CHAPTER 17
Leo
I fall into bed in a daze. I know it’s not a date. I’m not that delusional. But he did ask me to join him.
For dinner.
Tomorrow night.
Just the two of us.
But I hate him, right? He is rude and dismissive, arrogant. Well, he was. And his behaviour at the party delayed my promotion. Didn’t it?
I guess it wasn’t actually him who spilled the drinks. He didn’t force Cece to not listen to my side of the story.
He’s also been quite sweet. Thoughtful. Even funny? Tonight was actually fun with him in the end. The sudden change in his personality has me confused though, and I contemplate it late into the night.
I’m tossing and turning, unable to get his face out of my mind when I remember his words this afternoon.
‘What do you enjoy, Leo?’
The memory of his voice, low and rough in my ear, makes my toes curl. I think of him taking my hand as he ushered me into the car, the intensity of his dark eyes on my face in the sunset . . . I feel hot, bothered, clearly needing to relieve the pent-up stress of the past few days.
I give in to my thoughts, slipping one hand down, the other up to cup my breast, pinching my nipple lightly. I bite down on a groan as I brush past my silky pyjamas and my fingers dip into the wetness there. I’m so turned on and it’s all because of him.
It’s him I imagine as I play with the sensitive spot, slowly at first but with increasing pace as I get closer and closer. His big hands gripping my hips, fingers tracing my breasts, even circling my neck, squeezing lightly . . . It doesn’t take long.
‘Fuck!’ I whisper into the darkness as I come hard. It’s his face that flashes through my mind as I squeeze my eyes shut and ride out the high of my climax. ‘Fuck.’ I whisper again to myself. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’ I bury my head in my pillow and promptly find the sleep that has eluded me so far.
——
I decide to get up earlier than usual, feeling self-conscious after last night.
Why am I thinking of him like that? There are so many things to freak out about right now that I don’t even allow myself to get into my head, switching straight into work mode.
What would I do if I received this as a last-minute request?
I get to work, narrowing down potential restaurants, as per what he likes.
I discard anything overly romantic; it would be mortifying if he thought I was trying to set some kind of scene. Eurgh.
——
Plan pretty much sorted, I see I’ve missed some texts from Jack. We’re speaking again after my overly dramatic exit from the club the other night. I felt awful about the whole thing, but he wouldn’t hear an apology.
Jack Harper:
I hope he’s behaving himself. Let me know if he’s being a moody bastard and I’ll tell him off for you.
You know these superstars . . . big babies really ;)
Leo James:
He’s being surprisingly nice now.
I don’t really understand.
I still can’t believe HE is your childhood friend.
How did we never discuss this?
Jack Harper:
Not really something I shout about.
Leo James:
Fair enough.
So strange though.
We’re going for dinner tonight . . .
Jack Harper:
The team?
Leo James:
No, just us.
Jack Harper:
. . . Right
Leo James:
Is that bad?
Jack Harper:
No of course not, I’m just surprised, he’s not the most social.
Leo James:
Tell me about it.
I think we’ve turned a corner though.
Also, isn’t he your friend? You don’t go out?
Jack Harper:
He’s fine with me.
And that’s good. Give him time and he will be fine with you too. He’s a good guy.
Watch out for yourself though. People talk, and with him it’s not always positive.
It’s largely not true either.
Leo James:
Oh god.
Jack Harper:
Just go, have fun. You deserve it. So does he.
Leo James:
Let’s see . . .
I’ll report back tomorrow xxxx
I put my phone down, checking the time. George texted asking to please make dinner for 8 p.m., as Gordon had arranged an interview he wasn’t aware of. It’s 6 p.m. now and I need to shower. Mainly I need to figure out what the hell to wear – where’s Rosa when I need her?
——
I go for simple but chic: a pretty white shirt, dark blue straight-leg jeans, velvet pumps.
Smart but casual, not ‘datey’, and absolutely not showing too much skin.
I keep my make-up simple too, natural with a bit of glowy highlighter to accentuate my cheekbones, hair straight and tucked back; my signature pearl studs are the chosen earrings for tonight.
