CHAPTER 21 #2
Archie waits at the door while I enter, his hand drifting to my lower back as I slide past. I ignore the warmth of his fingertips through my blouse and scan the room for clues.
There’s nothing. No boxes, no briefcases, not even a paltry bag of cocaine or spice mix.
I scrunch my nose at the dust. I’m about to spin around and declare this a big disappointment when I feel Archie’s body against mine.
Oh.
‘Millsy,’ he breathes into my neck, as his arms wrap around me. ‘We wasted a whole day.’
My body slackens against him and I make a sound like ngrhhhmmph.
‘And on Tuesday you wore that red dress.’ His hand is sliding up my leg and it’s proving difficult to think thoughts. That’s what a brain is supposed to do, right? Think thoughts? I can’t remember at this point.
I make another ungainly sound and decide I’ll let my brain relax for a moment before I kick it back into gear.
Like giving myself a warm-up. That makes perfect sense: think nothing, then think lots.
Clever me. Clever brain. Well done, Brain, for thinking thoughts. Give yourself a pat on the back, Brain.
Archie’s hands slide to my waist and he twists me around. Luckily my heels appear to be rollerskates, compliantly spinning me around to face him. Before I can draw a breath, Archie’s lips are on my throat, and how strange: I think I am naked.
Am I?
No.
Right, okay, false alarm. It just felt that way for a second because his hands are all over my skin, and his tongue is in places that I hadn’t expected, and oh golly gosh, okay, I am fully clothed and in a storeroom with Archie Cohen, and my silly brain is trying to convince me to get naked, but that is a Very Bad Idea. Isn’t it?
I’m trying to say his name to distract him, but only strange sounds are coming out.
I’ll have to distract him another way. I reach around him and knead my fingertips into his back muscles.
Archie gasps and I search for his mouth.
Bingo. His lips brush mine but then they’re gone again, across the hinge of my jaw.
My mouth reaches for his, as my body angles towards him. Come back here. Mercifully, he obeys.
Am I in control now? Yes. Oh, no, wait. His teeth gently grab my lower lip, and he’s wrested back the power.
I thread my fingers through his beltloops and pull him flush against me.
He takes advantage of the momentum to press me flat against the wall.
His hand cups my neck then slides down my curves to my waist then my butt, like he’s moulding me from clay.
Every trace of his hand leaves goosebumps on my skin.
My phone beeps—Fucking Bryan!
‘Do you need to check that?’ Archie mumbles.
‘It’ll be’—gasp—‘Bryan. And to be honest’—another gasp—‘I never need to hear from Bryan ever again.’
‘Thank god,’ groans Archie, and somehow those words make me feel even more light-headed.
I think I’m losing. Losing control, losing brainpower, definitely losing the New Friends Game.
Maybe if he’s not kissing my lips, I can restore cognition.
I arch my neck so our mouths part and he moves back to my throat.
Immediately, I realise this was a rookie error.
The female body has too many erogenous zones.
I will have to manifest success through my words. ‘You’re losing,’ I mutter.
‘This feels a lot like winning.’ His breath is warm against my skin.
‘Nope, nope, nope.’ My eyes are rolling back in pleasure. ‘I am in control.’
Archie exhales a breathy laugh. His hips flex against mine and the realisation crashes into my consciousness: This is more than kissing.
This is kissing that leads to SOMETHING.
Our bodies are trying to take us to dangerous places, but I can’t bring myself to care.
At this present moment, all I can feel is fire and muscle and I don’t want it to end.
He sinks to his knees, his hands gripping me under my untucked blouse, and a burst of exhilaration shoots through me.
Trails of kisses are suddenly fluttering across my stomach.
His hands wrap around me to find my skirt zipper.
I hear the zing of metal. He’s tugging it down, and oh, holy moley.
His kisses are getting lower, they’re sub-navel, he’s HMAS Cohen down there, and this is uncharted territory.
Is this winning? Or losing? Does this count as sex?
And oh, goodness gracious me, do I even have the time?
‘The unions!’ I yelp. The words whistle out like wisps of steam. Archie pauses, shifts back an inch. I’m flooded with dual waves of relief and devastation. He was doing such a commendable job.
‘I can’t stay,’ I mutter, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back up. My blouse is still untucked and Archie weaves his hands underneath it to hold my waist. My skirt is still loose over my hips.
‘Are we still ending this tomorrow?’ he asks.
Our foreheads are touching so I can’t see Archie’s face, but I can tell from his voice that he’s not smiling.
Once again, I’m not sure if I’m winning or losing.
My blood feels hot and chaotic, like a magic potion spitting from a cauldron.
My cheeks are almost certainly pink and my hair is tousled.
I think of the way my back reflexively arched to guide him to my zipper.
If Fatima, or Larry or—god forbid—Boss, Nancy or any other MP or journalist saw us emerge from this storeroom together, it wouldn’t look good.
In fact, it would look terrible. They’d see the flush of my cheeks and the sparkle in my eyes, and they’d read my horny mind like a book.
‘The game ends tomorrow,’ I confirm. It’s for the best. If it wasn’t for his hands—and his mouth—I wouldn’t be missing the union meeting right now, and therefore committing myself to at least forty minutes of catch-up work. Time is a precious commodity for a hustler like me.
‘Why?’ asks Archie. ‘Why stop?’
I frown. He knows I’m using this game to distract him from his election debate preparation, but I still haven’t worked out his end goal. ‘Why do you want to keep going?’ I ask slowly, shifting back to look at him.
Archie stares at me intently, and when I say nothing, he groans and runs his hands through his hair. ‘Why do you think?!’
The frustration in his voice rattles me before the realisation lands like the thud of a freshly axed tree. It’s all about sex. And winning. For him, it always is. I’m not special at all. If I sleep with him, I’ll just be another notch on his bedpost.
For a moment, it shocks me how much this knowledge hurts, like a bruise I’d forgotten about is suddenly being poked at. The only saving grace is that I can use this knowledge. If he wants sex, let him think he can have it.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ I say, retucking my blouse as I head to the door. ‘But I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.’