Chapter 48
Aida
God knows, I’ve been intimate with Cal.
I know the guttural roar he makes when he comes. I’ve seen how black that trail of dark hair leading south from his navel to his penis gets when soaked by the shower. I’ve let him inside my goddamn body.
I’ve given him my fear and my vulnerability; I’ve bitten down on my safe word because I trust him to know how far he can push me; I’ve come undone as he’s performed acts on my body even I didn’t know I wanted or needed.
We’ve gotten hot and oiled-up and sweaty and cum-covered.
We’ve been close.
But going to someone’s home is a whole other level of intimacy. A less breathless, gasping, desperate one, sure, but a form of intimacy it is.
On the face of it, Cal’s as accessible as they come.
His grin is as readily available as his one-liners.
He’s a talker, without much of a filter.
I suspect he tends towards being emotionally slutty, spilling out effusive declarations with childlike, unguarded joy and an equally childlike lack of regard for consequences.
(That last one doesn’t bode well for me, given what he said to me at the BBC a week ago.)
Still, it’s all those factors that make me wonder how well I’ve really gotten to know him.
That happy-go-lucky persona is as effective a defence as a squad of linebackers.
If anything, the closest I’ve been to the real Cal is those unguarded moments where he’s tugging on my hair as I kneel before him or straddling me, glassy-eyed and desperate, jerking himself off on my breasts.
That’s not to say the nice guy act is just that, or the beast he unleashes in those brief, unwary glimpses is the real Cal. I don’t believe that for a second. But I do believe there’s far more to him than meets the eye.
As a journalist, you always seize the opportunity to interview someone in their home. While they gain from being on their own turf, you gain, too. Because their home will almost always yield clues about them.
Unless you’re Emily Maitlis, performing that interview of Prince Andrew at Buckingham Palace. The royal family probably had a different agenda there.
So when I say I’ve spent the past week impatient to get inside Cal’s home and prowl around, that’s an understatement. I have this sense that if I can see him in his natural habitat, I’ll understand him better.
There may be other reasons I’m excited to spend the evening with him, too.
It’s no surprise that he lives in a sleek, modern condo in Knightsbridge.
I’m tempted to laugh at myself as I exit the elevator straight into the penthouse, no less, because what the hell am I doing?
Going for Friday evening dinner at the pimped-up bachelor pad of a guy ten years my junior, who also happens to own a sex club, that’s what.
It’s almost like I’ve forgotten I’m a middle-aged divorcée.
Well, I don’t care.
Not tonight, anyway. God knows, I could use some fun. And if I want some fun, Cal’s definitely the man for the job.
His apartment is stunning on first impression.
Huge and uncluttered, which is what every mom fantasises about.
No toys or letters from school, crinkled from having been stuffed at the bottom of book bags.
Nope. Just polished concrete floors, oversized furniture that works well with the surplus of space, and windows for days.
The vibe is warmer than I expected, too, with a kind of deep taupe on the walls and pendant lamps casting a rosy glow over the spots they hang above. The island. The huge rough wood table.
But none of it can compete with the guy standing in the middle of the space, damp-haired and barefoot and smiling at me like I’m the most delicious thing his elevator ever spat out.
He’s wearing a navy polo shirt that hugs his pecs and strains against his biceps, and old, worn jeans that angels must’ve sewn to his legs. It really, really works.
‘I’ve got Aida Russell in my flat, finally,’ he says, prowling towards me.
‘Welcome to the lion’s den.’ And then he’s tugging me against him with an arm around my waist, and relieving me of the bottle of wine I’ve brought, and kissing me.
His lips are soft, so soft, and his tongue is cool, like he’s been drinking a cold drink, and God, this feels easy.
It feels easy to wind my arms around his neck and kiss him back.
To melt against his hard, warm body. It feels easy because Cal makes it effortless.
There’s no over-thinking, no strategising.
There’s just his beautiful smile and his natural affection and his seemingly genuine happiness at seeing me.
He holds the cold bottle of wine against my butt as he slides his other hand under my hair so he can grip my neck. His mouth moves against mine, his jaw working as he explores my mouth with his dangerous tongue.
I am a badass grown woman who may actually melt in his arms.