“Why does it feel like you’re up to something?”
“Because I am,” I reply, in a tone which is anything but innocent.
I let the silver tray slide along the white Egyptian cotton sheets, then I start dropping a fine trail of honey between her breasts, which I lick away extremely slowly.
And I gently suck delicious jam from her neck.
And I nibble small bites of croissant from her stomach, barely touching her skin with my lips.
71
Jemma’s Version
If they had told me a month ago, I would have bet my fortune that it could never happen. And I would have lost.
Ashford and I.
We’re anomalous. We’ve never been normal, the number of our flaws exceeds by far that of our virtues. But our virtues…
We’re totally captivated by each other and out of control.
Or rather, we are able to control ourselves, at least in public.
The people around us are used to seeing us maintain respectable, restrained and detached behaviour, so it would be strange if we got all lovey-dovey, used nicknames and exchanged public displays of affection; that’s why we keep acting as the usual, taciturn Parker newly-weds, in love but very disciplined.
Our composure only increases the tension and attraction between us; as a result, whenever a door closes behind us, we throw ourselves voraciously into each other’s arms.
We tread a fine line between teen lust and sex addiction.
At night, however, we have all the time and privacy to abandon ourselves to our fantasies.
If his bed could talk… and the music room. And his study. And the armoury. And the cellars. My dress is still stained with Burgundy… but who cares! Ashford ripped it off half an hour ago, and now it’s somewhere on the floor. I just want the sheets of his bed on my body. And him, of course.
I roll over by his side, with my face just a breath away from his, and I keep thinking how amazing it is to look at those beautiful green eyes. He’s handsome. I don’t know if I was blind before, or if I am now. Certainly, I was blinded by all my prejudices and my hatred, but there has always been a large number of girls who fought over him, starting from the Triple Six and that Portia. Portia. I partly forgot about her. Partly, but not completely, and I don’t know if it’s wise to ignore her.
“Are you happy?” He asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Yes, I am.”
“And what do you want to ask me?”
“What?” I ask, hesitating.
“I know from your expression. You’ve got something to ask me.”
I nod and pluck up the courage to do it. “I think the time has come for you to tell me about Portia.”
“Portia?” He asks, surprised.
“Derek, your mother, Harring, everyone has talked of her at least once, except for you. And since it has to do with you, I would like to get the full picture.”
“There’s no picture,” he digresses.
“Everyone was ready to bet on you getting married. There must have been something…” I say, but I want to make sure he understands that I don’t mean to start an argument, so I rub my face against his neck, inhaling his scent mixed with the smell of the sex we’ve just had.
“All right, but always keep in mind that everything I will tell you is part of the past.”
“Got it.”
