27. NICO
27
NICO
I ’ve definitely lost my head over this woman. I peel off the condom and toss it in the bin. I’d rather not use one, but it’s early days. We’ll talk about it later. Sex without a condom feels like a serious step. I’d take it now if I didn’t think she’d be rushing for the door if I move much faster than I already am.
I approach the bed again, and she tugs on the end of my crumpled shirt.
“I still haven’t seen you fully naked.” She bites her swollen bottom lip. God, how desperate were our kisses to do that to her mouth? I want to kiss her again, but the way she’s staring at me, so eager to see me without my clothes, is an invitation I can’t resist.
“Go ahead,” I reply, spreading my arms.
She gets to her knees and crawls across the bed towards me. Her hands are soft as she runs them beneath my shirt, stroking her fingertips over my abs. Then she sets to work undoing each button, rising until she’s nearly face to face with me, pushing my now open shirt off my shoulders.
She sits back and stares at me. I can tell by the widening of her eyes that she likes what she sees. It sends a warm throb to my sated dick.
I reach for her dress. “Your turn.”
“Oh, no.” She leans back, hands cupping her breasts. “Last time you saw my boobs, you covered your eyes. I don’t think you deserve to see them again.”
“When did I commit such a heinous crime?” I remember exactly when. But I’m not about to admit I recall every detail of that bizarre encounter all those years ago.
“The hot tub? At Jack’s birthday party?” She searches my face for some sign that I remember. Lucky for me, I have a fantastic poker face.
“Hot tub?”
“You don’t remember?” Her chest falls, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes—disappointment, perhaps—that tugs at my heart. “At Mum’s house. It was late and most people had gone home and you were in the hot tub and…”
“Ah. Yes.”
She relaxes a little at my admission, letting her hands fall into her lap, but when she speaks, there’s a wariness to her gaze. “I took off my bikini top, and you covered your eyes like I was the most hideous thing you’d ever seen.”
I hold back a burst of laughter, but I know she sees the smile I’m attempting to hide. “Is that what you thought?”
“Yes. It was the most brutal rejection I had ever experienced. I nearly died. In fact”—her eyes scrunch—“it still kinda hurts to think about it.”
My hand finds hers, fingers sliding together, locking in. “You’re beautiful. You were beautiful then, and you’re beautiful now. But you were too young. Sixteen. Seventeen?”
“Not that young. It’s legal. I could have been having sex.”
“It’s too young to know what you want.”
“I’d strongly disagree with that.”
I tilt my head, frowning. “I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing when I was sixteen.”
“I was a very advanced teen. I knew what I wanted back then. Same thing I’ve always wanted.” She releases my hand and strokes a fingertip down my chest, idly circling my nipple a few times before ceasing the motion and tentatively raising her gaze to meet mine. “You,” she whispers.
I sit on the edge of the bed next to her. “That long, eh?”
“That long,” she confirms. “Does it put you off?”
“No.” I lean over and kiss her, feeling the soft heat of her lips against mine. “I’m sorry. I’d had some bad news that day. I could barely focus. And Jack was in the other room. If he’d found me ogling you, he’d have gouged out my eyes and burnt them. I like my eyes. They’re useful. I wanted to keep them.”
She laughs. “He wouldn’t.” She pauses and looks to the ceiling. “I mean, he probably wouldn’t have.”
“He’d have knocked my teeth out at least, and I kinda like those, too. And—”
“And your girlfriend came out onto the terrace. Dark-hair. All leggy. Like a race-horse.”
I frown. This I don’t remember. “I didn’t have a girlfriend.”
“You did. She walked out onto the terrace and the two of you had this awful staring contest while I was trying to get my bikini top back on. It was horrendous.”
My stomach twists. “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Who was she then?”
I rub a hand over my mouth. “The bad news.” Kate says nothing, waiting for me to explain. “Her name was Lilah. She was one of our friends from uni, who took a job as Dad’s PA. They were having an affair, and I found out that day.”
“Oh.” Her fingers tug at the bedsheets, her attention focused there. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m over it. Even back then, I was used to it… more or less. Constant affairs. A stream of younger women coming through the house. Dad didn’t even bother to hide it and Mum always turned a blind eye.”
“Why would she do that?”
I take a deep breath. “The money. Status. Life was better as William Hawkston’s wife than his ex. She endured the shit so she could enjoy the benefits. That’s still how their relationship works, even now.”
Kate looks so disturbed at the idea of my father’s infidelity and my mother’s compliance in it that I want to scratch the entire conversation. Her father might have been a gambler and a liar, but he worshiped his wife, even though Debbie Lansen is a difficult woman. When I was younger, I couldn’t get my head around it. I thought all married couples were fucked up and loathed each other.
