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“Oh, shit. Did he cheat on you?”

She shakes her head. “No, I suppose I should be grateful for that. What he did instead was suggest making our relationship open. He wanted to be free to see other people, with my agreement. Now, I know that works for some couples, and that’s fine. The last thing I want to do is judge anyone else’s setup. But towards the end, I was getting so little from Mark, other than his promise of monogamy—and then he wanted to take that away too.

“It hurts that he didn’t respect me enough just to end the relationship outright. Essentially, it felt like he wanted to keep me on as a maid to help around his flat. I’m not even sure how he envisioned it working. Would he have taken the other women to a hotel? I’ll never know because I didn’t listen that far. The offer left me feeling utterly worthless.”

“Fuck! What an arsehole. I’m so sorry.”

Another small smile. “Thanks. It’s nice to hear that. Every so often, Mum still likes to tell me I made a mistake in leaving him.”

I almost choke on a bit of beef. “What? No way! She wanted you to stay with him?”

“Well . . . okay, maybe I didn’t tell her the whole story. Some people can talk about anything with their mother, but that’s not me and Mum. Besides, I was too ashamed, and she’s so judgemental—I can’t think of anything more embarrassing than explaining to her how an open relationship works. Plus, knowing Mum, she’d have marched around to his place and given him what for, and I didn’t want any more drama. So . . . I just told her I’d left him.

“Anyway, they say every cloud has a silver lining. After things ended with Mark, I realised how much I’d sacrificed my own needs and desires in favour of his. I didn’t want to get into that trap again, so I swore to focus on me and only me. And that’s what I’ve done. I’ve taken a leaf out of your book: I’m not interested in relationships anymore. I mean . . .” She nods at me. “I’ll share my bed with a man, of course, but only platonically.”

I smirk. “Of course.”

Leaning closer, she adds, “I’ll even wiggle my bum against his crotch, but . . . only platonically.”

“Aye, that makes sense.” Just as I did earlier on in the dinner, I glance down at her breasts, although this time, I don’t attempt to hide it. Meeting her gaze again, I say, “Do you know what surprises me about platonic relationships? It’s how very . . . sexual they can be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

GRACE

Back at the flat, I kick off my heels.

“That was a fun night, wasn’t it?” Aidan says.

“Yeah! The food was amazing, and the view was incredible. With better company, it would have been perfect.”

“Oi!” He points a stern finger at me, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I should really swat your arse for that comment. I’m only letting you off because you’re carrying my baby.”

A thrill runs down my spine. I wouldn’t mind a playful pat on the backside.

I unbutton my coat, watching Aidan as he slips off his own jacket and hangs it by the door. The last few days, I’ve enjoyed his laid-back style—the casual jeans and T-shirt—but tonight I can’t help but admire the way his fitted shirt hugs his athletic frame. And although his normally clean-shaven face accentuates his strong jawline, a bit of stubble is damn sexy on him.

Of course, I’m not so superficial as to only be attracted to him based on his looks. His other qualities are growing on me too, and I saw a new side to him tonight when he opened up about his past. It helped me understand him a little more.

Hanging my coat beside his, I say, “I’m desperate to get my jammies on. Would you mind unzipping me? It’s hard to reach.” I present my back to him.

“Er, aye.” He moves closer, the floor creaking beneath him. “This is the kind of thing platonic friends do for each other, right?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Aidan’s fingers gently brush a stray curl from my neck, sending shivers along my skin. Slowly he lowers the zip, and the back of my dress falls open. He doesn’t step away but lingers, and I can practically feel his gaze on my exposed flesh. I treat his pause as an invitation and move back, pressing my body against his, then I sway my hips from side to side, just like I did last night.

“Fuck!” he groans, his voice dropping an octave. Catching himself, he manages an unconvincing chuckle. “Another prank?”

“No.”

I continue the back-and-forth movement, and he grows hard, his breathing—which fans the nape of my neck with warm air—becoming more ragged. With both hands, he grazes the bare skin of my arms, then he lowers his head, his lips brushing my neck. His touch sends ripples of pleasure through me, but suddenly he withdraws.

“Grace, I’m . . . not sure we should do this.” His voice is low and gravelly. There’s even a slight tremor to it, like he’s struggling to control himself.

I turn, and he attempts a weak smile, running a hand through his hair. His face is flushed, his expression a mix of desire and uncertainty. The usual teasing glint in his eyes is gone.

I’ve had enough of this game. It shouldn’t be so hard to get Aidan Stewart, of all people, to lay his hands on me. Grabbing his shirt, I yank him down and press my lips to his.