Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
He certainly hadn’t been a first-timer. Or there by accident.
“Adult lifestyles, my arse,” I mutter, shoving knickers and socks into one of Lulu’s drawers and pyjamas into another. “Rich people are another level of crazy.”
I straighten her duvet, centre a fluffy pillow, and give Norman a quick sniff, then resolve to put him through the washing machine sometime soon when Lulu won’t be home for the length of a quick wash and a fluff dry cycle. On my way out, I pause at the door, my fingers looped around the handle as I take a final look.
Carson Hayes, who the fuck are you really?
Beyond the teasing and inappropriateness and the skills of a porn star surely lies a heart of gold. He’s been so lovely to Lulu; pancakes and popcorn and princess bedrooms. But it’s not just material things. It’s in the way he interacts with her. He’s so sweet with her, and not in that condescendingly syrupy way that childless adults often try on with kids.
I’ve been baffled about his intentions. But I just don’t see how this room can be some kind of elaborate and, let’s be honest, very strange attempt to get into my knickers again. It’s more like an act of kindness. Of good. But as I pull the door closed, I wonder how good a man can truly be when he’s involved in a club called Ardeo.
I make my way to the kitchen and fill the kettle, trying very hard to move my brain on from the topic of him with little success. I can’t stop thinking about how I’d felt so at home in his strong arms, how he’d made the experience much less about his gratification and more about my exploration. He once said that there’s a little wildness in anyone but that it takes the right person to bring it out.
I hate that he’s right.
But don’t hate that he was that person for me.
I’d lain awake most of the night playing the evening back, trying to convince myself that I’m not in over my head. That it’s just a case of old flames burning longer than anticipated. But if that’s the case, why did it seem like he was slotting away my every word, my reaction like they were pieces of a puzzle to make sense of later.
Reaching up into the cabinet, I pull out a mug and bang it down against the countertop in frustration. I tell myself that I’ve made him more than he is. That the memories of last night are not the kind to be cherished.
But it doesn’t make me want him less.
And I’ll have to face him again, I know. But what will I say to him?
What I expect is for you to be mindful of my wishes.
That’s what I’d told him as he’d handed me into the car. But my wishes are something I won’t ever speak out loud. A wish is a desire, and a desire is a dangerous thing. So instead, I’ll say:
It was a mistake. All of it. I shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to follow you.
Except we both saw my reaction, watched my face. Saw the truth of it there.
Last night doesn’t change things.
Even though nothing will ever be the same. Not for me and not between us.
I don’t want to speak about it.
Another lie. Because I do. I want to talk about it at length and in detail. I want to know why he’s involved in Ardeo and what that means. I want to ask him about the blur of faces as he led me through the room, the bodies parting like the Red Sea for Moses himself. They weren’t interested in me, not exactly. Their attention was all for him. I want to know who he is and what I mean to him.
I want to know all that and more, yet I won’t mention one damned thing.
I can’t stay here. That much, I will say.
Beth said last night that her sister was moving out on Monday, that we’ll have the keys for Friday, so I just have to hang tight until then.
The kettle begins to whistle, and I pour hot water into the mug, realising I haven’t gotten as far as adding the teabag. So I take care of that, swirling the liquid with a teaspoon to hurry the process along.
Last night, after everything, after fingers and mouths, gasping breaths and wet, sucking sounds, after watching myself enjoy being devoured, we’d lain on the bed together, my back to Carson’s chest. His arm had wrapped around my waist, his chin over my head, almost like a tree overhangs a sapling. I’d felt incredibly dainty next to him. Fragile, even. And so protected. But then I’d remembered where we were. Not in a hotel or a bed in his home, but a place where people meet to have sex. A place they fuck and nothing else.