Stop, just stop! Stop thinking and stop asking yourself questions and stop replaying last night in your head because that’s not one-night stand territory. It’s not what one-night stands do.
Probably.
How could they experience a night like this and not want a second helping? A third? That’s why they must shut that shit down, showing no interest in what came before and what will come after.
Because his talents and stamina are too much to dedicate to one girl.
Don’t think about that either. That’s a sure-fire way to drive a girl mad.
I always thought the older a man gets, the harder,pardon the pun, it becomes after the first time to, well, you know. I can thank my mother for this little bit of intel, not that she told me exactly. I just happened to overhear her say so to one of her cackling friends over a bottle of wine a few years ago.
That sort of thing stays in your head, whether it’s true or not.
I don’t have sufficient empirical evidence. And no interest in gathering a larger sample.
Slowly pulling my hands from under me, I twist my head over my shoulder with a whispered prayer for him still to be asleep. Why? Because I can barely face him. My behaviour last night was ... Well, it wasn’t like me. And the things we did in the hallway and this bed were not the behaviour of a girl who ordinarily wears Batman underwear.
Not satisfied with just a glance, I turn fully, but carefully, determined not to wake him. He lies on his front with his hands pushed under the pillow, and I wonder if watching him like this would be considered creepy. Probably. But this is too good an opportunity because the man is a feast to the eyes. There’s something almost leonine about him. His skin is lightly golden, possibly from alfresco yoga, or maybe he’s recently had a holiday.A life he leads that has nothing to do with me.His thick hair is wild and unruly—truly, it looks like what Heather might call freshly fucked—and his sharp jaw is covered in a sandy stubble much more pronounced than last night.
My God, he is breathtaking.
And breathtakingly unsuitable. That is, if I were looking to become involved, which I’m not. And neither is he, I’d guess. At least, not with me.
Suck, sweetheart. Make them wet.I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the images, the sound of his voice.
We’re just too different on so many levels, I tell myself.
First, his age. He’s old, though not too old. How old is he, anyway?
Second, our backgrounds. I bet he’s one of those posh boys who went to Harrow or Eton.
Third, our positions in life. He’s obviously wildly successful, or at the least, he has a very generous trust fund, while I’m not exactly sure who I am or where I’m going on any given day in the week.
I love my job, but I’m not sure it’s what I want to do forever. And when, in the quiet moments that allow introspection—which are admittedly few and far between these days—I feel a tiny bit envious when I think of Olivia. She’s not that much older than me, but she’s so together. So driven and focused. So settled in her life right now.
I’m not even sure what James does for a living if he does anything. But he doesn’t seem the type to be cruising through life living on family money. I know he said he was in acquisitions, but I’m now beginning to wonder exactly what he acquires, given the kind of home he lives in.
People?
Arms?
Drugs?
How would I ever know or ever find out? I suppose if I ever find myself shoved in a shipping container, I’ll find out. Although, according to my horrid grandmother when I was growing up, if anyone kidnapped me, they’d soon give me back.
The rotten old bag.
As we’d driven through London last night, Knightsbridge and then Belgravia, I came to understand just how different we are. Belgravia is one of the most expensive places to live in the world, I think, and has long been the home of foreign embassies, and holiday homes of billionaire sheiks, oligarchs, visiting dignitaries and a stone’s throw from Michelin star restaurants, Sloane Square shopping, Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and more.
Living here means James is wealthy. Probably wealthier than I can comprehend. And that makes me feel ... odd. It’s hard to explain. I certainly haven’t been taken advantage of, and I’m not some silly girl with dreams of catching a rich man. Both nights have been about release—the kind of letting go of my life for a few hours, as well as the other kind.
But still. I feel kind of uncomfortable. Unbalanced.
With that last confusing thought, I slide from the bed, grabbing my clothes from where they fell last night, then slip into a bathroom that looks like it belongs to an exclusive hotel. Time to do what I can to gather myself.
I take stock of my appearance in the mirror above one of the his-and-hers dark marble-topped vanities that runs the length of opposing walls. I touch my fingers to the back of my shoulder where I’m pretty sure I almost convince myself I can still feel the delicious ache of his teeth.
You’re intoxicating.