I slick on some lip balm and spritz my favourite perfume before looking in the mirror. I look fine, nothing special, but it will do. The jeans are tight across my bum, but at least they lift it a little.
I sigh, but decide it’s too late to change, so I head into the main room. I’m shutting my door behind me just as George walks out of the bathroom. His face is thunder but seems to soften slightly, just as he catches sight of me.
But I’m not looking at his face. I just see an expanse of golden skin, slightly pink from the hot shower.
A smattering of dark hair curls on his chest, still damp.
His skin is slick and glowing in the dim light of the room.
I want to lick it. My eyes travel down to sculpted abs, a razor-sharp V protruding from the towel slung low on his hips.
His body is perfect, insane. Fucking unreal.
I look back up quickly; his smoky eyes look faintly amused, but I can tell he’s colder than earlier, distant.
‘George, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
He interrupts. ‘It’s fine. Stay. Make yourself a drink. I won’t be long.’ His voice is hard, commanding.
He turns to his room and I double-take at his retreating form; his back is broad, corded with muscles I didn’t even know existed . . .
I’d never dated an athlete before, only gym bros with manufactured muscles, grown to show off. George radiates strength, power. He earned those muscles, they’re honed from years on the court and gruelling training regimes.
I shiver, the feelings I’ve been trying to deny since that awful night coming to the surface again. I always knew he affected me like no one had before. But that was through a screen? In person, and so close by, he’s too much, intoxicating.
I take his suggestion and head to the mini bar. They have a miniature The Macallan 15-Year-Old. Perfect. I decant it into a glass before slugging half of the amber liquid back. I need to get a grip.
I stand, almost breathless, my mind unable to focus as I imagine running my hands across his chest. I wonder how he tastes, my lips following the path of my hands, before kissing down to his abs.
I want to lower to my knees and trace that tempting V with my tongue as he towers above me.
I can almost feel my hands removing his towel and taking—
The door to his room slams shut and I jump, startled from my thoughts. I take another gulp of whisky, the burn travelling down my throat, and grip onto the bar, steadying myself.
He strolls in and I exhale loudly, too shy to meet his eyes.
He’s wearing a white Ralph Lauren shirt, untucked, over dark jeans and trainers, a navy jumper slung across his shoulders effortlessly.
His chestnut hair is still damp but slicked back, a few curls escaping.
His skin gleams against the white shirt, so tanned, it looks buttery soft.
He looks hot. Like really hot.
My mouth goes dry. I suddenly feel incredibly underdressed and underprepared.
He walks straight to me, leaning down again to kiss my cheek, his lips soft against my burning skin. He smells delicious – a woody, leathery cologne and fresh mint.
‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, but his eyes are cold. Something is definitely up. He notes my empty whisky glass. ‘Shall we go?’
I gather my things as he takes our room keys off the dresser and hands me one, opening the door and placing a hand on my lower back to usher me through.
He pushes me gently forward and his hand slips. His fingers brush the bare sliver of skin between my top and waistband, causing me to inhale sharply. I almost lean into his touch, but he pulls away quickly, avoiding my gaze.
We walk along the corridor silently and I wonder again if it’s just me who’s affected by this. He seems totally in control, whereas my body is so alert in his presence, it practically vibrates with energy. He must see it.
We reach the lift, waiting silently until it arrives at our floor, and we step in, alone.
The doors shut and I sneak a peek up at him.
He’s staring straight forward, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
As if he feels my gaze, he looks down and his eyes are smouldering, dark and alive as they meet mine, flicking to my lips.
Any trace of the coldness from before has vanished. They’re burning.
We both look away abruptly, unable to withstand the intensity. After a second, he speaks first, turning towards me, his voice deep, strangled. ‘Leo, I—’
The lift doors ping open and I jump away.
We’re met with a full hotel lobby. I look up again and George’s face is expressionless, haughty.
His whole demeanour has shifted; his cheekbones look sharper, his jaw more defined as he grits his teeth.
He looks intimidating, unapproachable. He’s an entirely different person, one I remember clearly from that night, and it brings me to a halt.
What am I doing?