Chapter 28 ALEX #2
“You’re not listening to me.”
I leaned forward. “Nancy, please would you see what it’s like for one week? If it’s not for you, there’s nothing lost by it.”
“I’ll think about it,” she conceded.
“Good,” I said with finality.
The tension broke as the waitress placed a mezze board in front of us, brimming with oil-drizzled hummus, baba ganoush, falafel, and flatbreads. Nancy savoured the feast. “This looks delicious.”
“It’s all freshly made by Dina, Hassan’s wife. Here.” I tore the flatbread, dipped it in the baba ganoush, and held out my hand to feed her.
She drew back. “What is it?”
“Roasted aubergine with tahini, garlic, and other light spices. It’s good.”
She eyed me as she took a bite, and I watched her reactions, transfixed: how her eyelids flickered, and the corner of her mouth turned up as she comprehended the taste. How many more of her firsts will I enjoy? I tilted my head with a satisfied smile. “Is this acceptable to you?”
“I can live with it.” She dabbed her mouth with her serviette, then her expression grew sly.
She matched me, breaking the bread, dipping it in the hummus, and reaching out teasingly.
I snapped up her bite, licking a drop of dip off her thumb.
She removed her hand, looking shocked, and wiped it. “Do you have a food kink or something?”
“Not that I know of. Although when it comes to you, I’d happily eat from and off you. You’re delicious.”
“You’re a perv,” she laughed.
“I know what I like.”
“And what’s that?”
Grinning, I dipped another piece of flatbread and held it out to her. “You, in any and every way.”
She contemplated me without eating, leaving my arm in limbo. “I think you like to be in control.”
“I’m methodical, assertive, very competitive, and I can be proprietorial about those I care for, but I wouldn’t say I was controlling.”
“Good, because I like to be in control.” She took a bite and nipped the tip of my thumb.
I didn’t flinch or withdraw my hand. Instead, I stroked my thumb along her bottom lip. “Do you really?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly.
“Because I think you enjoyed letting go of your control last night and this morning. It wasn’t easy, but it’s what you wanted—and needed.”
She studied me, a flicker of uncertainty reaching her eyes. “No, it wasn’t easy.”
“But it felt good.”
“Of course, an orgasm tends to feel good, right?”
I leaned in provocatively. “An orgasm is letting go. It’s surrender. You can’t have one without it.”
“I’m not interested in surrender. It’s weak.”
“Are you sure?”
She refolded her arms. “I think you might want to add patronising to your qualities.” I waited patiently for her answer. “Listen, I don’t know where you’re going with all this. But I’m not some submissive pushover looking to be kept by her sugar daddy, okay?”
My head threw back with a deep, raspy laugh, causing her to look around self-consciously as a few diners eyed us. “Well, I’ve never been called a sugar daddy before. You make me feel quite old. And I certainly don’t think you’re a pushover. You’re strong, a fighter.”
“You’re damn right I am.”
I took a long drink, my eyes coming to rest on her necklace.
“When a bird takes flight, is it control or second nature?” Her brow furrowed, and she instinctively touched the golden dove.
“It’s freeing to let go and be guided by intuition, but while that’s natural for an animal without a consciousness to contend with, it’s not as easy for us.
That’s why we try to surrender in other ways. ”
“How do you mean?”
“Engaging with a higher power, taking mind-altering substances, extreme sports, meditation…sex. A human being seeks surrender in many ways because we feel free of restraint when we do. Like a soaring bird.”
She scoffed. “That sounds like avoiding reality to me.”
“Or living within it,” I countered.
She shook her head. “What are you trying to get out of me with this conversation?”
I paused. “What do you feel like when you ride your motorcycle?”
“Free, powerful, excited. Because I control it.”
“Do you? When you switch between gears, choose the throttle or brake, or make a split-second decision if someone pulls out in front of you, do you control it, or is it part of you? Do you trust your intuition and let go of fear? Is that what feels freeing, powerful, and exciting?” I leaned in.
“You face the unknown head-on with only an engine and two wheels between your legs, and you trust that you’ll know what to do—that despite being vulnerable, you’ll be guided in an uncontrollable situation.
If you thought about every move you made on the bike, would it still feel that way?
Would you be able to ride at all?” A flash of fear crossed her face, and her expression veiled. I reached over and took her hand.