I think of my brother, Matt, and his wife Gemma. Miserable . Maybe it’s the Hawkston way.
“Are your parents happy?” Kate asks.
I flop back on the bed, running both hands through my hair. “Fuck, no. I don’t think they know what happiness is.”
“Is this why you never sleep with the same woman twice?”
I shift away from her. “Who says that?”
“The tabloids. The internet. Gossip columns. That once the sun comes up—”
“You’ve been researching?” I grin at her and pink splotches form on her cheekbones.
“No, it’s just—”
“Don’t believe everything you read. You’re here, aren’t you?”
She gives me a hard stare. “As good as it was, you banged me in a private jet. This isn’t the cosy morning after. We haven’t had one of those.”
“We will.”
“Good.” She places her hand on my forearm and applies gentle pressure. “When was the last time you were with someone for more than one night?”
“Fuck, Kate. No. I don’t want to talk about this.”
She leans towards me and for a brief moment I’m not sure if the concern on her face makes me want to kiss her again or propel myself off the bed so I don’t have to see it anymore.
“Nico…”
“I don’t remember, okay? Not for years.” Because why the fuck would you want to have a long term relationship when they all turn to shit in the end ? “I never wanted them to stay longer than one night. But with you, I do. Every fucking night. Every morning. If you want coffee and croissants in bed, I’ll do it for you. Even if you leave crumbs in the sheets.”
Kate laughs and the tension in my chest eases. “Crumbs in the sheets? That’s true commitment.”
I stick my tongue in my cheek and shake my head. “This”—I gesture between us with one hand—“might be unusual for me. But I’m good with it. I’m fucking great with it, so can we stop talking about it?” I grab her and pull her down on top of me. “And get back to more important things?”
For a split second, she looks wary, but then she raises an eyebrow and a little smile teases her lips. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
I grind my hips against hers so she can feel my erection. “I am not fucking flustered.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re ready to go again?”
I laugh. “Yes. But we don’t—”
The tannoy crackles. “Please take your seats for landing.”
“—have time. You want that champagne before we land?”
Kate sits up. “All right. But I need a shower.”
I chuckle as I pull on my shirt and button it. “You’ll have to wait. We have lunch reservations.” I look at her sitting in her rumpled dress and I reach out and run the tip of my finger across the delicate flesh of her breast that’s exposed above the scooped neckline. She gives a little shudder. I’ll never get tired of Kate’s body reacting to my slightest touch. “I’m leaving your breasts for later.”
“Saving the best till last?”
“Something like that.” She goes to get off the bed, but I hold out a hand to stop her. “Wait there.”
I go to the bathroom, get a washcloth, and wet it with warm water before bringing it back. “This will have to do,” I tell her, as I ease her dress up and begin to wipe her glistening pussy.
I shift the cloth away and take one last, long swipe of her pussy with my tongue, earning a few of those wonderful little jerks that ripple through her hips.
“Fuck, Nico,” she moans. “Can’t you put the plane in a holding position?”
“Mmm. No. We’re on a tight schedule.” I hold her still with both hands and lick her again. “But you are fucking delicious. I defy the Parisians to have anything that tastes better than your cunt.”
She throws her head back and laughs, making a heady buzz pass through me like a reward.
“Come on, let’s get dressed,” I say, pulling away, but she touches my face with a fingertip.
“Nico, wait.” I look up at her from between her legs. “Does this mean I belong to you?”
“I thought we covered that.” I smirk and she blushes. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s what you said, back at Mum’s house. ‘When I sleep with you’”—she does a curiously deep voice as she impersonates me—“‘it’ll be because I’m the only man you want. Because you need me more than anyone else. Because you belong to me.’”
The tightness in my chest loosens and I sit up, frowning. “You remember exactly what I said?”
“I remember everything you say.”
An odd skittering occurs behind my ribs. Why does hearing her admit that feel so fucking good? “I wouldn’t want to assume anything about the other stuff, but to answer your first question…” I crawl over and kiss her. “Yes. Of course, you belong to me. You’re mine. Absolutely, indisputably, mine. And not just for the duration of the flight.”
At this, she smiles wider than I’ve ever seen, and a curious warmth floods my lower belly.
I am completely screwed, and I don’t even care.
Spending time with Kate is intoxicating. I’m high off her presence, her touch, her scent. I’m trying to enjoy it rather than think about it, because if I do it’ll be fucking terrifying.
We had lunch at a low-key bistro that was so romantic I’m surprised at myself. This is shit I haven’t done for anyone.
Afterwards, we wander hand in hand through the balmy streets of Paris. It’s idyllic. I’ve never had a better day than this one. Most of the time I need a goal, an objective, something to fucking aim at that feels like an achievement. But here, with Kate, I need none of that. Having her is enough.
