mouth.

‘I left the door open. Unless you want an audience . . . ’

‘My eyes flick to the door, which is barely ajar, but the threat of discovery is there. And the threat of discovery seems to heighten things. Exponentially.

Who is this girl I’ve become?

I push up into my hand, sliding two fingers along my wetness, whimpering as I bring them back to my clit again.

And he watches. Watches my fingers. Watches my face. Bites his lip as though he’s dying for a taste.

‘You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,’ his voice rumbles. ‘I have never wanted you more than I do right now.’

I cry out softly, his words unravelling me, his gaze intoxicating me more than any liquor or drug could. I’ve never done this—never gotten myself off for someone else’s enjoyment. And it’s a powerful feeling to know that your touches are turning someone on. Someone other than you.

I begin petting and moving two fingers in a well-practised rhythm of small circles against my clit. But I want more. How can I not when he’s standing in front of me, his eyes dark, his muscled arms flexing under the soft cotton of his Henley as his fists clench and unclench as though he’s dying to touch me himself.

I arch against the bedpost, pushing harder into my hand, wanting more pressure, more everything.

‘Show me. Show me how wet you are for me.’ His daring demands have me arching my back against hand.

‘Touch me,’ I beg. ‘Fuck me. I want to feel you.’

‘Show me what’s mine,’ he demands. ‘Show me what’s mine, and I’ll make it so good.’

I pull my fingers from my panties to hook my thumbs into the sides, shimmying them part way down my thighs. The material of my skirt bunched around my waist, I scissor the wetness between my two fingers.

‘Fuck me, you’re dripping.’ Keir’s eyes dart from my glistening fingers to my exposed pussy.

In a heartbeat, he grasps my wrist, his eyes falling closed as he sucks my fingers into his mouth. If I wasn’t turned on before, you can bet I am now. His tongue works those two digits like his tongue is a stripper and my fingers the pole. And the noises he makes? It’s like I’m pure gourmet.

Outside in the corridor, a door slams, and I jump, trying to take back my hand. To no avail as, with one last flick, he pulls my fingers free and jams them between my legs. I cry out long and loud.

‘You’re gonna make yourself come,’ he growls, ‘and I’m gonna help.’

I don’t register much else as he slides my fingers back to my clit, replacing them with his own. He works me roughly—deeply—his fingers spearing sharply before curling inside.

‘You can do better than that.’

My legs turn to liquid as I begin to apply pressure to the tight bundle of nerves as his fingers thrust and scissor, curl and torment. And all the while, he’s whispering the sweetest of filth.

Of how he knows what I need.

How he’ll fill me.

Stick his fingers inside me.

His cock.

How when he’s done with me, I won’t know my own name.

‘Jesus Christ, I need to fuck you.’

‘Yes!’

‘You’re gonna come all over my fingers, then you’re gonna lick them clean.’ I nod again. ‘Then you’re gonna come home with me and sit on my face.’

‘Yes!’

‘That’s no’ very polite.’

‘Yes, please.’ I’m rocking up into both our hands now, the images his words conjure pushing me closer to the edge. I’m gasping—whimpering—chanting his name. And I’m coming hard, exploding in a burst of blinding heat and pure ecstasy.

And then I’m coming down, down onto his hand. Down into his kiss. And I don’t care if I never move again. That is, until he whispers those magic words,

‘Sweetheart, come home with me.’