Chapter 10
IZZY
‘That was...’ I don’t even know what that was as I blow out a breath, disturbing the stands of hair sticking to my face. I’m lying across the sofa, the tartan cashmere throw covering me like a holiday makers towel from boob to knee, clasped tight to my side by my arms. Meanwhile, Greg is on the floor, the sofa seeming to have deposited him there. It’s for that sweaty reason I’m trying not to move in case the thing starts to farty-squeak.
‘I hope you’re going to say it was better than wine and chocolate.’
Oh, that man’s voice is like sex on toast. ‘Just don’t tell me it was nice.’
‘Nice?Nice?’ Apparently, I’ve turned into a parrot. But nice is so not an appropriate adjective. I’ve never experienced anything like that before in my whole life—naughty, nice, or otherwise. Itouchedmyself in front of him!
I have definitely been missing out if this is what sex is supposed to be like. Are all orgasms supposed to momentarily rob you of sight?
Dear me, one good shag, and I’m suddenly a nymphomaniac. Take that, those boyfriends past, those who said it was obvious I just wasn’t “that into” sex.Because that’s always a valid excuse to go off with someone else.
Maybe it’s the intensity of the setting—two strangers, stranded in a remote cabin. Maybe we’ve abandoned our inhibitions since we’re likely never to see each other again. Or maybe I’m the only one with inhibitions. Regardless of the reason, because of the snow, maybe we can do this—it—again. And again.
‘Do you think this is what sex is like in prison?’ Beside me, Greg’s shoulders begin to shake. ‘What’s so funny?’ Apart from where I actually said that out loud.
‘And you think I’m the funny one. Maybe we should form a double act.’
But that’s not going to happen. We don’t even like each other.Do we?But as he turns his head over his shoulder to smile at me, I realise that can’t be right. Anyone who can smile at a girl like that and turn her insides to goo must like her at least a little bit. And as for me liking him, I think he must be like fungus because he’s certainly growing on me.
Note to self: orgasms make me a nicer person.
‘While I’m no’ in the habit of imagining what inmates get up to while detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I think they don’t refer to it asbanged upfor nothing.’
‘Well, no,’ I answer quietly, twisting the fringe hem on the throw. ‘I didn’t meanthat, exactly—’
‘But we can trythatexactly, if you’re into it.’
‘That?’
‘Aye. I don’t have any lube, but I do have a stick of butter in the fridge.’
‘Youare an opportunist. I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about how intense it was.’ But also, thanks for making it obvious you’d be up for a sexy-time repeat.
For once, he doesn’t answer with a joke. In fact, he doesn’t much answer at all, not with actual words. It’s more like a rumbling noise from the back of his throat—a noise not unlike a growl as he stretches, engaging and contracting the muscles of his shoulders and arms.Like I needed the reminder of how he looked and sounded as his body worked over me.He turns to face me then, certain organs of my own contracting as his hand comes to rest just below my breasts.
‘Isobel,’ he says as he studies the finger stretching out to caress my nipple. ‘Intense doesn’t even cover it. And if people thought they had to be incarcerated to experience such a thing, I’m sure the prisons would be full.’
Well. So not everything he says is annoying.
‘What have you got there?’
From his position still on the floor, temptation personified looks up at the sound of my voice. Okay,Greglooks up. Also, he’s notstillon the floor but sitting on the floor again. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel a little awkward facing him, following our spot ofafternoon delight, but I think we’re over the worst of it. Or maybe not, judging by the way my stomach reacts at the way he’s looking at me.
‘What are you wearing?’ he asks, his smile is wide, his dimple out and proud.
‘These?’ I glance down. I’ve showered and changed and dressed for bed. Or for sleeping. ‘They’re base layers. I wear them when I go skiing.’ Or rather, I wore them when I went skiing that one time a couple of years ago. Learning to ski was not for me. Leaning forward while hurtling down a hill? Nope, not for this girl. It turned out that I’m more of an après ski kind of girl, so there really wasn’t a point to pay a fortune for a week in Verbier when I can just wear furry boots and throw back Jägerbombs while dancing on a table to Swedish House music at home. Or better still, I can just eat chocolate and drink wine with Mo, which is much more my speed. But I digress. ‘And these,’ I say, plucking at the T-shirt of my shorty pyjamas I’ve worn on top, ‘are nightwear.’
‘Okay...’ He laughs, and that phrasebelly-licking warmthsuddenly resonates. ‘But it’s’—he turns his wrist to where he isn’t actually wearing a watch—‘only about five o’clock.’
‘And it’s already dark.’ And I’m conserving clothes. I didn’t expect to be snowed in last night, or I wouldn’t have worn so many items. There isn’t a washing machine here, and it’s not like I can walk around the place naked. Even if it’s a very real temptation after this afternoon’s activities.
Avoiding his outstretched jean-clad legs, I make my way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the draining board to fill with water from the tap. Not because I’m thirsty but because I really need to cool down.
Bare feet aren’t sexy, Izzy, even if the way his Henley clings to him is like a second skin. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I know he feels as good as he looks under those clothes. And, boy, do I know. I know the way the ladder of his abs ripples when caressed, and I know how he likes his nipples touched. His hair is a little wet from the shower he’d taken just before me, making him look all kinds of fresh and delicious. And I know he’ll smell as good as he looks because I’ve just used the same bathing products. The bottom line is, the sight of him all squeaky clean just makes me want to straddle his lap and dirty him all up again.