She gives my hand a tight squeeze. “When are we going to your apartment? I smell like sex. I need to shower.”
I laugh and nuzzle her hair, deliberately inhaling her scent. I don’t know what she’s fussing about because she smells like coconut shampoo and floral perfume. “You smell wonderful. But if you do want that shower, we only have one more stop before we can go to the apartment.”
“Are you deliberately making me wait all day to get you into bed again?”
“We’ve got all night for that.” Her enthusiasm delights me and I tap the tip of her nose. “And tomorrow.”
She leans into me as we continue to walk and finally, I guide us down a side street to a small art gallery. There aren’t many tourists around, but the gallery is beautifully lit, and inside there are smartly dressed people drinking champagne.
We stop outside and Kate stares through the glass windows. “What’s this?”
“This is why we’re in Paris.” I take her hand and lead her inside. A waitress dressed in black offers us champagne and we both take a glass. Kate arches a brow, like she’s giving me an opportunity to refuse it as I did on the flight.
“Drunk sex. Sober sex. I’m good with it all,” I tell her, tilting my glass to hers. “As long as it’s with you.”
She drops my gaze like it’s too heavy and takes a sip of her champagne, but her brows lift as she notices what’s around us. “These are all Stephen Condar paintings.”
“Yup." I force my voice to sound casual, as if I haven't been desperate to surprise her with this all day. "He’s here, too.” I gesture with my glass towards a grey-haired man in the corner, chatting to a couple of other guests.
“He who?”
“Stephen Condar.”
Kate’s jaw drops open. “I thought he never left his house? He hasn’t had an exhibition since before my dad died. How on earth did you find out about this?”
She turns to look at me, wide-eyed with wonder.
“This isn’t an exhibition,” I say. “It’s a private collection.”
She rests a hand over her heart. "Oh, wow. I can't believe you brought me here. This is so thoughtful. I… I don't know what to say." She scans the paintings in admiration. “These must be worth a fortune. Who owns this many Stephen Condar paintings?”
She evidently doesn’t expect an answer, or is too excited to wait for one, because she immediately spins on the spot to take in the room; each wall displays a handful of black-framed pictures. The curator’s done a wonderful job. The lighting is magical, each picture illuminated in shafts of gold that fall from above.
“That one was Dad’s favourite.” Kate points at a painting of a beautiful young woman curled up in a window seat, reading a book. There’s a candle in the forefront and moonlight streams through the window behind. It’s a quaint image—old-fashioned even though the woman is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, one bare foot dangling off the seat.
I keep step with Kate until we’re standing in front of it.
“He took me to see it at a gallery in Mayfair once,” she continues. “Did you know it sold a few years ago for something crazy, like fourteen million dollars?”
“It was seventeen.”
She falls silent, gazing once more at the picture. “Dad thought it looked like me.” She tilts her head, squinting as if she’s trying to see the likeness and failing. She gives a little sigh and takes another step right up to it. “Look at the brush strokes here.” She points to part of the woman’s shoulder. “The work in this… the skill… and the expression on her face. It’s incredible.”
I’m not looking at the picture. I’m looking at Kate. To see her so fascinated, so in awe, delights me.
“That one’s my favourite too,” I say.
“Why?”
“It reminds me of you.”
She scoffs. “You’re just saying that.”
Her gaze drifts to the little black plaque on the wall beside it and she bends to read the text.
Bedtime Story. Stephen Condar. 2004.
On private loan from N. Hawkston .
One hand flies to her mouth. I knew this was coming, but even so my pulse is racing.
She takes her time straightening up, like whatever happens next is pivotal.
“Nico,” she breathes. “You own this painting?”
“I own them all. I started collecting them after your father died.”
A potent stillness fills the air.
“Why?”
I shrug, sliding one hand into my pocket. I’ve never told anyone about this. After Gerard died, and I was left picking up the pieces of the mess he left, it had bothered me how much he had resisted selling his art collection to pay his debts. I guess I started collecting them as a way to assuage my guilt. Maybe if I’d known how much he was struggling before the end, it might all have gone differently. We could have got him help. He might not have died.
That could all be bullshit, but collecting works by his favourite artist had a way of making me feel better. Like I hadn’t let him down. It was easier to buy paintings than grieve.
“I’ve acquired a taste for it,” I lie.
Kate frowns, and I know she doesn’t buy my explanation for a second. But her brow smooths and threads of understanding silently spin across the space between us, binding us together, tightening around my chest—this is so much more than merely liking an artist’s work. This is love and grief and all the things we’ve never shared and everything we will crystallizing into one beat of presence.
And for just a moment, I have the strangest sense that Gerard is here with us.
Kate’s eyes glimmer like she feels it too. “And Stephen just happened to be here tonight?”
