At this point, Kai saunters into the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool tiled floor.
‘Morning, kitty-kat,’ he murmurs coming up behind me. Resting his hand against my thigh, he places his lips against the smooth skin behind my ear. ‘Sneak thief,’ he sort of whisper-growls.
The vibration causes my skin to respond in a pleasurable sort of shiver. ‘Meaning?’ I almost groan. Totally would’ve done the whole whore groan/moan thing, but for the girl in the kitchen, currently doing a fair impression of a blow-up doll. Well, the mouth of one anyway.
‘Sneaking out of bedandstealing my shirt.’ The words rumble over his shoulder as he steps out the open doors and onto the deck. ‘A coffee would be wonderful, if you don’t mind.’ Walking into the sunshine, he slides blackwayfarersover his eyes.
‘Earth to Jazz!’ I wave an attention grabbing hand, because yes, I know. He’s dazzling.
‘I can see why your job is satisfying,’ she says eventually, blinking down at the loaf in her hand like she’s not sure what it’s doing there. ‘Dude, I came over all... not-queer!’ She shakes her head, laughing as she turns to what I totally thought was a microwave set into the wall.
‘How does he like it?’
‘He... I... he...’ Christ, she’s forward! I bite my tongue from the torrent of words that appear in my head.Hard. Complex. Dominant. Often?
‘His coffee, you drongo,’ she says laughing again. She somehow opens another handle-less drawer, pulling out a tiny cup. ‘I can imagine, though. Dead-set, I nearly went straight for a minute or two.’ She grasps her chin, another masculine gesture, as her words begin to form into some sort of conclusion in my head.
‘Mind you, after this weekend, I’m not surprised,’ she blunders on, oblivious to the cogs in my head whirring into action. ‘Princemight’ve said there are 23 positions in a one night stand, but he never had to look at what I did.’ Her whole body shudders. ‘So, Saturday night, right?’ She pops the cup into the microwave/coffee machine-hybrid-thing, pressing a button as it whirs to life. ‘I’m guessing espresso?’ she asks, lifting a carton of milk from the fridge, placing it back at my head shake. ‘I might’ve been wasted, but I had this one night stand, right? Only, turns out, the chick had a vadge like a badly packed kebab. Man, the only position I was interested in was the one at the bus stop.’ Her face is pensive for a moment, her gaze tracking Kai as she stares out of the window now. ‘Bet you’d do him for free,’ she says quietly. ‘I’d almost consider getting on my knees to give him a blowy myself.’
‘Sorry?’Free?A blowy—a blow job?
Hear that? That’s the sound of the penny finally dropping. I think I must be a little slow this morning.I’ll blame jetlag.
‘Jazz,’ I say slowly, ‘I’m not his prostitute. I’m his fiancé.’
One awkward conversation later—because, as it turns out, the house is used semi-regularly by big-shot business clients, often with a high-end escort in tow—Jazz is very much at pains to make clear she doesn’t discriminate on issues of race, gender, or employ, and therefore meant no offence.No discrimination from me—prozzies pay their taxes just like everyone else. It’s just a fucking job. Ha-ha, literally!
I decide not to mention it to Kai; I can’t imagine he’d be too impressed. Following him out into the sunshine, I hum that all timeElectric Sixclassic, Gay Bar,under my breath, with Kai’s coffee in one hand and my balanced breakfast in the other. Well, balanced in as much as my plate of Vegemite on toast is sitting on top of my muesli bowl.
‘No, thank you. I don’t wish to visit that kind of establishment,’ he says, taking the coffee from my hand. ‘Though I would like to see some of your other stomping grounds.’
‘Funny.’
‘I’m serious. I thought you could show me around later. After we’ve visited your mother.’
‘Hmm,’ I reply noncommittally, taking a seat next to him, not much interested in either of those options.
‘What’s that brown stuff?’ he asks, peering over at my plate as I set it down. ‘Is that... Marmite?’ By his expression, you’d think he’d just asked if I’d smeared shit on the plate.
‘Vegemite,’ I reply, licking the salty, buttery goodness from the warm bread. I tear off a large bite, poking it into my mouth. ‘Mmm. Ambrosial.’
‘It smells like socks. Old socks, I might add, and disgustingly on-par with that.’ He points at the bowl.
‘What’s wrong with muesli?’
‘It’s repulsive. If we were meant to eat dried fruit, it would grow to look like an eighty-year-old penis from the start.’
‘Quick,’ I say giggling and gesturing to his cup. ‘Drink. You’re obviously dehydrated.’
‘Eating raisins is the fruit equivalent of eating dead people,’ he says, mockingly severe.
‘I bet you’ve never tried any of those.’
‘Which? Muesli, dead people, or eighty-year-old dick?’
I wave my toast under his nose as he pulls away with a grimace. ‘I bet you were a stubborn little bugger, as a kid. Beautiful, too.’ My heart rises to my mouth at my Freudian slip, and I quickly blunder on. ‘And how do you know you won’t like it, if you won’t try? Think of all the good stuff you could’ve been missing out on.’
‘I was force-fed Marmite as a child,’ he says, fending off my toast. ‘That was bad enough. ‘What you have there seems far worse. It smells like old socks and looks like a smear of faeces.’
‘Were you a slapper or a streaker as a boy?’ I ask, giggling.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Personally,’ I say, attempting a seductive purr now, ‘I like it spread. I love to use my tongue, especially the tip. Love tolickat the salty goodness.’ Then I do just that, all while looking at him. Hopefully, not cross-eyed. ‘Mmm. That touch of musky saltiness. The thick warmth just melting down my throat.’ I take another bite, leaning back in my chair with a theatrical groan.
‘Say that again,’ he demands all husky now. ‘Salty. The back of your throat thing.’
Cramming the remainder of the toast into my mouth, I mumble around it, ‘Tastes great with cheese, too.’
