IT’S AN UNSEASONABLY WARM NOVEMBER day as I drive out to Astbury with my windows down to visit Hobart Walter—a German midfielder for Man U—and his girlfriend, Brandi Smith—a striker for Manchester City. Two rival teams and two rival sexes.
I take in a big breath of fresh country air hoping it will calm my nerves as I drive down the gravel road that passes by the entrance to Gareth’s property. I gaze wistfully down the lane and wonder if he’s home. Then I shake my head with annoyance. I need to be focused today. I needed to be focused this past year. That is why I couldn’t just waltz back into Gareth’s home after what happened. That’s why I never took his calls. I was busy having a midlife crisis at barely thirty years old. I had to prepare for life as a single mother. Real world problems to deal with. I didn’t have time to obsess over the one-night stand I had with a client the night I found out my husband was leaving me.
Good God, I’m pathetic.
The Walter Estate has a similar security gate as Gareth’s. After being admitted, I pull up to an old home that reminds me of the one I lived in with Callum. Steeling myself to be professional, I grab my satchel that contains my portfolio and some magazines and stride up the gravel lane to the front door.
A tall, lean man with a thick European accent steps out of the giant double doors and strides toward me just as I reach the top step. “Ah, Ms. Montgomery! Thanks for coming all the way out here!” He extends a hand out to me and I take it, widening my stance as he nearly shakes my arm out of its socket. “The name’s Hobart. Call me Hobo. Everyone else does.”
Smiling politely, I reply, “Nice to meet you, Hobo. Can I ask why they call you that?”
He ruffles a hand through his mop of curly brown hair. “Well, my footy career has been a bit of a mess. I’ve had more transfers than Joey Barton, not for the same reasons, mind you. I’ve just lived a bit of a gypsy life in football. People took to calling me Hobo because it seemed I was destined to be homeless for a while there. But Man U has managed to keep me a whole year, so here’s hoping!”
I laugh politely at the sheepish look on his face. “Well, I’m happy you’re a bit more settled now. And please, call me Sloan.”
“Will do,” he says with a genuine grin. “It’s so nice to meet you. Gareth speaks very highly of you.”
Goosebumps spread over my body at the mention of Gareth’s name. The fact that Gareth has spoken highly of me, even after I blew him off like I did, invokes a nearly toe-curling sensation all over me.
Hobo doesn’t seem to notice my reaction as he leans in and whispers, “I wanted to quietly mention that the little woman isn’t happy about this meeting, so can we discuss fees later?”
My quizzical brow is torn from him as a tall blonde steps up behind him and leans against the doorframe with a hand propped on her hip. I can’t help but ogle a bit as she stands there in all her powerful and intimidating glory. She’s dressed in a pair of shimmering black soccer shorts and a black sports bra with a white Nike swoosh across the chest. Her shoulders rise and fall quickly, indicating she just completed a rigorous workout. I can’t help but turn green with envy over the outlining of a perfect six-pack that becomes visible every time she exhales.
“This is my lady, Brandi Smith.” Hobo introduces us. “Brandi, this is Sloan Montgomery.”
“You don’t need to be here,” she bites in a crisp Welsh accent while shaking my hand. “Hobo thinks this is a good idea, but I think it’s ridiculous.”
“Schatz,” Hobo says in a warning tone. “It’s not ridiculous. This is how you play the game.”
“I do play the game.” She turns her icy blue eyes on him. “It’s called football.”
He scoffs with annoyance. “My Schatz is maddening.”
“It’s not my fault that you earn more in one week than I do in an entire year.” She turns away from Hobo, crossing her arms over her chest to brood in silence.
Exhaling heavily, Hobo looks back at me. “I’ve asked you out here because, in order to get endorsements, you have to play the part. You have to show sponsors that you have the look. I’m attending an upcoming awards gala where there will be lots of press, a red carpet, the works. This stunner will be on my arm, and she needs to look phenomenal. She is sexy and strong. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be on billboards all over the world.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see a tender look exchanged between the two of them that makes it obvious this is about a lot more than landing an endorsement deal.
“He’s kind of right,” I add, turning their attention back to me. “I’ve styled a lot of athletes, and it didn’t take me long to learn that the game is just one part of your job.”
Hobo smiles triumphantly. “Super. Where do we begin?”
After about an hour and a half of looking through Brandi and Hobo’s clothes and showing them some catalogues, I get a sense of a lot more than their style. Style-wise, Hobo tends to gravitate toward mismatched eccentric fashion. Very European. Brandi likes comfort and athletic lines. A racerback gown that displays her legs is an obvious choice because, holy shit, her muscular thighs could probably crack a walnut between them.
