Chapter Nineteen
Spencer
When I lift my head, Marama’s eyes are shining. She sniffs and jokes, “Are those tongs in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?”
I laugh and kiss her nose. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything for your birthday. I didn’t realize it was this month.”
“That’s okay. What’s for dinner?”
I hesitate then. “Nothing suitable for a birthday celebration. Would you like to go out for dinner?”
“And be seen in public?” she teases. “God forbid.”
“Good point. I could order something in. There’s a nice Italian not far away that does a great Carbonara.”
“What were you having?”
“Steak, again.”
“With?”
“I bought a baguette on the way home. I was going to make a steak sandwich.”
“Mmm.” She nods with approval. “Is there enough for two?”
“Yes… Are you sure?”
“It sounds perfect.”
Feeling a surge of happiness, I lead her into the kitchen and open the fridge to get the pack of steaks. “Would you like a glass of wine?” I gesture at the bottle in the door. “I keep some in case Orson and Scarlett call in.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“It’s your birthday,” I point out. “Don’t worry about me—you have one if you want one.”
“I came in the Alfa.”
I’d forgotten that. She’ll be driving home… unless she stays the night.
I hesitate, meeting her eyes, caught between duty and desire.
She could be with her friends right now, going to a club, partying the night away.
Meeting young men, flirting, dancing, maybe even having a one-night stand.
But she’s not. It’s her thirtieth birthday and she’s chosen to come here to be with me.
“Why does a beautiful girl like you want an old man like me?” My voice is hoarse with emotion as I slide a hand to cup her cheek.
“You’re not old. And I’m not a girl. I’m thirty now.
I’m a woman, and I don’t have to answer to anyone.
Neither do you, Spencer. We’re consenting adults, and what we do in the privacy of our own homes is nothing to do with anyone else.
It’s the twenty-first century, and we live in New Zealand, where love isn’t curated or condemned.
We don’t have arranged marriages. We’re free to love whomever we choose. ”
“Love?” My neck prickles with warning.
She gives me a wry look. “It’s just a word. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I have a major crush on this girl that doesn’t appear to be going away anytime soon, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m close to making a fool of myself.
Am I having a midlife crisis? It’s often joked about—men in their forties who get fake tans, have hair implants, buy penis-extension Ferraris, and hook up with women half their age.
Okay, I don’t have a fake tan, I still have my own hair, I’ve had my Aston Martin for many years, and Marama isn’t half my age.
But I know how others will see this. Do I really want to ruin my friendship and business partnership with Rangi over her?
Is she really worth blowing up my life over?
It’s just sex. I’d be better off hiring an escort, or, even better, jerking off to porn. Marama is nothing special.
But they’re all just meaningless words that flutter around my head like torn pieces of paper tossed into the wind. She is special. And if it was just sex, why do I have her artwork hanging around my house? Why does my heart leap every time she sends a message?
“It’s all right,” she says, obviously seeing some of my thoughts playing across my face. “I understand. I shouldn’t have come.” She drops her gaze and moves away from my hand.
I catch her arm, turn her back to face me, and move up close to her, pinning her against the breakfast bar. “You’re not going anywhere,” I tell her, my voice husky with emotion. Then I take her face in my hands and kiss her.
This time I pour all my feelings into the kiss. Marama gasps, her mouth opening, and I plunge my tongue inside and kiss her deeply. My hands slide into her hair, which is loose and hanging around her shoulders in waves, and I sigh at the feel of the silky locks sliding through my fingers.
“Mmm…” She murmurs against my mouth, tipping her head to the side, and her hands tighten to fists on my chest, clutching at the material of my T-shirt.
It would be so easy to kiss her senseless, to lift her onto the worktop, to go down on her and bring her to orgasm with my mouth, and then to slide into her and drive us both to another orgasm. But I don’t want to rush it tonight. It’s her birthday, and I want to make it special for her.
So I lift my hand and kiss her nose, and she sighs.
“Steak sandwich,” I tell her, taking out my tongs. “Gotta keep our strength up.”
She pouts at me sulkily. I loosen the tongs and click them together near her nipples, and she squeals, then laughs and pushes me away. “All right,” she concedes. “Dinner… first?” She adds the word hopefully.
I know I might regret it later, but I say, “Yes. So pour yourself a glass of wine. You’re staying the night.”
