For a moment, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the CEO had lost his composure.
He swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple rising and falling against the taut skin of his throat. ‘Do you have a favourite play?’
‘The Phantom of the Opera: it’s a classic. A new play has just come out and Judi Dench is taking the lead. I’d love to see her on stage but the tickets sold out within hours. Do you like the theatre?’
‘Yes.’
I pause, waiting, wanting more.
‘Yes?’ I chuckle, the relief welcome. ‘That’s all you’re giving me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t give much away, Mr Ryans.’
Our food is exquisite and we pass the time effortlessly, conversation flowing between the four of us. Gregory never looks entirely at ease but is always a gentleman. The wait staff fuss around him and at some point during our meal, every female in the room undresses him with her eyes. I’m guilty as charged.
‘What do you say to a night cap, ladies?’ Williams asks when our dessert plates have been cleared.
I check my watch. It’s gone eleven. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to get home; I hadn’t intended to be out this late.’ Gregory’s brows furrow and I feel compelled to explain. ‘My dad isn’t well.’
He nods, his face stoic. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Jackson will take you both home.’ It’s a statement, not an offer.
When our waiter comes back to the table, Gregory shakes his hand and rises from the table.
‘What about the bill?’ I ask.
‘Taken care of,’ Gregory says, gesturing in the direction of the lift, telling me to walk on ahead of him. In the lift, I insist again on paying for half of the bill, or at the very least my own share, but Gregory won’t engage in a discussion. I want to state my case but I know it would be querulous to continue an argument I’d never win.
Jackson asks Amanda and me where we’d like to be dropped. I protest that my West London home must be out of everybody’s way but Gregory responds with silence and takes his seat in the front of the Mercedes with Jackson. I take my seat in the back, feeling the same sense of annoyance I felt on the way to the restaurant. Who does this man think he is?
We drop Amanda at her flat first, followed by Williams. I’m sure Gregory mustn’t live as far from the city as I do but he refuses to entertain my suggestion that I’m dropped home last.
Sandy has left the porch light on for me but the rest of the house is in darkness when we pull up outside. I know it’s my own fault but I’m sad that I won’t get to speak to my dad today. Jackson interrupts my self-pitiful thoughts by opening the car door.
Gregory is already out of the passenger side and watches me as I walk around the car towards him, leaning his tall, athletic body back against the Mercedes. I drink him in, everything about him, the alcohol fog in my mind rendering my inhibitions dangerously low. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ I say, holding out my hand.
Gregory hesitates but silently accepts the gesture. His hold is gentle but there are undeniable sparks firing between us. I want to pull my hand away. I need to break the connection that’s rendered me stupid in the face of this virile man. But he leans forwards before my limbs do as my head instructs. His musk of spiced aftershave, wine and masculinity envelopes me before his hot breath caresses my cheek. Then his soft, full lips press against the skin beneath my lobe. My eyes close as the sensation of his kiss travels to my breasts, hardening the expectant ends. My sex aches, widening, slick with lust.
I take a step back, swallowing my desire before peeling open my eyelids.
Summoning willpower from somewhere deep inside me, I force my weak legs to carry me to the house. With my key in the lock, I turn to find him still there, leaning lazily against the car, his hands resting in his jean pockets, fixed on me.
‘Goodnight, Miss Heath,’ he says, just loud enough to reach me through the cool, autumn darkness.
In the sanctity of my own home, I press my back against the closed door and slide down to my hunkers.
‘Bloody hell!’
That’s it. The one and only occasion. A completely unforgettable evening where I felt things that I’ve never felt before, yes. But a one-off, regardless. There’s a line, I’m fully aware of it and I’ll never cross it again.
But as the hot shower sprays onto my face, he won’t leave my mind. Damn him and his bloody hotness! My fingers stroke my lips as I think of his. How I’d love to bite them, suck them, feel them against my skin. My mouth parts, filling with warm water, and I lean forwards, bracing my unsteady body with my hands on the tiles in front of me. I haven’t imagined it. Those luring, lopsided smirks, the teasing glint in those otherworldly, brown gems and the fact that they spent most of the night watching me. My heart starts beating faster as I think about that pose, in the bar, and just now leaning back against the Mercedes, his hands in his pockets, his hips flexed seductively.
Maybe it was unintentional and maybe I can’t ever cross the line again but to dissolve the dull throb in my sex isn’t crossing the line. He’ll never know. No one need ever know. And if I don’t, I’m going to be walking around like a raging bag of oestrogen, desperate and denied.
I clean my teeth and dry my body, taking my time with my sensitive, erect nipples, and slip under the bedcovers in a short, silk nightdress. His face comes back to me without effort. His severe jawline, his dark features, those godforsaken, fucking delicious, hungry eyes. I lick two fingers then slide them under the covers to the source of rolling thunder. There was no need because I’m already drenched.
I gasp as my fingers slide across my clit. It’s been so long since I’ve touched myself. It’s rare. Completely unlike me. I picture him in his navy suit, the sharp suit from the first day I saw him. My fingers slip down to my entrance and glide back up my centre, dragging a moan from deep within me.
