When I ran my hand up and down the bulge in his trousers, he froze and straightened. “You’re drunk,” he whispered in my mouth.
I shook my head. “I want you. Here. Now.”
But he pulled away anyway. “Doesn’t change the fact you’re drunk.”
“And are you not?” I asked, pulling him closer by the shirt. I pushed my fingers between the buttons to touch his warm skin.
“Not at all,” he said.
His alcohol tolerance had to be far, far higher than mine.
“I consent,” I begged, the pulsing in my pussy making me want to jump his bones. “Please, I consent. I consent.”
I pulled myself up and onto his lap, desperate to show him how much I wanted him. The deep bass was a part of us and our movements.
“Stay with me,” he murmured on my lips as he held my hips. “Stay with me for the rest of the week. Be fuckingmine, Livid.”
I kissed him savagely, hands in his hair, tongue licking at his. He kissed me back, taking over, making me his, like he said.
Chapter 20
The day after the club, Nix and I spent eighteen hours travelling from Japan back to England. He’d kept his promise, buying the plane tickets in the taxi on the way back to the hotel.
The first leg of the journey had been awful. There was no privacy, I could only hold his hand as we departed and landed. I sucked super hard on my hard-boiled Japanese candy.
For the second flight, we had our own section. Two twin beds were pushed together, and a recliner was on either side. That was fine when I could cuddle into him, bury my head in a pillow or sleep.
I was done with pretending not to feel anything. We weren’t in a relationship, but we were exclusive. Semantics.
After travelling for nearly a full day, we picked up a takeaway on the way back to mine and clambered into my double bed.
It wasn’t until the morning that I saw the absolute state of my home.
Nix was already up and in my little kitchen. Nearly the whole flat was open-plan, save the bathroom and the bedroom. With the doors open, the smell of bacon and sausages wafted through, beckoning me back to Nix. Something always did.
Last night, I’d only taken off my bottoms and slept inmy bra without cleaning my teeth.
And Nixon Armas was in my kitchen.
I tore off the bra and pulled on some pyjamas before dashing to the bathroom sink.
Somewhat refreshed, I put on my slippers and joined him at the stove. He was cooking in just his jogging bottoms and an apron.
I hated that I pictured waking up to this more often.
Like every day.
“What’s this?” I asked, looking at the pan with sausages and bacon in it.
“You kept on saying in the taxi you missed English breakfast,” he said and tilted the pan so the sausages rolled over. “So, here is an English breakfast. Made by a French man.”
“It smells great,” I complimented and stepped back towards the sofa to start clearing away my mess. “How long were we asleep?”
“It’s nearly 1 pm. But you people have this for breakfast-lunch sometimes, don’t you?”
“Brunch,” I laughed. On the odd occasion his English slipped, he was absolutely adorable. “Where did you get this stuff?”
“A shop over the road,” he said and nodded to the plastic bag on the counter as I managed to discretely shove some discarded magazines onto the shelf of the coffee table. “Milk is in the fridge for your precious tea. You already had tea bags.”
