Chapter 7
GREG
Nice.
I’m fucking nice.
I’m sure she wouldn’t think so if she knew what I’d been doing in the bathroom, or if she remembered I’d had her tit in my hand. And she certainly wouldn’t be saying that if she knew the only reason I’d made her a hot chocolate was give myself something to do with my hands. Because watching her do upside down yoga on the couch gave me a hard-on that made me want to climb right behind her, slide her ankles over her shoulder, and show her a reallynicetime.
‘I’d like it if people called me nice. I’d also like it if I could cook,’ she says, turning her gaze to the kitchen.
‘It’s only soup.’ Something else to occupy my mind and hands. Also, it’s soup weather.
‘Boozy hot chocolate and soup,’ she says a little dreamily.
Christ, I amnice.
‘If you can’t cook, what do you live on?’
‘Frozen meals and takeaway. I have Uber Eats on speed dial. Don’t look at me like that—it’s low calorie, healthy stuff. Well, mostly.’
‘If you can’t indulge on a cold winter day, when can you, eh?’
‘True,’ she repeats in a wistful tone, no doubt thinking about her belly again as she brings the mug to her mouth. ‘Oh, myGodddd!This hot chocolate is .. . like an orgasm in a cup!’
I chuckle as she pretends to melt across the sofa, discreetly moving her calves away from my sudden semi-chub.
I open a bottle of white at lunchtime, which goes down as well as the vegetable soup, and a little while later, Isobel asks me to make her another boozy hot chocolate, so she can see how it’s made.Yeah, right. She’s a canny one, but I indulge her request anyway, trying hard not to pay too much attention to how her tits thrust out as she boosts herself up onto the kitchen countertop to watch. Her sweater still bears this morning’s coffee stain between the valley of those soft twin peaks, and my gaze is attracted like a magnet to the thing.
Like I need the added stimulation.
‘That smellsheavenly,’ she says, her words full of longing. And wine. As she places down her glass, she tips the remains of the bottle she’d brought along with her from the dining table. ‘You’d better hide the chocolate after this.’
I’m thinking I’d better hide the booze before the chocolate. Not that she’s drunk but more... merry. Relaxed. Friendly. Friendly enough to let me help her melt against the couch again, maybe this time with a proper orgasm?
‘Are you a chocolate fiend?’ Better to be an orgasm fiend. I keep my eyes on the tiny saucepan, her wee snort making me smile.
‘Show me a girl who doesn’t like chocolate, Greg, and I’ll show you a girl who doesn’t like... ’ As if an adorable snort wasn’t enough, she adds a cute frown. ‘Doesn’t like ... life,’ she says, right at the same moment that I suggest,
‘Sex?’
We’ll call it one from the vault. The vault otherwise known as my balls, making themselves known by tightening. Meanwhile, Isobel is doing a good impression of one of those Asian lucky cats as she waves one hand while laughing manically.
‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, smiling now myself as I move the liquid chocolate from the heat.I bet she’d taste better than any kind of chocolate.
‘Oh, goodness.’ She wipes the tears from under her eyes. ‘What’snotso funny about it?’
‘A girl who likes wine and chocolate surely must also like sex.’ And orgasms. Please say you do and that you’re in the market for them, too.
‘A girl? Orthisgirl?’ And suddenly, she’s not laughing anymore.
‘That all depends.’
‘On what?’ Her voice is barely a whisper, her eyes suddenly dark.
‘On what this is we’re doing right now.’
Flirting, after all, is just another F-word.
