“Time for bed,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. The television is quiet and black, the romcom having finished while neither of us were watching.
Panic overtakes her expression of beatific contentment.
“My apartment is ruined. I really don’t want to go back there?—”
“You’re staying here,” I cut in firmly.
“I can’t do that. It’s putting you at risk,” she says miserably. “They’re dangerous men.”
“I think I can manage,” I reply, and there’s a cynical edge to my words. “And I can’t let you put yourself in danger by leaving.”
That skirts around the reality that I won’t allow her to leave me, ever. But perhaps it’s better if she thinks she’s here of her own volition? That’ll make her more likely to fall in love. I think.
Unless Stockholm syndrome is really quick? I should look that up.
I’m beginning to see the appeal of love potions.
So I lie. “Just tonight.”
6
CATERINA
The happiest evening of my life followed on from the worst possible afternoon. I’ve been in my landlord’s penthouse, having had my pussy licked. I’m practically drunk after coming on Brody’s tongue.
He. Licked. Me.
And it was spectacular. The best happy ending to a movie ever.
Afterwards, despite a bulge in his trousers that looked as though he was smuggling a baseball bat, he didn’t want me to touch him, and his expression remained as serious as ever. He just helped me dress, and then guided me through his penthouse.
The spare room is basically the size of my entire apartment, and luxuriously decorated in pale blue and grey and gold.
“What should I wear to bed?” I ask, a bit lost and still tingling from my orgasm.
“We’ll sort your clothes tomorrow…” he begins, then scowls.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, giving him a big smile, even though I’m confused and the solution I’m about to suggest fills me with dread. “I’ll go down and get something from my apartment?—”
“No,” he snaps. “Wait here.” He strides out, and I instantly feel alone and a spare part, so I follow cautiously and look across the hallway into his bedroom. It’s the mirror image of mine, in navy instead of this pretty, feminine washed-out sky colour. In a wardrobe are rows of hung shirts ranging from pristine white to grey to black like a shadow creeping across a bevy of swans.
Grabbing a white shirt, he turns and starts as he sees that I have disobeyed him, then approaches more slowly. Wordlessly, he hands it to me.
I suppress the urge to put it to my nose immediately.
“Goodnight.” His gravelly voice sends a shudder of awareness down my spine.
“‘Night.” I want to reach up and kiss him. Perhaps ask if I can sleep in his bed. Beg him to take my V-card. And I nearly—so nearly—decide to.
But a lifetime of being a good girl doesn’t get wiped away with one terrifying afternoon. So I don’t. I smile hopefully, tilt my chin up and make myself available for kissing, and slump when he gently but firmly closes my bedroom door.
It’s only when I go to the bathroom that I realise why, aside from my sparkling personality, he wouldn’t have wanted to kiss me again. I look like a cross between an ogress and a mummy.
Oh god.
Brody is so kind. He kissed me and… My cheeks heat as I remember what else he did.
Agghghgg.
