As soon as Caspian was gone, I actually eeeeee-ed and did a little dance. That had gone better than I could ever have imagined.
And tonight…oh my God. My brain went a little haywire with potential scenarios. Most of them sexy as hell. But, honestly, if he just wanted to have dinner and an early night, as long as it was with me, I didn’t care.
Once I’d calmed down, I went to shower. It wasn’t as exciting as I’d thought it might be when I was completely high, but it was still nice to wash the night from my skin. Also the water drops were noticeably pretty—the way the light defined them in silver filigree—and they did feel unusually good.
Afterward I felt I probably ought to rest, so I went to bed.
Except I couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t the bad not-sleeping, like when you’re restless or anxious. I was just…awake. As if I hadn’t been up for a day and a night but had, instead, arisen in buttery sunlight to a chorus of bluebirds.
Well. I decided I might as well get up and be useful.
Enjoy my day. The anticipation of Caspian later.
First thing, though, was to arrange dinner. I ran down Caspian’s lists of contacts, found someone who did sushi, and bunglingly arranged for “whatever was best” (which the man on the phone called omakase) to be sent round later. I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d gone for sushi other than that it seemed light and sophisticated and the type of thing that could, theoretically, be eaten from someone else’s fingers in a titillating fashion.
Then I pulled on my luckiest pants, grabbed the copy of Milieu I’d picked up the other day, and settled down at my laptop.
I could do this. I could totally do this.
A couple of hours later, I was the proud father of eight hundred words on my Ellery-mediated introduction to the underground clubbing scene. I’d called it “Dance Where No One Is Watching” and I thought it was…quite good? Maybe?
I wasn’t ready to loft it into the void just yet, so I emailed it to Nik instead, along with a !!!-heavy accounting of last night’s adventures. Within seconds, the reply came back: omg we know did you lose your phone?
My phone? Shit. It was still in the sitting room.
I found it with a bare blip of battery left and what looked like a “you made a racist joke, then took a long haul flight” number of notifications.
Turned out I was all over Instagram. Because @i_hate_ellery had something like 253k followers and had tagged @ardybaby a lot. As had a bunch of other people because apparently @ardybaby got around. Thankfully, I looked pretty adorable in an off-my-face kind of way.
I also had a long chain of Kik messages from Nik, charting a journey of bewilderment from “how’s it going?” to “REMEMBER TO DRINK LOTS OF WATER BEFORE YOU GO TO BED” via various pit stops at “are you okay?” “are you dead?” “wow, you’re having a night” and “who’s that girl?”
That girl, according to her feed, was currently sitting at the top of a rusty metal staircase that curled up the concrete, copper-pipe-strewn husk of a condemned building. In one hand she was holding a martini, in the other a sign that read IF U DON’T KNOW UR NOT INVITED.
Another text from Nik: you’re internet famous.
Only a little bit, I sent back modestly.
Though I had accumulated rather a lot of new followers. Despite my last post being my toenails when I’d done them up like ladybirds.
Oh well. At least nobody would be under any illusions about what they were getting.
What are you up to? I asked Nik. And received an impenetrable response about biomimetic materials.
What about you?
I didn’t say Waiting around for a billionaire to rock up and fuck me hard and nasty. But I was tempted.
Speaking of, I probably just had time for a nap and a self-delicious-making session before Caspian arrived.
The sushi showed up just before seven. All iced and packed up and completely exquisite. I hovered around like a 1950s housewife as an endless parade of brightly colored morsels were arranged on the dining room table. Enough to feed the five thousand some exceptionally extravagant fish.
They did try to tell me what everything was but the words whizzed by so fast—unagi, hamachi, amaebi, ikura, masago—that none of it really went in. Which left me to preside over a feast I had no clue about.
But hopefully it wouldn’t matter.
What would matter would be that I’d tried. And that we’d be sharing something.
I did nibble on a…pale, rice-balanced filament thingy while I was waiting. And, oh my God, it was delicious. Intense, but also weirdly delicate. Boom and then gone. Like a mouth orgasm.