Their relationship, on the other hand, is pretty much adorable. Hobo is the funny one. Brandi is the one who rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. They play off each other. One only amusing when the other is annoyed. It’s delightful. And when he told me that his sweetheart word for her—Schatz—literally means “treasure,” I may have swooned a bit. Until of course it made me think of what Gareth called me the night we were together.
Treacle, meaning “sweet.”
Remembering that brings a small smile to my face, and it’s not only the compliment behind the word. It’s the affectionate way he said it. Even in the locker room, when he uttered that term of endearment from his deep, husky voice, my toes curled inside my boots.
My palms are sweaty from my errant thoughts as we make our way downstairs. I think the world is playing a hilarious joke on me when at the foot of the stairs, I see none other than the man who’s consuming my thoughts.
Gareth.
And not just any Gareth.
A shirtless Gareth.
A shirtless, sweaty Gareth.
The plastic of his water bottle cracks noisily as he guzzles the remaining drops and crushes it in his meaty paw.
“Hullo, neighbour!” Hobo booms, hopping off the railing he just slid down and smacking Gareth on the shoulder.
“Hiya, Hobo. Brandi.” Gareth’s deep voice reverberates in the entryway and makes a lot more than my ears vibrate. He slides his eyes to me and gives me a simple raise of his brows. “Sloan.”
Good God. I have to inhale deeply to keep myself from falling down the steps because of the way his gaze drops down my body. I’m dressed in a crew knit sweater dress. It’s a modest cut but form-fitted. From the looks of it, Gareth likes what he sees.
“Hey, um, Gareth,” I croak like a moron as he dabs the sweat on his brow with his balled-up white T-shirt. Kind of gross. Kind of hot. Argh! Did he really need to run shirtless in November? It’s freaking England for crying out loud.
“We just finished,” Brandi states, hopping down the final step and accepting a friendly kiss on the cheek from Gareth. “I see you helped yourself to a water.”
He shrugs. “The back door was open.”
Moving toward me, he leans in to brush his lips against my cheek. It’s a seemingly platonic gesture, but like an idiot, I turn my head the wrong way at the last second and we nearly smack noses. The act has me stumbling in my heels, so my hands fly out to catch myself on his chest.
His naked chest.
His naked, sweaty chest.
I force an apologetic smile I don’t altogether feel. Gareth and I don’t kiss hello. We’ve never kissed hello. We didn’t even kiss the night we had sex! He’s being what the British call cheeky, and I’m the one who’s looking like a fool because of it.
Thankfully, the three of them begin talking soccer, so I can concentrate on breathing normally. This is why I’ve been avoiding Gareth. Because sex changes things. Because now I can’t look at him like a normal guy. Now he looks…different.
I steal another glance at him, trying to figure out what it is about him that’s so sexy. Other than the whole chiselled abs thing because, seriously, how are those even real?
He’s not classically handsome by any means. He’s not even adorable like Hobo. And he’s definitely the complete opposite of Callum’s privileged prep school boy appearance. Looking at Gareth’s features individually, he’s extremely flawed. He has a bump on the ridge of his nose; his teeth are slightly imperfect; and the scruff on his jaw is a patchy mess. Honestly, he’s what I’d call rogue.
But then there’s the dark smattering of hair on his chest. And the deep lines of his hips that disappear into his joggers. And the way he carries himself is something I can’t help but notice. It’s confident without being cocky. Couple that with his thick dark hair and he’s like a delicious, tall, dark, and handsome bad boy dessert that’s the perfect blend of crunchy and creamy. A real-life glistening gladiator.
“So, has Sloan helped you guys out?” he asks, directing his smouldering hazel eyes at me.
“Definitely!” Hobo replies jovially.
“She has some cool ideas,” Brandi states a bit more muted.
“That she does,” Gareth concedes and smiles knowingly at me. Have his lashes always been that long?
“I have a suit for you,” I bark out, suddenly desperate to give it to him now and not have to go back to his house. The sparks. The tension. The attraction. It’s all still there, and if we go back to his house and he smiles at me like that with those naughty eyes, I know what will happen.
“Brilliant,” he replies and begins moving down the hall toward the back of the house. “Bring it by when you’re done here.”
“You can just take it now,” I say to his retreating frame. “It’s just in my car…Where are you going?”
