I smile at her word, the sensation of her breath on my neck and her weightless body in my arms. The knowledge that she knows who General William Rigby is was most unexpected. She really is full of surprises; beautiful, bright, talented, reads and not just the girly classics butDante’s Infernoand comics. Could she be any more perfect? No, I don’t think she could.
“Stay,” she moans as I lie her down on the top of my bed and pull her boots and socks off.
I shouldn’t be doing this I tell myself, none of it, her, this ridiculous interior job I have concocted for her, and definitely not lying down with her which is exactly what I am doing having cast my jacket aside.
“Mmm,” she groans as she curls into me like the cutest thing in the world. Fuck! Cute has put in another appearance. “You smell nice, I like how you smell,” she slurs.
“Good.”
Is that all I have,good? Yes, yes, it is. Even my inner voice sounds lame.
“I noticed that when we met,” she explains and I smile because it was the same for me, well kind of. “When you came to dance with me.”
I saw her as soon as I entered the club but as I was there to see my kid brother Declan, I hadn’t considered approaching her. I went out back and then up to the VIP area but all I could think of was the beautiful girl in the very short and tight red lace dress in the main club. Her hair was so dark it shocked me, almost black but not quite and then the big eyes, all green and gold, sparkling like rare and exotic jewels and the expanse of pale skin that provided a stark contrast to her hair. I had to go and speak to her, especially after seeing her move to the music, yet it was more than just finding her attractive. I was drawn to her on a deeper level. I scowl at my own idiotic thoughts but continue with them. Her friend was a complete ball breaker though, only one question short of asking what my intentions were, although her overprotectiveness would support Olivia’s claim that she hadn’t had a one-night stand before me. Her friend’s interrogation is why I sent her a text from Olivia’s phone once we’d arrived at hers. She’d been attempting to do it herself, but alcohol was hindering her more than me.
I come back to today with Sean and his to-do-list and his comment about her being able to vouch for him being a man. Can she? Have they? I consider it and then force those thoughts from my mind along with his use of Liv when he talks about her or addresses her. That pisses me off, far more than I know it ought to. I don’t even know her, not really. I am aware of a strange noise she’s making and suddenly her eyes fly open and I can see that she’s disorientated.
“It’s okay.” I stroke down the length of her sleeved arm, hoping to comfort her. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
“Help me,” she says, her slur increasing.
“Help what, darling?” My words that I’d hoped would calm her seem to upset her.
“No, no, no,” she cries, putting her hands over her ears and rolls away into a ball.
I leap up and circle the bed so I’m on my haunches in front of her where I gently move her hands from her ears.
“Olivia, darling, it’s me, Mase.” I think I have made things worse when she starts to cry.
“Don’t call me that, anything but that,” she pleads.
“What, don’t call you what?” I feel more confused than ever by this woman, yet more compelled than ever to take care of her.
“Darling,” she stammers sadly.
“Okay.” I’m unsure what else to say. I assumed all women you put on your bed liked terms of endearment but clearly, like in so many other ways, this woman is different.
“He always said that, called me that before he hurt me, I hate it.” Tears run down her face.
“Okay,” I repeat and make a mental note to avoid darling in my dealings with her, but also to find out who the fuck has hurt her in her past. Suddenly, she erratically sits up and attempts to remove her clothes. “What are you doing?” I ask nervously. I was happy to fuck her the other night when she’d been drinking and was a little merry but not like this, drugged up and clueless.
“I’m tired.” She rubs her eyes looking completely fucking adorable, just like a sweet and innocent little girl.
That would be cute and adorable that are now in my inner vocabulary I realise as she begins pulling at the front of her blouse.
“Olivia, you’re going to tear it, stop.”
“I need to go to bed,” she tells me, rolling over so that she is on all fours and trying to pull the quilt out from under her whilst still kneeling on it. “Where are my ‘jamas?” Before the question is fully out, she falls face down into my bed, hysterical with laughter now.
“Fuck.” I sigh before reaching for her and rolling her over. “If you are pissed at me for this later, I am going to, well, do fuck all, but, oh, whatever.”
I undo the buttons on her blouse and release the clasp and zip on her trousers before dipping into my dressing room to find a t-shirt for her. I pull a plain white t-shirt out and return to offer it to her assuming that with no fastenings to contend with she will be capable of putting my t-shirt on, but I get the shock of my life when I look at her.
“Fuck!” I cry at the sight that greets me. She is standing there, on wobbly legs, but standing and has allowed the blouse to drop from her arms and the trousers have pooled around her feet leaving her standing in red lace underwear, reminding me of the dress at the club. I don’t think I have ever seen such a beautiful sight in my life, her little pants barely covering the tiny triangle of her pubic hair while the matching bra is pushing those glorious tits up and struggling to conceal anything, least of all the pebbled skin surrounding the tight bullet points of her nipples. I am distracted by her expanse of sexy as fuck skin on show so almost miss the fact that she is reaching behind her to unclip her bra. “No, no.” I rush towards her to stop her from offering me more temptation than I am sure I can resist. The t-shirt I was holding is over her head and like a child I am pushing her arms through the sleeves before pulling the quilt back and placing her in my bed. This is definitely going to end badly, it really must, more badly than yesterday.
“You aren’t such a fucking arse, are you?” she asks me as she curls under the quilt.
“Thanks,” I reply with a chuckle at her honesty then decide that I prefer her stoned honesty to yesterday’s angry honesty. I recall the fire that was in her eyes when she gave me what for and think I might prefer that honesty because she is beyond sexy when she’s pissed.