I’d been to a Yo! Sushi in Oxford, where the food galloped past you on conveyor belts, the plates color-coded by price. I’d only ever dared try the green and blue dishes for fear of racking up an enormous fish bill, which meant I probably hadn’t got the best from my visit. But this was so totally not like that it was almost incomprehensible. The sheer difference wealth could make to the way you experienced something, even if that experience was commonly accessible, was frankly crazytown.
It took reserves of self-discipline I didn’t know I possessed to hold back a nomming frenzy. Some date it would be if Caspian turned up and I was all like “I made you some sushi but I eated it.”
I checked the time. Seven fifteen.
Caspian would be here any minute. Should have been here already. Maybe he’d got caught up at work? Or in traffic? There had to be some things even billionaires couldn’t control.
Maybe one last…wossname…while I waited?
Ngh. So good.
Okay. Right. Enough of that.
I sat down at a safe distance from the food and in sight of the door. Looking forward to the moment that Caspian Hart would walk through it.
And come to me.
Seven thirty.
Huh.
Well, it was London.
And he was a super-busy man.
I went to find my phone, just in case there were any messages.
Nope.
Hmm.
What if he’d said half seven? Or eight? Or tomorrow?
No, he’d said seven.
Could sushi get cold? Or warm? Or whatever.
Go off, it could definitely go off.
Great. After begging him to spend the night with me I was going to poison him with raw fish.
Maybe I should text him. Except that would look insanely clingy.
He was barely late.
Well, under an hour late. That probably counted as barely late for someone like him.
And if dinner was a bust, I’d just have to make sure dessert—i.e., me—was substantially satisfying.
Wow, seductively waiting for someone was boring.
I hit the study to retrieve my copy of Milieu, figuring paper still had the edge on machines when it came to being joyfully thrown aside as your lover arrived. Read an article about whether smoking jackets would ever be sexy again.
If nothing else, it inspired to me to reconsider my setup. It was fairly decadent, I thought. But there was always room for more.
Putting Milieu down, I opened the apartment app and cranked the heat right up. Then I took off all my clothes and arranged myself in what I hoped was an alluring fashion. One leg resting very carefully on the edge of the table, hands behind my head, my body all stretched out and slender. Best I could manage since I wasn’t exactly the gym bunny type and it…well, it showed. But I could be sexy in my own way, right?
Honestly, I felt pretty sexy sometimes. At least, when I was having sex and somebody was pounding into me, all sweat and skin and soul-deep groans.
Perched on a chair with my bum sticking and my bits dangling? Not so much.
Eight fifteen.
My eye fell on the tie and jacket he’d left that morning.
What if I…uh…accessorized? It would be one way of demonstrating I was absolutely and enthusiastically on board with the things he was into.
I approached the tie casually. As if I was underconfidently cruising it.
It was beautiful, like just about everything Caspian owned. Charvet from the label on the underside. A power tie. Dark gold silk with paler gold diagonal stripes. Gorgeous. This splash of bold color, such a contrast to his sober suit.
A moment or two and then I picked it up. Stroked it with my fingers. It was smooth and strong, gathering warmth against my skin like a living thing. Making me ache to be touched. For hands to pin me, hold me, and claim me.
I wouldn’t have worn the thing. Not in a million years. At least not in the conventional way. But I twined it experimentally round my wrist and, yep, it definitely looked good there. Felt good, too, sending this shiver of excitement through me, raising goose bumps all the way up my arms.
Which made me freshly aware of the awkward vulnerability of nakedness without context. I probably looked like a plucked chicken.
Hardly appealing.
But maybe he’d like the…exposure? My visible need to be wrapped up in something warm and protective. Like his body.
I sat back down, stole another piece of sushi, and set about tying my hands together. Weirdly enough, it wasn’t that difficult. Just required some supple wrist action, which I’d clearly honed over years of wanking. In a couple of minutes, I was secured and pulling the knots tight with my teeth.
Now all I needed was Caspian to show up and rescue me.
Or, for preference, take advantage of me.
While I was helpless and at his mercy. Utterly unable to resist whatever depravities he wished to indulge.
Oh poor me.
Tremble. Gasp.
God, I was getting hard just thinking about it.
Sushi and a boner. What more could a man want?