‘I suppose you’re right,’ I reply with a sigh, turning to meet his brilliant blue eyes. I don’t have to allow my life to be defined by one experience. And I am strong, and I’m stronger for knowing him. ‘But you see,’ I add a little softer, ‘the damage is done. Because as well as defiling the company image of you, I’ve also got a little poppet in my desk.’
That atmosphere changes, the intensity in his eyes no less, but the tiny sun licked lines around them relaxing. ‘Have you been sticking pins in me?’
‘It’s only fair. You get to stick things in me.’
His smile is like the sun breaking out from behind threatening clouds. ‘It makes sense now. You’ve been using your voodoo effigy to make me do your bidding.’
‘I said poppet,’ I return with a pout. ‘It sounds much less menacing.’
‘But you are a menace. An effigy. Poppet. Doll. They’re all the same. All ways you’ve woven your magic around me.’ He leans closer, his arm still pressed above my head, heat just radiating from him.
‘I prefer poppet,’ I answer, my voice not entirely steady. It’s like every one of my nerve endings is a light, and the air around us electrified.
‘Me too,’ he murmurs, his eyes dropping to theVof my blouse. ‘Poppet and . . .pop-it.’ He opens the top two buttons in such a smooth move that my heart begins to hammer in time with the beat of blood rushing though my veins.
My last coherent though is,I want him, as he tilts his head and slants his mouth over mine. His kiss is his promise, the stroke of his tongue his pledge, and when I return the motion with the brush of my own, the deep hum of appreciation sears my need.
I want him.
Right here, right now.
Decorum be damned.
My hand on his belt, my fingers curling around his hard length. His hissed curse. More buttons popping, his hand on my breast, his mouth; my back arching to meet him.
The sound of his whispered ‘Hush’ and his wicked smile as he presses his hand over my mouth.
His fingers bunching up my skirt, his long fingers slipping my knickers aside.
‘Fuck me.’ If I had words, I’d probably invite him to. If I had the power of speech, I’d definitely agree as my body invites the brush of them.
His fingers swipe through my wetness, my eyes rolling back in my head as he pinches my slippery clit, already swollen and aching.Pinches. Pets. Rubs maddening circles over it.
‘I want nothing more than to make you happy,’ he whispers, pressing the words into my neck. And as he slides his fingers deep inside, I struggle to stay upright.
All that’s missing is his promise of forever.
‘Come for me, Heather,’ he commands, curling those fingers inside, beckoning me. ‘Come for me.’
If I can’t have forever, this will have to do.
32
Heather
‘That didn’t takeyou long. I thought I told you to take the key...’ My words drain away, and my smile with them as I pull open my front door fully expecting to find Archer standing in front of me.
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Miranda replies sardonically. ‘It looks like I’ve properly pissed on your parade.’ She pushes past me like someone who is as familiar with my flat as I am. That might not be true, but she and I don’t stand on ceremony. We’re family; she’s as welcome here as I am at her home. That said, I’m pleased she doesn’t have a key today. If she’d turned up half an hour before, she’d be seeing a lot more of me than she’d bargained for. ‘Who were you expecting?’
‘What? Oh, just a friend.’ Talk about being cagey but this is a conversation I’ve yet to have with Mir. It’s a conversation I’ve been trying to avoid completely, if I’m honest, especially after the way Vivi had taken the news of my plans. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Thomas has started to play rugby Saturday mornings. Father-son bonding, I think they call it.’
‘Rugby? Isn’t it dangerous? Isn’t he too little?’ Thomas is a sweet boy, not the rough and tumble type.
‘All questions I’ve asked,’ she says, holding up a forestalling hand, ‘and more. Questions I’m assured are bonkers. Besides, it’s non-contact rugby. They play for tags or something.’
Mir drops into a claret coloured wing back chair near the cast iron Victorian fireplace. The chair was Jammy’s favourite, hence the threadbare arms. In fact, most of my furniture was inherited from her when she left me this beautiful flat. True, it’s more comfy and cosy than hip and stylish like Archer’s place. But the building has history and masses of what I suppose an estate agent would call street appeal. It’s all sash windows and dramatic Gothic splendour, the type of building that Victorian’s seemed to be very fond of. It must have been a magnificent home originally, but the guts of the building had been carved up many years ago.