Her face lights up, filling me with a warm glow at the thought that I’ve pleased her.
Yeah, Spencer, you’re not in trouble at all.
I fry the steaks until they’re medium-rare, and we slice them, insert them in sections of buttered baguette, and add lettuce and tomato, and eat them sitting on the deck while we talk and watch the sun go down.
When we finish eating, I ask her if she wants to go inside, but she shakes her head. The Moroccan lamp contains a citronella candle, and I light it to keep the insects away, then bring her a throw, as the temperature is starting to drop.
“Thank you.” She tugs it around her shoulders, curling up in her chair. I sit back beside her and stretch out my legs, resting my feet on the opposite chair. “This is a great spot,” she says, “and a beautiful house.”
I offer the bottle of wine and top up her glass when she holds it out. “Yeah, I fell in love with it when I saw it. It’s very peaceful.”
“You fell in love?” she teases. “Doesn’t sound like something Spencer Cavendish would do.”
“I’m not the Tin Man. I do have a heart.”
She smiles. “I know you do.” She leans her head on a hand. “I think you have a huge heart. You’re a very passionate man. But it’s obviously important for you to maintain an austere and reserved front. To hide your feelings.”
“Emotion has no place in business.”
“Yeah, I understand that. What about in personal relationships?”
I don’t reply.
Her eyes are gentle. “I think Eleanor scarred you deeply. Because she wouldn’t respond to you, you had to learn to protect yourself, so you locked your heart away and put chains around it and a padlock on the front, and you refuse to let anyone near it now.”
“If I do, it’s not a conscious thing.”
“But you acknowledge that it’s important for you to be in control?”
“Always.”
She falls quiet for a while. I wonder whether I’ve upset her in some way, but she doesn’t look upset. She observes me thoughtfully, sipping her wine, her gaze meeting mine before sliding down me, soft as a feather, bringing me out in goosebumps.
When her eyes return to mine, they hold more than a little heat.
“About my birthday present,” she says, leaning the glass against her cheek.
“Yes…”
“I know what I’d like.”
“Oh?”
The light from the lamp dances in her eyes. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to give up control in bed?”
“No,” I say honestly.
“I have. And I’d like to be in charge. To direct the action.” Her eyes gleam.
I don’t say anything. She said she hasn’t been with anyone since she broke up with Connor.
I don’t know what their sex life was like, but she has made a couple of references that suggest he was extremely dominant.
He manipulated and controlled her, and would never have allowed her power in bed or out of it.
“I understand your need to claw back control over your life,” I say slowly. “And also your desire to experiment sexually. But I don’t know that I’m the guy to do that with.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” she replies calmly. “I want you, Spencer. I want you to give yourself to me, one hundred percent.”
We study each other quietly.
“Do you trust me?” she asks eventually.
I hesitate. “Yes…”
She just tips her to the side.
“Yes,” I repeat softly. “I do.”
“You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“You know I just want to give you pleasure?”
I don’t reply for a moment. My heart is racing.
All my experiences, everything I’ve been through, have brought me up to believe that control means safety.
But I realize with some surprise that maybe one reason I’m attracted to Marama is because she’s unpredictable. I don’t know what she’s going to say or how she’s going to act. She makes me laugh, and she fascinates me, because of that.
Eleanor wasn’t kinky in the slightest, and her endometriosis meant that sex was often painful for her, and she didn’t enjoy certain positions, especially anything from behind or that involved me going deep.
She wasn’t impulsive or voyeuristic; she didn’t like watching porn or even talking about sex that much.
Sex was mainly missionary, initiated by me.
This girl—this woman—is offering an experience I’ve never had before. A chance to relinquish responsibility and control and give myself completely over to her. To let her be in charge of my desire and my pleasure.
Still, I hesitate.
Marama’s lips slowly curve up. “Don’t tell me the thought doesn’t turn you on.” Her gaze slides down. I follow it and realize she’s spotted the hard-on jutting through my soft track pants.
“I’m nervous,” I tell her. “Not a robot.”
She wrinkles her nose. “We’ll have a safe word.”
My eyebrows rise. “Will I need one?”
She shrugs. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
“What exactly are you planning to do to me?”
Her gaze slides over me lazily. “Tie you up. Explore every inch of your body with my mouth and fingers. To edge you. And take you to the brink of pleasure multiple times before I let you come.”