Chapter 17
Jackson pulls up before I’ve even finished my hair.
Half the curls are pinned loosely to the back of my head, the other half still hang impatiently around my shoulders.
As I pin frantically, I consider the two dresses hanging on my wardrobe, both black, one tight fitting to the knee with a high neck and open back, the other with tiny straps and a loose gather at the chest, also with a drooping open back.
At least five minutes pass as I hurriedly finish my updo. Hearing the doorbell ring adds to the butterflies in my chest and the anxiety churning low in my abdomen.
Sandy opens the door and boisterously jokes with Jackson downstairs.
By the time I’ve added the finishing touch to my make-up – poppy-red Clarins lipstick – and spritzed myself in Flower Bomb, another five minutes have passed.
I take a pair of black tights from my drawer and sit on my bed but before they reach my knees, I pull them off and swap them for stockings.
I opt for the thin-strap dress and slip my feet into an uncomfortable pair of black, calf-leather Jimmy Choos: possibly the most extravagant purchase of my life.
‘I’m so sorry, Jackson,’ I say, interrupting the surprisingly flirtatious conversation taking place in the hallway.
Both Jackson and Sandy turn sharply, as if they’ve been caught in the act. Sandy hands me my tailored, black winter coat and tells me to have fun as I pull the waist belt tight. I give her a cursory what-was-that ? look before leaving the house.
‘I doubt Gregory will be thrilled with my timekeeping,’ I say to Jackson as he holds open the door to the empty back seat.
‘Somehow, I think you’ll be forgiven,’ Jackson says, buckling himself in.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
Jackson shrugs and chuckles. Something, or rather someone, seems to have put him in a peculiarly jovial mood.
Just before seven-thirty, we roll to a stop alongside a red carpet.
My eyes trace gold railings from the pavement up to the theatre entrance.
There, on the top step, Gregory is waiting, legs parted, shoulders back, hands tucked into the trouser pockets of his dinner suit, separating the tails of his jacket from the fastened button at the waist.
Jackson winks as he opens the door and gives me a hand out of the Mercedes.
I can’t take my eyes off Gregory. Everything else in the world disappears as I get lost in this perfect man.
He walks down the steps and kisses my cheek.
His lips linger against my skin. The sensation exactly as I’ve replayed countless times in my head.
I lean into his kiss, wishing I could feel his mouth on mine.
When I open my eyes, he’s gazing right back at me.
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers.
My insides defy the concept of gravity.
He traces one finger down the side of my face to my chin, never dropping his gaze from mine.
I try to swallow my insatiable need to touch what lies beneath his suit, to have his naked body take over mine the way I’ve imagined.
He gives me a half, knowing smile. I’m defenceless against my own desire.
‘Some completion meeting when we’re the only two people here, Mr Ryans.’
‘I thought you wouldn’t mind if we celebrate closing the deal alone tonight.’
‘Presumptuous,’ I tease, raising a brow.
‘Indeed,’ he says, his half-smile still arrogantly toying with me. Delicious. ‘Come on, you kept me waiting; the show’s about the start.’
I shake my head and ask myself as much as him, ‘Why can’t I seem to say no to you?’
‘I’m not the kind of man who takes no for an answer. Especially not from you.’
But it’s not true. When I’ve refused him, he has accepted it. It just hasn’t stopped him from asking again.
He steps to one side, gesturing for me to move into the theatre, and rests his hand at the bottom of my back. A small move that makes me internally scream at all the sensitive sites in my body to back the hell down .
‘What are we going to see?’
‘The new Dame Judi Dench play.’
There’s a distinct air of cocky self-satisfaction about him but I’m too delighted to care. This is the escape I need.
An attendant leads us into the box Gregory has reserved.
A bottle of Dom Perignon with two glasses and a selection of canapés are waiting for us on a low, dark wood table between two velvet chairs.
I manage to catch a glimpse of the flavours written on small white place cards before the lights turn down.
The band strikes up and there’s rapturous applause when Dame Judi Dench, followed by Jude Law, enters the stage for the opening scene. My grin is so big, I feel like Julia Roberts. Gregory watches me as I clap loudly from the edge of my seat.
Leaning in to his ear, I whisper, ‘This is amazing, thank you so much.’