“I’m on a run.” He hooks his thumb toward the sliding glass door. “Hobo and I have a hiking trail between our properties.”
“It’s nicer than jogging out on the roads where the nosey buggers all try to take pictures,” Hobo adds. “Although, they don’t give a shit about me. It’s Mr. Award Winner that they care about these days.”
“Award winner?” I ask, swerving curious eyes at Gareth.
He pauses in the hallway and grips his neck with a sheepish grimace. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you soon, Sloan.”
Anxiety squeezes my insides. He looks way too good for me to be alone with. “Maybe I can just leave the suit here and you can pick it up later?”
“I guarantee I’ll beat you home and have time for a shower.” He winks and takes off like a shot out the back door.
My gaze stares wistfully at his back muscles, sliding and shifting beneath his skin as he hustles down the deck staircase and runs toward the rolling hills.
Why did he have to mention a shower? What am I supposed to do with that information? Was that an invitation or something? Oh my God, I’m so out of practice.
And so screwed.
A throat clearing beside me has my head snapping back to Hobo and Brandi. “So, do you have any other questions?”
It’s about thirty minutes later when I pull onto Gareth’s property. I may have parked on the gravel road and done some deep breathing exercises I learned in yoga. Not that it helped. Regardless, my palms needed time to dry off before I could grip the wheel safely.
It’s been a while since I’ve been back to Gareth’s home, and I can’t help but gawk longingly at it as I drive down the gravel lane. I’ve always marvelled over how modern it is. Most homes around here are old period estates like Hobo’s or Callum’s.
Gareth’s estate is a beautiful piece of art. Clearly some architect’s passion project nestled perfectly in the lush, green countryside. A perfect snow globe in the oasis of nature. The inside is as stunning as the outside. It’s richly styled with lots of comfortable furniture. Fun, funky accent pieces. And just enough unique tchotchkes to make it feel like it’s not simply ripped out of a catalogue.
I asked Gareth once if he built it himself and remember feeling a smidge disappointed when he said he didn’t. But he said as soon as he laid eyes on the property, he had to have it. He said it was important for his home to be completely different from where he grew up.
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but I didn’t get the impression he wanted to share. I’m always acutely aware of when to push for more information and when to stop asking. My mom used to joke that I was an empath because I can sense a person’s mood and adapt myself until they feel comfortable. It’s not a skill I’ve ever honed. It’s just what comes naturally. I enjoy keeping the peace. Peace is good. Peace is calm. Everyone loves peace. Myself included.
It also means that I tend to avoid conflict, which is why it seemed easier to avoid Gareth for so long. But with how our last couple of interactions have been, I’m hopeful we can resume the peaceful existence we once had.
Gareth is standing on the front step of his house, waiting for me as I park. He’s dressed in a dark green sweater, his strong hands jammed into the pockets of his faded jeans. His scuffed leather Oxfords tie in perfectly. I bought everything on his body right now, and something about that makes my chest purr with pride.
That and I love Gareth’s style.
Yes, I realise I’m the one who selects all his clothes. But I have meetings with all of my clients to figure out their style before I purchase a single item for them. Gareth gravitates toward classic, masculine, and understated luxury. You wouldn’t know he’s wearing thousand dollar shoes unless you knew high-end clothing. There’s a beauty to that because he can go for a walk in a park or sit down in his agent’s office and always fit right in.
Callum only wore a few of the things I purchased for him. He always mixed and matched my things with his own selections. It annoyed me because he liked to think his style was superior to mine. The first night we met, he smirked down his nose at my Target dress.
When we moved to Manchester, he started asking me why I couldn’t dress like so-and-so’s wife. If it wasn’t for Sophia, I wouldn’t have lasted a month with him.
“You came.” Gareth’s deep voice vibrates in a place between my thighs as I nearly trip while climbing the stairs toward him.
“You pretty much forced me,” I reply, tossing his suit over my shoulder and trying to stop the blush that rushes through me as our eyes connect.
“Hardly,” he replies with an unamused look. “You look well, Sloan.”
“Um, thanks.” I tug at my sleeve, wondering why this feels like a freaking date all the sudden. “Here’s your suit.”
I hold it out to him. His eyes narrow conspiratorially for a brief moment before he smiles. “Why don’t you come in?”
I look up at the sky and pray for strength. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Gareth.”
He chuckles half-heartedly. “Why? Do you think something’s going to happen? You can’t trust yourself around me? Is that it?”
The challenging twinkle in his eyes has me squinting my gaze at him. “I can trust myself just fine.” It’s my libido I’m not so sure about.
