Chapter 27 #2
‘I was looking for soft drinks,’ I say.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck while I peer at the shelves looking for a Coke I don’t even want any more. Not that I can bend down and keep a modicum of modesty at either the neckline or hem.
This stupid outfit. I’m going to burn it.
‘Let me do that,’ he says, coming over. ‘It’s dirty down there. Don’t spoil your dress.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, taking a hesitant step back.
He roots around the dusty shelves as strains of Gloria Estefan waft over from the house.
‘This bloody song,’ he mutters. ‘I used to hear it day and night.’
‘Your mum taught me to Cha Cha to this.’
‘She taught everyone to Cha Cha to this. She could have mixed it up a bit.’
‘As if there’s a Cha Cha you actually like.’
He thinks for a moment. ‘“Smooth” by Santana is cool. Sexy, too.’
He carries on rooting around the cans of beans and condensed milk, and I try not to think about what constitutes sexy for him.
‘You’re in luck,’ he says.
He stretches out his arm, proudly holding a can of Coke.
I take it from him, and I’m about to check the use-by date when the lights go out with a pfft. A moment later the music from the house cuts out.
‘Shit,’ I whisper.
‘You’re not scared of the dark, are you?’
‘I’m not ten any more.’
‘Trust me, I noticed.’
Reminded of my bra-less state, I cross my arms even though it’s dark and he can’t see anything – not unless the army gave him night vision. Cyprus, that famously technologically advanced military power.
‘Do you think it’s a blown fuse or is the whole street down?’ I ask, just so his words aren’t left hanging.
‘I’ll go and check,’ he says.
Then, before I know it, he’s brushing against my side to get past me to the door.
‘Careful,’ I say, hating that I sound like my mum, except I obviously needed to warn him because a second later there’s a thud followed by a muttered ‘Fuck.’
‘What happened?’
‘Stubbed my toe on something metal and sharp.’
‘I think I saw a workbench over there.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up,’ he says drily.
I hear a rattle and the scrape of metal coming from his direction. ‘Shit,’ he says.
‘Did you stub another pinkie?’
‘Nope.’
‘What then?’
‘Was the door handle loose when you came in?’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
‘Why?’ I ask, although the pit of my stomach already knows the answer.
I shuffle towards him, tapping the floor with my foot before each step so I don’t collide with anything.
‘The handle came off in my hand.’
‘Can’t you just put it back on?’
‘The pin fell out. God knows where it rolled to – I can’t see anything. We either have to wait for the lights to come back on or for someone to open it from the outside.’
I follow the direction of his voice, but I can tell where he is even when he stops talking, because I can sense the change in temperature generated by a man-sized slab of heat.
I get the faintest whiff of Hugo Boss. I know it’s what he wears because there’s a dusty bottle in his old room.
He must have shifted forward because the next thing I know, I’ve trodden on his foot.
His arm springs out to steady me. ‘Careful.’
His hand is hot against my skin. I take a step back, and a burning pain shoots up my heel.
‘You okay?’
I rub the tender skin where it feels like I sliced a layer off my Achilles heel.
‘I walked into the same thing you did,’ I say. ‘But without the protection of socks and trainers.’
‘Are you bleeding?’
That’s all I need: to get blood everywhere.
‘I can’t tell.’
‘Smell your hand.’
‘What?’
‘If you’ve touched blood, it will smell metallic.’
I give my fingers a quick sniff. No tell-tale metallic aroma. ‘That’s quite clever,’ I say.
‘Why are you so surprised? You think I’m just a pretty face?’
‘I don’t think your face is pretty,’ I say because I don’t want to sound like one of his adoring females.
He lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Are you saying I’m ugly?’
I try to sound cooler than I feel. ‘I’d say you’re average-looking. Nondescript, unremarkable. On a sliding scale, you’re in the middle, at say, five.’
Jesus, what am I talking about? Objectively, he’s the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius. Even Granny Maria can see it, and she’s got cataracts.
‘Where are you on this imaginary scale?’
His question takes me aback. ‘Oh, I don’t know. A five, too?’ I don’t mean to, but my voice goes up at the end, making it a question.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a solid six.’
‘The way you looked at me when I first arrived says otherwise.’
There’s a beat before he responds. ‘Excuse me?’
He’s not the only one surprised. Where the hell did that come from? I’m grateful it’s pitch black because I’m blushing. But the dark – and his cockiness – have made me bold, and I can’t leave it.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
He moves closer and the tip of his trainer nudges my toes. ‘Explain it to me.’
I suddenly feel way out of my depth. ‘Can we get back to the door handle, please?’
‘Chicken.’
If he’d said anything else, if he hadn’t tried to goad me, I might have de-escalated things. But he didn’t, so I don’t.
‘You looked at me like …’ I pause, my nerve all but lost.
‘Like …?’
He must be leaning forward because I can feel his breath on my face.
My heart knocks in my chest. ‘Like you wanted to kiss me.’
I shift my weight from one leg to the other, and my knee accidentally brushes his jeans. I know I’m walking into the fire, but I can’t stop myself.
Long seconds stretch between us.
‘Did you want to be kissed?’ His voice is a low rumble.
‘I asked first.’
I shift again, and now both my legs are touching his.
I’m vaguely aware that if I move my upper body back, I’d create more space between our faces.
Would that clear this heady feeling that’s making me fuzzy?
Or would it press my lower half against his?
Stupidly, I try it anyway. My hips touch his pelvis for a split second before I panic and pull back.
