His loss is my fucking gain, no matter how temporarily, because here’s the thing: I might not have arrived at her door with the idea of fucking her, but I’m not going to be able to leave until I’ve had her pliant and spent underneath me. Until my back is covered in her nail marks, and I’ve sucked every inch of her skin.
Every broken relationship needs a rebound and what better rebound than someone who you’re not likely to see around.Or ever, as the case may be.
I know I should tread carefully. I know I should make the rules and the outcome clear.
Yet despite the sense behind my thoughts, when it becomes obvious Nell isn’t making her way to bed, like a little lapdog, or a dog who’d like to hump more than her leg, I follow her downstairs.
Chapter 4
PENELOPE
My back is to the doorway as I twist of the screw cap of a bottle of Cabernet I’d opened yesterday when I hear Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. I’m not really sure what to think about him as a lodger, though I’m pretty sure of what I think about him as a man. He’s a Grade A hottie in the flesh and almost as annoying as I remember him. Okay, so he’s not really annoying. I’m sure Mel would say he’sjust a littlecheeky,though he’s certainly a little full of himself. And we appear to have fallen into a semi-familiar pattern of teasing, which is preferable to meanness. And while I refuse to believe he was anything but mean as a youngster, these days he doesn’t seem to have the capacity to be cruel.
But his voice? So deep and masculine. His parents always seemed a little posh to me. Maybe that’s why his diction seems so sharp.The voice and the accent. One thing’s for sure, I have no problem imagining him being in charge—of bossing me about. I mean, men. Bossing his men about.
Six months. Man-hab,my mind whispers.
I don’t turn around as I hear Ben enter the kitchen. Instead, I fill my glass with a generous pour before screwing the lid back on the bottle tight and placing it back on the countertop—Formica made to look like teak ala 1960s—and turn to face him.
‘Don’t judge,’ I say, folding one arm around my waist as I bring my glass to my lips.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Yet your smirking expression would suggest you already have.’
‘Ah, so you’re a mind reader. Funny. Here’s me thinking you went to medical school, not circus school.’
I giggle—yes, giggle—then take another sip of my wine, hiding my delight behind the rim of my glass. Not very successfully, obviously, as he continues to goad.
‘Or maybe it was an online course in mind reading? If I were you, I’d ask for my money back.’
‘I definitely did go to medical school. I still have the bags under my eyes to prove it.’ And I do just that with a pointed finger.
‘Bollocks,’ he half chuckles. ‘You look exactly the same.’
‘But circus school was during the holidays,’ I add, ignoring the compliment because compliments are dangerous territory. Compliments lead to big heads, and not just the flattered kind. And what I don’t need is Ben’s satin smooth, engorged, and swollen head in the vicinity of my vagina.Or do I?No, I don’t.
So much for my cries of “but I’ve only ever had sex with one man”. Who was that man again? It seems I’ve conveniently forgotten on account of the confident Viking-esque man standing in my kitchen’s doorless doorway, paying me compliments as I stand in my tiny pyjamas, drinking wine. And that’s on top of having managed only four hours sleep in the past thirty-six.
This is a recipe for disaster. Or for really good sex. Or a disaster.
For goodness’ sakes—stop!
‘So your psychic powers tell you I’m judging you?’ He quirks a ridiculously sexy brow as if that was even a thing before now. I don’t exactly nod. I more like shrug in the manner ofyeah, sure, though I’m actually just trying to keep my mad thoughts to myself.‘What exactly do your special powers tell you I’m saying?’
Drop your panties, Nell. Let’s get it on.
Another mad thought I ignore, and instead reply, ‘Probably that I’m a lush.’
‘Ah, that makes sense.’Does it?I’m taken aback by his response and contemplative nod as he unfolds his arms, his boots echoing against the kitchen tile as he walks towards me. ‘Though there seems to have been a little confusion in the translation from my mind to yours because what I was actually thinking was luscious.’
Everything in me lights—like a pinball machine or set of Christmas fairy lights. I’m luscious. He thinks I’m luscious. Or maybe tiredness has addled my brain and therefore my hearing because I don’t feel very luscious.
‘Be serious, Ben,’ I say, appearing to have turned into a schoolmarm.
‘Oh, I am.’ Coming to stand in front of me, he does a very deliberate sweep of my body, my nipples suddenly standing to attention under my thin shirt. ‘So why is it you’re drinking at’—his gaze dips to his raised arm and the very masculine watch on his right wrist—‘a little after one in the afternoon?’
‘Technically, this is a nightcap,’ I reply, raising the bowl of the glass to my lips again. ‘At least, on my hours this week, it is. Feel free to help yourself to ...’ My words trail off as I read the sudden wickedness in his gaze, my heart literally skipping a beat as my synapsis fire, offering a dozen ways he couldhelp himself. And I try not to sigh like a girly Disney character as he takes the glass from my hand and lifts it to his own lips.