He snaps his head round to face me, his lips almost brushing against mine, his minty breath drifting into my mouth.
My stomach leaps. I want him to do this.
He lifts my chin with his index finger and my lips open wider, my tongue braced, ready for his taste.
Something about the dark room full of people increases my need for the forbidden touch.
His thumb trails my lips, then he audibly swallows any desire he might have had and hands me a glass of champagne.
He clinks my glass with his and turns to the stage, leaving me feeling utterly confused, disoriented and desperate.
Have I imagined everything?
* * *
‘I can’t believe you remembered,’ I say as the applause for the end of the first act dies down.
‘I think I remember everything you say to me and the exact manner in which you say it. Some of it I wish I didn’t remember.’
‘Why?’
He turns in his seat and leans forwards across his parted knees towards me. ‘Because your body’s reactions to me tell me one thing but your words tell me something else. It’s… perplexing.’
I almost laugh at the thought that he can’t see right through me. He crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his seat, clasping his hands and raising his index fingers to his lips, studying me in an almost mocking fashion.
Those fingers. Those lips.
The walls of my sex clench and I’m both grateful for and pissed off by the attendant who steps between us to top up our champagne and take away our empty plates. I cross my legs, locking my thighs tightly, wishing I could read his mind.
We sit in this standoff, for my part charged and bewildered, until the attendant returns with replenished canapés.
‘So that we’re clear, I’m thinking that I’m hungry, so I’m going to take a canapé.
’ I reach for a strawberry, dipping it in the ramekin of melted dark chocolate.
He watches me as I sit back and re-cross my legs.
I don’t know what’s coming down the river but my chips are in.
I run my tongue slowly up the side of the strawberry, swirling around the tip, savouring the chocolate sauce, and revel in the subtle loosening of his jaw and the darkening of his irises.
I wrap my lips around the head of the berry and slide my teeth through the moist flesh.
Before the second half reaches my lips, he leans forwards, clasping his hand around mine.
He sees my chips. Then he raises me, placing his mouth over the berry and closing his mouth around my fingertips.
I watch as he slides his lips to the end of my fingers, sucking the tips, turning his tongue the way he might lick my clit.
I fold.
The lights dim for the start of act two. Gregory once again flashes a knowing smirk and turns towards the stage.
My body is left pulsing in places I didn’t think it could pulse in public.
* * *
Jackson is waiting outside for us at the end of the show. Gregory walks around the car as he usually does and Jackson opens the door to the back seat for me.
‘How was the show?’ Jackson asks.
‘The first act was fantastic,’ I say.
‘And the second?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
I sit into the back seat, startled to find Gregory next to me.
We drive to the restaurant in silence. I want to speak but I can only think of pointless small talk.
His body is too close to mine. Those lips are next to me and all I can think of is what I’d like them to be doing, where I’d like them to be.
The tension in the car is unbearable. Arriving at the restaurant is a relief.
We’re greeted by a short man with an Italian accent who I assume is the restaurant manager from his black suit and sparkling gold badge that reads Amerigo. ‘Good evening, Mr Ryans, how wonderful it is to see you. I have reserved our finest table for you and your guest this evening.’
Amerigo bobs from one foot to the other as he leads us to our table, like his hips are tired from working until after ten already.
As is seemingly customary, Amerigo is overly familiar with Gregory, full of chatter and smiles. He places us in a booth, closed off from the sight of other guests but with a fantastic view of the city.
‘Do you ever go to restaurants on ground level?’ I whisper to Gregory.
He grins smugly as he lifts his hands to allow Amerigo to place a napkin across his lap.
‘Would you like water, Mr Ryans?’
‘Please.’
‘And your wine?’
Gregory considers me as he rubs his index finger and thumb along the line of his chin. ‘The lady will pick the wine.’
Amerigo initially looks completely stunned but quickly recovers and hands me an open wine list. I accept the menu, playfully scowling at Gregory.
‘We’ll take two glasses of Dom Perignon brut while we look over the menu, please. I’ll choose wine for dinner once we’ve made our food choices.’
Amerigo nods and leaves us alone in the booth. The tension from the theatre instantly returns. It’s a relief to see Gregory remove his jacket and tie and open the top two buttons of his shirt. My eyes lock onto the few fine hairs exposed on Gregory’s chest. I want more.