“Come on, Sloan. I’ve missed you,” he goads, reaching out and taking the garment bag from my hand. “Get your arse in here and let’s catch up.”
Exhaling heavily, I follow him through the foyer. My eyes immediately land on the large staircase that leads up to his room. Flashes of that night pummel me like a ton of bricks.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, snapping my attention to him standing beside me. “Water? Coffee? I don’t have any alcohol here.”
Frowning, I reply, “I’m working anyway.” Even though a stiff drink might help make this interaction a smidge more bearable.
“Right.” He grips the back of his neck and looks over his shoulder. Gesturing to the long, dark wood dining table located under a modern Edison bulb fixture, he says, “Let’s sit.”
He pulls out a tufted seat at the head of the table for me to slide into. Then he takes the spot adjacent to me.
“So, how are things?” I ask, desperate to fill the heavy silence. “How are you liking your clothes this season? Any texture issues? I know you hated that one Burberry cashmere sweater I thought might work for you—”
“Sloan”—Gareth’s voice stops me mid-thought—“I didn’t invite you in to talk about clothes.”
My eyes drop to the table. “I knew this was a mistake,” I murmur.
“You knew what was a mistake?” His voice is so smooth, I have to take a deep breath to keep myself sane.
“Me coming out here,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Gareth shifts to the edge of his seat, his masculine scent hitting me like a wrecking ball as images of him naked fight their way to the front of my mind. “Sloan, you can’t just act like that night between us didn’t happen.”
“I most certainly can!” I argue, sitting back in my seat and feeling a nervous flush wash over me. I’ve been trying so hard not to ruminate over the memories of that night. With some success, I might add. “What happened between us was so long ago, Gareth. Honestly, why are you still thinking about it?” Surely he’s had at least a dozen other women since then.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about it.” His eyes are dead serious. They strike right through me, saying words I never could have imagined him saying. “I’m not a bullshitter, Sloan. I don’t play games. I don’t chase women. But if I go a year and still can’t stop thinking about a person, I’m bloody well going to do something about it.”
“Like force your friends into a consult,” I retort, wondering if poor Hobo and Brandi even wanted a consult with me.
“I didn’t force anybody,” he replies. “Hobo asked me for advice about Brandi, and I know you have connections in the industry. You seemed like the natural place to start.”
Silence casts over us, so I begin picking at the cuticle on my nail to avoid Gareth’s gaze. That furrowed browline of his is going to be the death of me. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you saying you never think about that night we had together?” His voice is like warm honey dripping into my mouth.
My shoulders lift. “Of course I think about it,” I snap.
He exhales through his nose. “And are they positive thoughts?”
I look up and he’s concealing a smile that makes the creases around his eyes look divine. “No…Sometimes…Maybe.”
He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “Well, I’ve never felt anything like that in my entire life.”
I touch my lips to ensure the words didn’t come from my own mouth because he’s voicing my thoughts exactly. But it doesn’t change the fact that what we did was wrong. He is a client!
The humour in his expression dies when he asks the next question. “Look, have you been trying to ghost me? Are you trying to cut me out of your life so I leave you alone?”
“No,” I reply, anxiety pricking all five of my senses. “Gareth, I want to keep working with you.”
“You just don’t want to fuck me again.”
My nerves boil over. My eyes cast downward as I suck in a large breath of air. That word out of his mouth is like an instant zap inside my panties. The way his teeth grab hold of his lower lip to utter the sound of the letter F is spine-tingling. I know he said all sorts of naughty things that night we had together, but it’s been so long now, and I was in an alternate universe then. I’ve compartmentalised that night into a dream. A fantasy. This is reality, yet all I want to do is ask him to say that word over, and over, and over.
“Don’t say that word again, please,” I groan, running my hands through my hair and pressing my thighs together as I try to ignore the fact that his lower lip is slightly thicker than his upper lip.
“What word?” he asks, seemingly sincere.
“The…naughty word.”
Careful, Sloan, your mom jeans are showing.
“Naughty word?” This makes him chuckle.
How can he be laughing right now? My body is racked with tortured awareness of how close we are sitting beside each other. His knee has brushed against mine under the table three times in the past five minutes, and all I can think about is how badly I want it to happen again. I cover my face with my hands to avoid looking at him.
He leans in and whispers, “You mean the word fuck?” The soft click of the K causes me to peek through the crack between my fingers. His eyes are intense on me as he adds, “Sloan, all I’ve been thinking about for months is how badly I want to fuck you again.” His lips dampen as he slides his tongue across them. “Fucking you was the highlight of my year, Treacle.”