Her words bring the gallery crashing back into my awareness. The light. The noise. The other people. I sip my champagne and bubbles pop against my tongue. “He drives a hard bargain, but I guess if you never leave the house, you have to make it count. I flew him out a few days ago.”
She gasps. “You didn’t. Nico.” Her fingers tremble against her lips. “You hadn’t even asked me out a few days ago. You only asked me yesterday.”
“Like I said, I’m very good at reading you. I knew you’d say yes.”
She looks completely overwhelmed as she swipes her thumb beneath her eyes. “I thought you were ignoring me. I thought you didn’t message me after Mum’s house because…” She muffles a moan with her palm, then lets her hand slide away from her face. “And you were planning this? You arse,” she hisses. “You let me think…” I can’t help smiling at the way her face screws up as she tries to make sense of it all. Her eyes flutter shut for a second, and I don’t know if she’s going to smile or cry when she says, “I didn’t expect anything like this. I didn’t…”
I press my lips to hers and her body softens against mine. This kiss is gentle, delicate, and more like a confession of love than anything else.
And I’m not fucking sure that isn’t exactly what it is.
Her lips hover millimeters from mine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I gently take her elbow. “Come on. Let’s go and meet the great man himself.”
By the time Kate has finished chatting to Stephen Condar like he’s a long-lost friend, she’s had three glasses of champagne and is grinning like an idiot.
“I’m starving,” she announces, approaching me where I’m waiting near the entrance. She reaches up on her tiptoes and kisses me. I could get used to these frequent kisses. Her lips are soft and taste sweet from the alcohol. “Let’s get some food.”
“I’m taking you home for a shower. We’ll call for takeout. What do you want to eat?”
“Hmm. Takeout in Paris? You spoil me. I’m in the mood for…” She puckers her lips, her gaze directed to the upper left corner of the room. When she looks back at me, her eyes are glinting as if she’s up to no good. “Seabass.”
I fix a stern expression on my face. “I thought you didn’t eat fish?”
“I lied. I love fish. Seabass is still my favourite.”
I open my mouth wide in mock outrage, but the way she’s looking at me, that cute teasing grin, undoes me. I smile like a love-sick idiot. Before I can suggest that we should find her some seabass, she sticks her tongue out and dashes out of the door, disappearing into the peppery dusk of a summer’s evening. The little bell overhead tinkles to signal her exit.
What the fuck?
I chase after her. She’s running down the narrow cobbled street ahead of me, zig-zagging in and out of shadows, glancing over her shoulder to check I’m following. She’s giggling, and if I weren’t dangerously close to falling in love with her, this behavior would annoy the fuck out of me.
As it is, I’m completely entranced and find myself sprinting to catch up, heat firing through my pumping muscles, the thick, balmy heat of the Paris evening clinging to my skin like heavy perfume.
Kate takes a turn into a square we passed through earlier, me close behind. The cafes are closed now and there’s no one around.
“Where are you going?” I shout.
“For a shower.”
She skids to a halt in the middle of the square, where a large circular stone fountain sits. Three dolphins spout water from pouted mouths. Kate sticks her hand into the stream.
As I approach, she flicks the water at me and I duck, hands raised to stop the droplets landing. “Stop! What are you doing?”
She gives me a huge grin, kicks off her shoes, lifts up her skirt and steps into the fountain. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s magnetic. Joy shines out of her like rays of fucking sunlight.
I prop my hands on my hips. “This is unsanitary. Get out.” I hold out my hand to help her out, but she ignores me and begins paddling around as if it’s a totally normal thing to do. Water soaks her dress; the fabric sticking to the outline of her thighs.
She’s fucking irresistible. So sexy, even when she isn’t trying.
“Kiss me first,” she demands.
I roll my eyes but lean towards her anyway. She keeps shifting out of reach until my shins are knocking against the low stone wall, my upper body teetering forward.
She relents and lets me kiss her. Our foreheads come together. We’re both breathing a little heavily from the exertion of running through the streets.
She pulls away. “You like me.”
“Yes.”
Something softens in her eyes. “It’s more than that. You actually care about me.”
“Took you three glasses of champagne to work that one out?”
Her hand slides around the back of my neck, and she pulls me closer again. “No. It’s not the champagne. It’s that you just ran through the streets of Paris and jumped in a fountain to be with me.”
Jumped in a fountain? “No, I didn’t.”
Full lips split to reveal Kate’s white-toothed smile, and she leaps up, her entire body weight hanging from her linked arms at the back of my neck.
She hikes her legs around my hips, using her weight against me, and I topple forward. There’s a brief moment where I could withstand her attack, but I don’t want to. I want her to know she’s right. I do care, and if me falling in a fountain in the back-streets of Paris is what she needs to really understand that, then so be it.
The last thing I hear before we both plunge into the cold water is her laughter.
It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.