Chapter 8
Aida
He shrugs. Grins. ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Seriously?’ I get ahold of my inner judgemental bitch and rein her the hell in. ‘How can that be?’
‘You really want to know?’
I lick my lips. ‘I can take it.’ Of course I can. I’ve interviewed people about genocide. Mass graves. Paedophilia. I can handle a few tales from a sex club.
Besides, it seems a good way to break the ice. You know, talking about the elephant in the room.
Sex.
Because we’ve got to get to it somehow. At some point we’ve got to circle back to the fact that I’m supposed to get naked with this god and have him do fuck knows what kind of things to me.
And while I get casual sex, theoretically speaking, and while he’s one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen in the flesh, the idea of it is so freaking bizarre. So improbable.
‘Orgies,’ he says now. ‘You know, dim room, pulsing music, maybe a smoke machine or two. Naked bodies everywhere. Writhing, bent over, lying down. You put your dick wherever you want, basically. So, I dunno. Ten, twenty women at one party?’
I suspect, judging from his amused expression, that my eyes are widening, even though I’m trying my damnedest to keep my shit together. To act cool, when really I want to giggle like a schoolgirl.
‘You’re shocked.’ He brings his tumbler of scotch to his mouth, watching me.
I narrow my eyes as I try to articulate how I’m feeling.
‘Not shocked. More like I can’t even imagine that scenario.
But it feels like there’s a law of diminishing returns.
Like, you describing that is less shocking than you describing a threesome.
Probably because it’s harder to visualise.
’ I hold up a hand. ‘I should be clear. I am absolutely not trying to visualise either of those things.’
He laughs. ‘You tell yourself that.’
‘I’m mainly impressed and horrified that you can come twenty times in one night,’ is what I choose to follow up with, and he nearly spits out the drink he’s just sipped.
‘Nope—definitely not. I’ve had no complaints, but I don’t want to mis-sell anything here. I don’t finish inside each person. I try them out for size, pull out, change my condom, then try someone else.’ He smirks. ‘That said, my refractory period is pretty short.’
‘Would you like a gold star for that?’
He shakes his head. ‘Tough customer.’
‘Believe it.’
‘Kinkiest thing you’ve ever done.’
He’s silent.
‘You okay?’ I ask, nervous that I’ve overstepped.
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking. I wanked a husband and wife off at the same time in the back seat of their Range Rover while pretending to be a policeman who’d pulled them over for speeding. That was interesting—and cramped.
‘I’ve tried a bit of blood play—this summer in France.
Not a huge fan. I’ve put my dick in every orifice, in every way—I’ve rubbed up against other dicks while I’ve done it.
I’ve fucked a nurse over the nurse’s station while she was on duty on the geriatric ward when I went to visit my grandpa.
I mean, I’ve done it absolutely everywhere.
And, it’s not particularly kinky, but this one was boundary-pushing for me.
I let a very scary Domme put a gimp mask on me and stick a gigantic butt-plug up my arse and spank me. ’
The casual nature with which he’s reeling off this endless fuck-list is terrifying in itself. And that last one sounded pretty kinky to me. I press my lips together. ‘And you liked that?’ I ask when I’ve recovered.
‘Nope. Did absolutely nothing for me, but I thought I should try it. I’d much rather be in control—except with you,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘This is your shindig. You call the shots. You want to stick a dildo up my arse? Just say so and I’ll bend right over.’
He slaps the table, and I jump. I have literally no interest in doing that to him or anyone else, which is one of the many reasons my marriage failed, but I’m not ready to divulge any of that shit to a guy I’ve only just met. I stay in interview mode.
‘Not my thing,’ I tell him curtly. ‘You’re safe. Now, have you ever had feelings for anyone you’ve fucked at the club?’
‘Nope,’ he says easily. ‘You don’t need to worry about that, I promise. I’m not going to fall in love with you and stalk you.’
All right, then. He was pretty unequivocal about that.
‘Got it,’ I say. Our eyes lock, and I mentally congratulate Gen, because it looks like she found me the perfect guy. If I can view the fact that he’s got three zillion times the sexual experience I have as beneficial rather than intimidating, then I can’t fault him.
Of course, I don’t actually know him, but Gen trusts him, which is good enough for me. And I can’t deny he’s gorgeous.
Like, dreamy, movie-star gorgeous, with a face that belongs on posters on teenage girls’ bedrooms (if teens these days do anything as uncool as hanging posters). He’s pretty but masculine, the long lashes and floppy dark hair beautifully balanced by the broken nose. The manicured beard.
The hand holding his tumbler is hot, too.
Short, square nails. Shapely fingers. That grip looks strong.
There’s a smattering of dark hair on the back of his hand.
He’s not caveman-level hairy. He’s perfect.
The small V of his open shirt hints at the same.
Black hair on tanned skin. The hint of his clavicle, the shadowy indent above it that I bet feels so soft against one’s lips.
This guy should have some hot, willowy twenty-something hanging off him.
Some girl who goes braless just because she can.
Who can bend herself into a pretzel for him.
In fact, the single fact I’m clinging onto, as if it’s a frayed, inadequate lifeline and I’m over the cliff edge, is that any guy who can stick his dick in twenty women in a single night can’t be that fussy.
Like, maybe his magical penis with its boast-worthy refractory period, is capable of banging women senseless even if they’re not his type.
Even if they’re forty-six and their body is the product of two pregnancies. Even if they have the banged-up vagina from one so-called natural childbirth and the C-section scar from the other one that didn’t go as planned.
Even then.
And another thread frays on my lifeline as he sets down his drink, leans forward and bats the ball I’ve been volleying right back at me.
‘If you’re quite finished’
I grin. ‘Shoot.’
‘I have a question for you.’ He grins sexily before reaching over and closing his warm hand over mine on the table.
‘Okay,’ I say nervously, trying not to wriggle my fingers under his.
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want?’ I repeat, mainly to buy time.
‘Come on. You know the spotlight will be on you for this, not me. And while I’m an open book—I’m happy to answer any questions you have—I have a feeling this is less about you getting to know me and more about you deflecting. Am I right?’
Dammit.
Rather than answer, I give him a churlish roll of my eyes.
His grin gets wider. ‘Wow. I just got my very own sexy-as-fuck Aida Russell eye roll.’
‘When you ask what I want…’ I prompt, playing for time.
‘You gave us your spiel at Alchemy yesterday about changing the narrative. It’s valid.
More than valid—it’s great. I’m sold.’ He rubs a thumb over my fingers.
‘But this isn’t purely some altruistic exercise for you.
It’s personal. You know, we see all sorts at Alchemy.
And coming of age is usually associated with young adults, but really, it can apply to anyone.
You’ve identified Unfurl as a structure to help you come of age now, to help you come into the woman you should be today, but you feel like you aren’t.
Probably on account of your shitty husband. Am I warm?’
‘Yes.’ My voice is flat.
‘Good. Not good—I’m sorry it’s been like that for you. But it’s good because now you get to do whatever you like. Fuck your ex. Fuck the press. Fuck everyone else. You are about to be let loose in a self-indulgent paradise. Consider me your sexual Willy Wonka. Christ, that sounds creepy.’
His grin has me barking out a laugh.
‘Just think of yourself for a second, Aida. This whole project is about you, and your desires, and your needs. I want you to take, take, take. But Gen’s been very silent on exactly what shape that’ll take. And so have you, so far.
‘So I’m asking you.’ His hand slides up to encircle my wrist. He does it easily, and his grip feels solid. Safe. Even if it also feels a little presumptuous, in a way I shouldn’t like, but do. ‘What. Do. You. Want?’