Chapter 12
Dylan pounded the treadmill in the basement of his Kensington flat. Each morning without fail he ran for five miles and then lifted weights. A sweaty work-out first thing was part of his daily routine, he rarely missed it. If he was away on business he didn’t bother, but at home, it had become a ritual which he enjoyed.
Exercise always made him feel better. He was still fuming with Henry after yet another set-to the previous evening. Despite his instruction that his son needed to find a job, the little shit was doing very little as far as he could see. Communication was a real problem between them; he’d even had to ask the housekeeper if he actually ate food in the house as he never saw him eat. Probably feasting on junk food by the look of his dreadful skin.
After their altercation, he’d hooked up with an old flame and taken her out to dinner. Sex quickly followed, which relaxed him, but much to her dissatisfaction, he’d come home afterwards so he could sleep in his own bed and do his morning workout. If the truth be told, he didn’t particularly like sleeping alongside a woman. He’d never felt the need for the after-sex bonding, it just wasn’t him. He enjoyed the act, but that was it. Nor had he the urge to stick to one woman either, he liked variety and made that clear to any woman he met. Time and time again he told them not to get attached to him, marriage wasn’t on his agenda, he liked being single. But would they listen? No. They all wanted the piece of him he wouldn’t commit to.
Maybe his father who had been a serial womaniser, had influenced him. His mother had loved him so much and was with him for ten years until he replaced her with a younger model, just as she’d once been his other woman. His mother had been his secretary, and he’d left his first wife for her. His half-brother Victor was a result of his father’s first marriage.
He’d slept badly, which wasn’t unusual. If he managed five hours, that was good. He’d woken up suddenly and the image in his head was of the cleaner at the gallery. She could be a model with her figure and looks. It really was the luck of the draw. He’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Never wanting for anything, even when his father divorced his mother, he still generously provided for him and Victor, the only children he had. Well, the only two legitimate children; he wouldn’t have been surprised if his old man hadn’t fathered other children along the way. None came forward when he died though, and you would have expected that there would have been.
His thoughts drifted back to the cleaner. When he spoke to her briefly yesterday, something shifted inside him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but when he looked into her stunningly green eyes, he wanted more, which he quickly chastised himself for. He was being ridiculous. She was a cleaner and as well as that, a cleaner with a criminal record. He shouldn’t be remotely interested on her.
But he was.
He knew every detail there was about her from the file he’d obtained. The only reason he’d agreed to her working at the gallery was he’d sussed out she could be exactly what he and Victor needed. Whether or not she’d be interested, he had yet to find out. That last one, Lilly, she was perfect, and she was now happily ensconced in Spain on her generous cut. But he’d not been remotely interested in her, only what she could do for them.
This cleaner was different.
Would she play ball?
He hoped so.
And if he got to screw her along the way, all the better.
He headed for the shower and stripped off his clothes. Thinking about the hot little cleaner in that tight black uniform neatly encasing those generous tits, had his cock at full-mast.
Standing against the hot jets of water he pressed his head against the tiles and squeezed his dick, working its length. He imagined the cleaner naked on top of him, and those pert tits thumping up and down as she rode him, hard and fast, until she was screaming his name, over and over again. His hips jerked, and his balls tightened.
With a hiss, he spilled his load over the wall.