“Do you want to dominate me?” she asked quietly. “Is that what all this pop philosophy is about? Zen and the Art of Motorcycle bullshit.”
I frowned. “No. I want to feel free with you. I want you to feel free with me.” Exposure swirled through me, and I looked down.
She squeezed my hand, and when I returned my gaze, her eyes were soft. “You know, I think I’d like to try the falafel next.”
I picked up one of the balls and fed it to her. It was too big a bite, and she laughed, covering her mouth. “Yep, you’ve definitely got a food kink, boo.”
Affection filled me. “If you say so, bella.”
She rewarded me with a gentle smile and tucked into the rest of brunch.
I led Nancy arm-in-arm as we walked around the broad streets of Knightsbridge in search of an evening gown. The buff-stone shopfronts were lined up in a pristine row, stark white mannequins dressed in outfits that glinted through the polished glass, the designer names instantly recognisable.
As we approached a heavy-looking glass door, the security guard eyed Nancy for a moment before greeting me.
The interior was bright, with floors and walls shimmering with accents of rose gold on white.
Airy displays housed the bare minimum of products, highlighting their luxuriousness and expense. Nancy moved to my side.
Two preened sales assistants cooed as they approached, making small talk about the fine weather before ushering us upstairs to present their evening wear. They showed off the latest designs while patently sizing up Nancy’s high-street jeans and tee, and only directing questions to me.
I’d never experienced an ounce of rudeness from any of these establishments before today, which I’d frequented countless times.
It made me angry. I clipped out curt replies to the assistants, only to up and leave for the next shop when they brought out completely inappropriate choices for Nancy’s build and skin tone.
By the time we reached Versace, Nancy looked downtrodden. “Please, can we get something here? I honestly don’t care what I wear to the gala. Just pick something you like.”
I felt terrible, but equally, I wasn’t going to back down.
Instead, I pulled her into my side, ignored the assistant, who scurried close behind, and went straight to the racks.
I took Nancy through each design, and only stopped when she gaped at a lipstick-red maxi dress.
I asked the assistant for the correct size and picked out a pair of matching strappy heels.
Nancy retired to the dressing room to try it on.
When she opened the curtain, I had to suppress my arousal.
She was breathtaking. The gown accentuated her curves and flattered her height.
One bare left shoulder framed her dove tattoo, and a side slit showed off her leg to the thigh.
Best of all, she was smiling at herself in the mirror.
I bought it there and then, not letting her see the price for fear she would refuse it after our debate over the apartment. All I knew was how proud I’d feel walking into the gala with Nancy on my arm, looking utterly captivating. It was a perfect image.
We walked along the pavement, enjoying the welcome afternoon breeze, my cap and sunglasses keeping the city glare and public at bay.
“Is that like a disguise?” Nancy motioned with her hand. “Because it’s a bit Clark Kent/Superman, isn’t it?”
I smiled down at her. “It may be budget, but you’d be surprised how well it works.”
“I wouldn’t describe Ray-Ban and Ralph Lauren as ‘budget’,” she laughed. “But I am surprised we haven’t been approached by anyone wanting a selfie. I thought you’d be inundated.”
“I have a different disguise for the winter months.”
“Is it a Gucci balaclava and ski goggles?”
“You’ll just have to stick around and see, won’t you?” My phone buzzed, and I checked it. “William sent over some photos from last night.”
“Sweet, show me!”
“How about we find a bar and browse?”
“I can’t face alcohol after last night, even with the wonders of your hangover cure and an orgasm.” She looked about, searching until her gaze landed across the street. “Let me treat you to something!”
I grinned. “I think you already did. But I could go again.”
She grabbed my hand and led me over the crossing to a café called Luverly Bubbly. I eyed the kitsch décor, halogen lights, and electric display board with at least a hundred drink choices.
They have a 2014 Chablis at the wine bar, I lamented. “What’s this place?”
She looked up at me, confused. “It’s a bubble tea shop.”
“Bubble tea,” I repeated slowly. “Like carbonated tea?”
She laughed. “How do you not know what bubble tea is? What rock have you been living under?”
“One where they have the sense not to add bubbles to traditional beverages,” I said dryly.
“Well, I guess it’s a day of firsts for both of us.”
The corner of my mouth lifted, and I let myself be dragged in.
Five minutes later, Nancy returned looking triumphant, holding two clear plastic containers filled with a strange milky liquid. As advertised, some unappetising-looking balls were swirling around the bottom.
