‘God, that man is so rubbing off on me.’ She shakes her head, still held in her hands.
‘And just so you know? I don’t need to know about Randy’s rubbings.’
‘Rory,’ she corrects, lifting her head and sending me the gimlet eye. ‘But speaking of too much information or rather, too little, I realised you didn’t tell me where you’d disappeared to in the club.’
I engage the innocent owl blinking thing again. ‘Club?’
‘You know, after dinner. After taking your jeans off—’
‘Ya, thanks for that.’
‘After dancing and drinking Kit-tails.’
‘Drinking what tails?’
‘Cocktails,’ she repeats. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you drink so much.’
‘You weren’t far behind me.’
‘That’s because Kit kept refilling my glass at dinner. Brandy,’ she adds with a full body shiver. ‘Anyway, you need to spill.’
Saved by the bell. Or buzz. On the table next to her coffee, Fin’s phone begins to vibrate. As she turns it over, I don’t need to guess who’s calling. Her smile is a dead giveaway.
‘How many times, Rory? You can’t begin a conversation with that.’
Lord knows what he’s saying that’s causing her cheeks to flush pink. Not that I want to know. I’m privy to far too much of that man’s wooing as it is.
In an effort to be as unobtrusive as possible, I take another bite of my sandwich and reach for Fin’s newspaper. It’s either that or stick my fingers in my ears while chanting, ‘La-la-la-laaaa!’
Unfolding the newspaper, I realise with a small thrill she’s folded it at a picture of Kit. He appears to be at an awards ceremony in the city somewhere, and what’s more, he’s dressed in a tux.
Lord alive.
The man wears the hell out of a suit, but evening dress just knocks the whole sexy effect up a few notches. Just a few, like up into the stratosphere.
But better than Kit in evening dress? The same suit but worn with a dash of themorning after the night before. Shirt open at the neck and a draped bow tie, his hair tousled and sex messy, and a soft rasp of stubble covered his sharp jaw.
It wasn’t even my morning after, but it didn’t detract from the hotness of this look.
And better still than either of those is an image of my own. Clothed in nothing but his pants, half undressed and fully erect, the hard, vulgar beauty of his masculinity held in one hand. His grey eyes as dark as the devil, entirely aware of the power he had over me.
I shiver, the images taking on an edge of sensory memory.
Maybe he can wear the bow tie and nothing else next time.
Because there will be a next time. I just need to work on my pitch. A persuasive argument to sell the idea of more sex between us.
Moar!
Fin giggles and, by the tone, I know Rory’s up to no good. I take a sip of my cooling latte and return to the article, trying hard not to overhear again.
Because I don’t have my brain bleach handy.
The article goes on to discuss a hotel Kit and Rory have recently bought in Mayfair; a building that was once a high-class brothel back in the seventeenth century. Willed by a Duke to his mistress, it seems the place has had quite a colourful history.
It’s quite an entertaining piece, mentioning the pair’s penchant for themed and slightly outrageous décor in their hotels, and the fact that the building has been renamed The Bawdy House Hotel; a bawdy house being a brothel, it seems.
I’ve never heard the phrase, but it seems to have tickled the history buffs. And according to a PR quote, the hotel will espouse a sort of bordello chic, whatever that is, and many of the rooms were named for infamous historical mistresses.