“Gareth!” I groan his name in frustration, dropping my hands and jerking back from his honest words. “This is so insane…and inappropriate!” And wonderful, and sexy, and frustrating.
“Why?” he asks, looking incredulous. “Because you don’t like it? Or because you’re not over your ex?”
“I’m definitely not thinking about my ex,” I reply with an immature eye-roll and fight off the shuddering thought of still being tied to Cal.
“If it’s because I’m your client, I don’t give a toss. It’s clothes, Sloan. What we have is far more important than fashion.”
“It’s not about the clothes,” I defend.
He narrows his eyes. “Do you regret that night we shared?”
“No,” I answer reflexively, then want to cover my mouth with mortification.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know!” I reply quickly, knowing I can’t tell him the truth. That I avoided all his attempts at contact because I was in the throes of a custody battle for my daughter whom he doesn’t know exists.
“You’re giving me a mess of mixed signals.” He slices his hands through his dark hair, mussing it up so beautifully, I itch to touch it. “You’re saying you don’t regret it, but you’re over there twitching. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’m freaking mortified!” I bellow.
His face falls. “Whatever for?”
I blink rapidly. “What for? You want the list?”
“Top five at least,” he volleys back.
“Well, I’m ashamed of how I treated you,” I answer honestly. If he wants to hear the list, I’ll give it to him. “I yelled at you, and clawed you, and threatened you.”
“So, does that mean you didn’t like it?” he asks.
“No, I loved it! I loved it so much I’m humiliated.” God, what’s wrong with me that I liked making him kneel in front of me? I know this lifestyle exists, but I’m a mother and business owner. I’m a people pleaser! This isn’t me.
“If you loved it, what is there to be ashamed of? I wanted you to do it. I…loved it, too.” He hesitates when he says the last part, seemingly a bit uneasy as well. He’s been so calm and collected thus far. Seeing him falter is comforting on some weird level. “Look, Sloan. We are two consenting adults. What’s the harm in any of this?”
“I don’t understand why you liked it.” I look at him in question, wanting to know why a strong, sexy, hugely famous athlete would let a woman take control over him.
Having the attention turned on him brings him pause. He shifts uncomfortably before steeling himself to reply, “I maintain control in so many aspects of my life. I liked giving it up to you.”
I nearly snort. “Do you do this with all your women?”
“Women?” he repeats, rubbing the back of his neck in irritation. “You say it like there are loads. First of all, there aren’t. Second of all, I’ve never done anything like that with any other woman. Only you.”
Only you.
I repeat his words in my head and they feel good. Comforting. A small smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. I can’t help it. There’s something incredibly empowering about this information. Only me.
Gareth is smirking now. He’s smirking, and he’s so dang handsome it’s difficult to focus. “Did you like being in control?” he asks, his body language coaxing me to open up.
I nod woodenly. Nervously. Cautiously.
“Then why don’t we do it again?”
“Right now?” I bark, horribly unladylike.
The low chuckle that vibrates in his chest is thigh-clenching. “Not necessarily. I just mean, perhaps we can make this a thing between us.”
“I have so much going on, Gareth. I seriously don’t think I’m ready for this.”
“Ready for what?” he asks.
“A relationship with Manchester’s most popular soccer player for starters!” I run my hands through my hair, trying hard to stop the trembling that’s happening in my body.
“Footballer,” he murmurs under his breath and leans across the table to clasp my hands. “And I already told you last week, I’m not suggesting a relationship, Sloan.”
My spine straightens. “What exactly are you asking for then?”
“You just got out of a crap marriage. I’m not interested in being committed.” His hands freeze on mine as he looks down at our embrace and searches for the right word. “So let’s just call this freedom.”
He rolls my hand in his and runs his finger down a line on my palm. My skin is so pale and soft against his battered, weathered grip, but his touch is warm and comforting. And it’s doing things to me. Naughty things and enticing things.
I release a shaky breath and whisper, “What kind of freedom?”
He half smiles at me, a look of hope brightening his dark eyes. “The kind where we both get to explore these newfound feelings…together.”
“What kind of feelings are you referring to exactly?” I ask, my pulse thumping so hard he can probably feel it in my finger.
“The kind where you have all the control like you did with me that night…over…and over…and over.” He pulls one of my hands to his mouth and presses his thick, pouty lips to the tip of my index finger.
My voice quakes. “That was a crazy night.”