“What the hell is in this?” I examined the cup as Nancy sat on the stool beside me.
“It’s like a dessert drink with fruity tapioca balls you can eat. I got you the black milk tea. It’s the most conservative option.” She winked and drew up some mango-flavoured concoction.
I tentatively wrapped my lips around the paper straw and braced. The tea, if you could call it that, was very milky and sweet, like a child’s drink. I felt one of the offending balls slurp up into my mouth and almost gagged from the slimy texture.
“Dear god! That’s worse than salmon roe!”
She laughed at me, her eyes big and bright, and I seriously considered knocking back the entire disgusting beverage to keep that look on her face. “I thought the upper classes all loved fish eggs.”
“I bloody hate caviar.”
“You’re full of surprises, Lord Toverton. Come on then, show me the pics from last night.”
I placed the offending cup out of sight and leaned in so we could scroll through the photos: In the limo, toasting and laughing; drinking shots, our faces contorted; the girls pouting while AJ photobombed the background; dancing in the humidity of the club, looking worse for wear.
There were a couple of William and Kim, but I suspected they were a drop in the ocean.
When William was interested in a woman, he was all photographer. It was his approach to flirting. He could make a woman feel like the centre of his world through the camera’s lens, or so several broken-hearted models had informed me after my brother had finished with them.
In the mix were a few relaxed shots of Nancy and me. One photo in particular drew my attention. Nancy sat on my lap, wearing my cap, as we looked lovingly at each other seconds before a kiss. I selected the image and set it as my wallpaper.
“You’re so cute.” She grinned. “Make sure you forward these to me, yeah?”
“What an adorable pair you two make,” a familiar voice invaded my ears.
With dread, I slowly turned from the window seat to find Mimi standing just behind.
She was scantily clad in an ivory sleeveless playsuit, unbuttoned to the base of her cleavage, looking as if she’d just emerged from a photoshoot.
Her expression was friendly, and she was beaming at Nancy. I thought I might be sick.
“Mimi, this is a surprise.” I took in the shock on Nancy’s face. “Nancy, this is Mimi. Mimi, my girlfriend, Nancy.”
“What a pleasure to finally meet you,” Mimi said, touching Nancy’s arm.
Nancy looked at her like a rabbit in crosshairs. “Nice to meet you too… Are you out shopping?”
“Not today. I was visiting a friend around the corner and spotted Alex through the window.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Which friend?”
Mimi gave me an unnerving smile. “Noora. You remember, she was at your mother’s birthday party last year. Daughter of that oil baron.”
“Vaguely,” I murmured.
“Have you met Alex’s mother yet, Nancy?”
“I believe I’m meeting her at a gala next Saturday. Is that right, Alex?”
“Yes, she’ll be attending, along with William.”
“Oh, the gala at the Park Palace? Will you both be there too? That’s wonderful. We’ll have to dine together,” Mimi chirped.
“You’re going?” I said in shock. “But you never attend.”
“Papa let Mama down this year, so I’ve promised to take the spare ticket and be her plus one.” She turned to Nancy conspiratorially. “I love having an excuse for mother-daughter time. My mama is a hoot with a couple of cocktails inside her.”
Nancy smiled. “My mum’s the same.”
“Ah, Alex, another daughter close to her mother. You do know how to pick us.” Mimi glanced gleefully at my scowl, then returned her gaze to Nancy.
“Well, I have to go, or I’ll be late for my nail appointment.
Nancy, lovely to meet you before the gala.
Let’s enjoy a drink together at this one’s expense, yah? ” She kissed her on the cheek.
“Sure, you too.”
I braced as Mimi moved into me. “Enjoy your weekend, both.” She waved a friendly goodbye and hurried out the door.
Nancy took a sip, watching her leave. “Well, she wasn’t what I expected.”
“No?” was all I could manage.
“I thought she seemed relaxed and friendly. I guess it’s good if we can be amicable. Whatever you said to her at lunch yesterday must’ve done the trick, but then you are silver-tongued.” She flashed her eyebrows.
“Don’t have a drink with her at the gala,” I blurted.
“Why? Afraid she’ll spill all your bedroom secrets?” She laughed while my mind whirred through scenarios.
“Just promise me you won’t.”
“Okay… If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”
“Good. Let’s take these back to the apartment.” I attempted to smile and took her arm, striding away from the café as my gut clenched.