Shit. Now he’ll think I did it on purpose, like some sort of femme fatale. I didn’t mean to encourage him, but I also don’t want him to stop.
Do something, I silently plead.
And maybe he hears me, because he brings his hand to my waist and rests it there for a second. Then his thumb starts tracing feather-light circles, and the next thing I know, our hips are glued together again.
There’s something so male about him. The contrast of his hard body against my own, more giving flesh, is making me light-headed. He’s all muscle and zero body fat.
I must be losing my mind. I’m in a locked room, in the dark, trading breathless sighs with a boy who couldn’t be more off-limits. Why aren’t I running in the other direction?
When the answer comes to me, I want to laugh. Is this what Justin Timberlake means when he sings he wants to rock your body? He’s not singing about dancing; he’s singing sex.
Every cell in my body is screaming to touch him and I suddenly understand why it’s called attraction. He’s a magnet, and I’m a helpless pile of iron filings. There’s only one direction I’m moving and that’s forward.
I stand on tiptoe, lean forward and plant a kiss on his lips.
I hear his shocked swallow.
My heart is banging against my ribs. I stand stock still, caught between embarrassment and exhilaration. And I’m amazed to discover exhilaration is winning.
I hold my breath and wait for him to laugh – or worse, tell me I’m gross. But he doesn’t do either. Instead, he brings his mouth to mine and gently kisses me.
Two more unhurried kisses follow, almost like he’s not sure he wants to do this, but then the third time, he parts his lips and his tongue finds mine.
Now he’s sure. He’s very sure.
I react immediately, kissing him back hungrily, wanting more. Much more.
I’m tingling everywhere. I link my hands around his neck and pull him closer, deepening the kiss.
He answers by tightening his hold at my waist. I’m dimly aware that one of his hands is lightly brushing my side, and I want to melt.
My hands are stroking the nape of his neck, and the next thing I know, I’m running my fingers through his hair.
It’s too short to grab, and all I can think is how soft it is.
It’s a shock because the rest of him is so damn hard.
Including in the trouser department. I can tell because I’m lifting one leg trying to mount him like some sort of hussy.
His knuckle brushes the underside of my breast, and a bolt of desire shoots through me.
I slip my fingers inside the neck of his shirt and find a shoulder blade.
I scrape my nails across his skin, half-caress, half-scratch and it’s like a magic switch that ramps him up a gear.
His hand hooks under my knee and yanks me flush to his body.
Only the thin cotton of my knickers separates me from the fly of his jeans, and, dear God, I’m grinding against him.
In a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from zero to ready-to-blow, and I am one enormous, aching, shameless throb.
It’s like I’ve been driving a sensible family car, and now I’ve been given the keys to a Ferrari. Compared to other boys, Mark’s from another league. Scratch that – another planet. And he kisses like it’s his last night on Earth.
One hand grabs my buttocks, urging me to keep rubbing myself against him. His other hand squeezes my breast through my dress. I must make a noise that encourages him because he dips his fingers under the fabric and finds my braless nipple.
He groans and walks us backwards until he’s sitting on the sunbed.
‘Get back on me.’
I straddle him, and he pulls down the straps of my dress to expose my breasts.
‘Jesus. Fuck.’ His voice is strangled.
I had no idea I could make a man sound like that.
He alternates between kissing and sucking as I grind against his fly.
His hands are pressed to my buttocks, adding more pressure and giving me something to push against.
I start to feel my climax building, and I grab his shoulders tightly, desperate to keep the rhythm going.
I’m so close.
When I look down, he’s gazing at me open-mouthed.
‘Keep going, beautiful,’ he whispers, then he licks my nipple and bites it lightly. It’s all I need to push me over the edge.
I throw my head back as my orgasm rips through me.
He holds me until all the shudders subside. I’m vaguely aware that the lights are back on.
‘I’ve never …’ I whisper. He frowns. ‘Usually, I can only … when I’m by myself.’
Then, the door bursts open.
‘Fuck,’ mutters Mark.
‘My bad,’ a voice trills. And the door closes again.
Mark lifts me off him and puts me on my own shaky legs.
‘This didn’t happen. I was never here.’ His breath is coming in short bursts. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.’
He can’t get out fast enough, only pausing to grab his bag and jacket.
‘Byeeee, handsome,’ trills the same voice outside.
I straighten my dress, then gingerly walk out.
It’s Jake. ‘Darling, I am so sorry. I had no idea you were in there with that stud muffin. I hope I didn’t ruin it. Although from the tiny bit I saw and heard, you seemed to be having a very good time.’
Oh my God. He saw? He heard?
The door to the house opens, and Yan appears.
He frowns. ‘Everything okay, Nella? You look flustered.’
‘That’s because she’s just back from a little trip to O-Town,’ says Jake.
‘What?’ demands Yan, alarmed. ‘Who the hell with?’
Adrenaline makes me think fast.
‘I texted Leo, and he snuck out. He had to go back, though, before his mum noticed he’d gone.’
‘Right, right,’ says Yan. He sounds like he believes me. ‘We’re about to cut the cake.’
‘Great,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Can’t wait.’
‘Don’t forget your bra, darling,’ says Jake, pointing at the open garage door, before following Yan into the house.
Burning with shame, I grab it from the hook on the door and skulk into the garage for some privacy to wrangle it back on.
The Coke can stares at me from the floor, and I pick it up without thinking. The minutes tick by, but I remain stock still in the dingy safety of the shed, my brain on a guilty loop.
I kissed Mark.
I did more than kiss him.
What the hell was I thinking? And what happens now?