“A crazy night I want to repeat with you.” The sincerity in his gaze is pure. “Can you see yourself doing that on a regular basis?”
“That’s really what you want?”
“Very much,” he husks, a vulnerability clouding his eyes and drawing me in like a moth to a flame.
“So this would just be a casual, friends with benefits thing?” I ask, wanting to ensure I have all the facts.
“Friendly friends,” he replies. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
I clear my throat. My tight, constricted, reactive throat. “But you’d still be my client?”
“Of course,” he replies flippantly. “None of that will change.”
I swallow slowly. “But I have responsibilities, Gareth. Things I can’t be away from.”
“So do I,” he argues. “It’s football season. I’m busy with training, matches, media. You know my schedule is mental. I’m not asking for seven days a week, Sloan.”
“What are you asking for exactly?”
He shrugs. “Whenever we’re both free.” He makes it sound so simple.
It’s not simple for me, though. I’m a mother. I have a child. A child whom I only get to see every other week.
It’s then that the most obvious realisation strikes me. Why didn’t I think of that before? Gareth can brighten my weeks of darkness. My days when all I do is obsess over Sophia and what Cal is or isn’t doing with her. Instead of slipping into a state of depression, I can spend some of my free time with Gareth. It’s like Zumba, but I get to make up all the moves!
My face heats from the notion that I may be saying yes to this craziness. “Where would we do this…freedom?”
His eyes narrow as he retreats into thought. “I train in Carrington Tuesday through Friday, so I could come to your place after—”
“No!” I nearly scream, picturing Freya on the couch squealing over Heartland while Gareth asks me to spank him. Oh my God, would he let me spank him?
“My place then?” he asks, eyeing me speculatively. “I just assumed since I live an hour from Manchester, you’d prefer something more central.”
“Your place is perfect.” I force a smile and glance around his home, curious about all the rooms I haven’t seen yet. It’s far from Manchester. It’s far from reality. It’s ideal. “But we’re going to need rules or something,” I rush out. “I need to know what kind of expectations you have. How far we’ll go.” My face heats from the naughty thoughts making their way out of the dark crevices of my mind. I’m picturing dungeons, and sex hotels, and weird clubs. I’m certainly not equipped for that kind of lifestyle.
“You don’t think we can just figure it out as we go?” he asks with a pleasant smile. “I don’t really have any expectations here, Sloan.”
“Okay, but I’d like to do some research. I’m not very experienced, Gareth. I mean, for God’s sake, I haven’t even kissed a man in…” I pause, cringing over the fact that I can’t remember the last time Cal kissed me. “A long, long time.”
“You don’t need to do research to remember how to kiss, Sloan.” He leans across the table and hits me with all his rugged scent and charm. “I can refresh your memory right now.”
I lick my lips and stare down at his perfect pout of a mouth. God, it would be incredible to kiss him. To seize his lips with mine and know exactly what he tastes like.
The thought makes my blood run cold. This isn’t about a connection. This is about sex. I missed out on casual sex in my twenties by getting married and having a baby. This is my chance to make up for it. I don’t want to screw it all up by getting feelings involved.
The idea of kissing Gareth feels very personal. Very real. Very relationship-like. I don’t need a relationship. All I need is a distraction to survive my weeks without Sophia.
“No kissing,” I blurt out. It worked the first time we hooked up. Surely it will work again.
His eyes narrow. “None?”
“Not on the mouth.” I blush.
“Why?” He looks agitated.
“Because it’s too intimate,” I explain, knowing the complications that kissing would cause. “I have a million other things on my mind, so I can’t have feelings getting in the way.”
He looks back and forth between my eyes like he’s searching for something, then shakes his head and sits back in his chair. “You know what? That’s fine. I want you to make all the decisions, so whatever you say is fine with me.”
This makes me smile. “Then it’s settled.”
“It’s settled.”
After a significant pause, I stand to leave and Gareth follows me to the door. He nearly leans in to kiss my cheek goodbye, but thinks better of it and pulls back. “Can I kiss your cheek?”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Are we starting this now?”
He braces his hand on the doorframe, propping himself like a fucking model doing a cover shoot. “I don’t see why not.”
I straighten my spine and give him a simple nod. “Yes, you can kiss my cheek.”
He leans in and his chuckling breath is warm on my skin. His lips brush against my jaw and linger for a beat as he inhales the area behind my ear. “The ball is in your court now, Treacle.”
I take a moment to marvel over that fact.
Control.
Complete and utter control.
It feels pretty damn good for a change.