6. Sloane
Sloane
Well, that was unexpected.
I’m hightailing it out of Salt like my ass is on fire, because I need to process what the fuck just happened. I might have frequent flyer miles at a kink club, but that’s the first time a man’s eaten my pussy within mere minutes of meeting. And I didn’t even tell him my name.
I can’t help but laugh to myself as I arrive at Westminster tube and head down to the Jubilee line.
Score one for the sisterhood – we’ll take down the patriarchy one stolen orgasm at a time.
I’m already wondering if I’ll see those boys around Salt again.
Freddie’s dimples might just live rent-free in my mind – and his pal, Cole, had those slutty little glasses I can’t get enough of. Phew , what a pair.
If only they came as a package.
The look on Freddie’s gaze was pure hunger as he dropped down to his knees under the table. A smile spreads over my face and I don’t bother to hide it. I probably look high as a kite, because, honestly, I might just be.
“He did what?!” Emmy gasps, giving exactly the reaction I’d hoped for. I preen as she shakes her head, and I fake brushing dust off my shoulders as I give her a smirk.
“Yup, right there in the main bar. He got down on his knees and he made me come in two minutes flat. I’m the only one who can make myself come that fast, Em.
It was wild.” I shake my head with a laugh.
“He pulled aside my panties and had his tongue right up in there from the moment the clock started. It was like an Olympic sprint to the big O. And it was an AMAZING orgasm. Honestly. I saw God, and she toasted me like that gif of Leonardo DiCaprio in The Great Gatsby .” I sigh happily, as Em snort-laughs next to me.
“Fuck me, that’s hot,” she says with a chuckle. “You’ve always advocated for the selfish orgasm!”
“Too fucking right,” I beam back at her. “I strolled out without a backwards glance. It was SO cool. Honestly, he looked devastated. It was delicious.”
“You’re a sadist, you know that?”
“I know,” I grin.
“You’re all lit up,” she says, assessing me with a smile. “You sure this was a one-off? I’ve not seen you all perky like this since that red-haired tattoo artist and her boyfriend a few months ago.”
“I dunno, Em. He and his pal were super-hot, but I don’t think men like Freddie tend to want to share.” I sigh.
“You’ve only just met him, Sloane. Don’t write him off just yet. You don’t know until you test the waters.” She shrugs. “Plus, you know he’s good with his tongue. Might be worth a follow-up just in case.”
“I didn’t even tell them my name,” I say with another shameless grin as Em rolls her eyes.
“Well, of course. Why make it easy for them, eh?”
A dreamy smile returns to my face as I think of that orgasm.
“Always leave ‘em wanting more, Em. Always leave ‘em wanting more.”
And with that, I blow Em a kiss and head to bed with a smile on my face.
Two days later, I’m out at one of my least favourite obligations: lunch with my father.
It was the deal I made when he agreed to pay for my master’s – and my lovely apartment in London.
Every couple of months we meet at a soulless, fancy restaurant in town to disappoint each other and then go our separate ways again.
I still can’t really fathom what’s in it for him given he clearly doesn’t like me, but the agreement he drew up is pretty ironclad, and frankly I can’t afford to cut him out of my life. My reliance on him is like a splinter I can’t pull out. It stings, but I’ve learned to live with it.
Quentin Reed dated my mom for a couple of years and I was the byproduct. He left us both behind in New York when I was born, leaving my mom bitter and angry and me with a textbook case of daddy issues.
The only thing of his that I’m glad to have is his British citizenship.
“So, how’s the master’s?” he asks, clicking his fingers at a waitress nearby. I die a little on the inside as she scurries over.
“It’s going well, thank you,” I reply, without offering more.
“And your dissertation?”
“Also going well, thank you.”
“Have you picked a topic?” he presses.
“I have – it’s nearly finished, actually. I’m looking at gender identity and sexuality in teenagers and young adults,” I say, smiling. It’s a great topic, and I’m working with a foremost expert in the field.
“I see. Pandering to what’s trendy, then? Guess it’s a smart move if you can help parents who are panicking over their sons coming home in skirts.”
There’s a silence where I just stare at him.
“It’s a critically underfunded area,” I say, refusing to take the bait.
I choose a large glass of wine from the list and order a bowl of lobster linguine. If Quentin Reed is forcing me to come for lunch, then Quentin Reed is paying for it. I take care to thank the waitress as my father orders a steak without even looking up.
“Well, the whole world’s gone mad if you ask me. You can choose to identify as a pot plant these days, and we all have to bend over backwards to accommodate people. Your ‘woke’ generation is just waiting for the opportunity to be offended all the time.”
I take a deep breath, willing my expression into something vaguely neutral.
“You know the concept of wokeness originated from the idea of being awake to other people’s experiences, right? It just means giving a shit about people who aren’t like you.”
He rolls his eyes. I know trying to get him to think differently is utterly futile, but I can’t just sit here and listen to him regurgitate what he’s read on the Mail Online .
“And yet, it’s people like me who are footing the bill for everything these days. Not going to complain then, are you? How’s that little flat treating you, Sloane? All very well to be on your moral high horse, but don’t you forget who’s funding your alternative little lifestyle.”
“High ground,” I correct.
He narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“It’s the moral high ground or a high horse. Not a moral horse.”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead now. He turns slightly purple, a vein visibly throbbing in his forehead, but lunch arrives before he can say anything further. He clears his throat and ignores the waitress as she lays his steak down in front of him.
He scowls at it, as if it too has disappointed him.
“Have you found a boyfriend to settle down with yet?” he asks, without looking up.
“Nope.” I cannot be bothered to explain my pansexuality to him yet again, so there’s no way I’m sharing my hope to find a poly relationship.
As I say it, Freddie Lane’s face pops into my mind. Alongside his friend Cole’s. I wonder what they’re up to tonight.
“Well, you’re not getting any younger, Sloane. You need to grow up. You can’t ride the coattails of our little arrangement indefinitely. I can cut you off at the click of a button.”
I don’t reply, pretending to study the pattern on the side plates as I think of my mother insisting that not taking his money for my education would be cutting off my nose to spite my face. He clears his throat.
“I did actually have something to tell you. I’m getting married. To Agatha. The wedding is in three months. You will attend. With a plus-one. If you can’t find someone suitable, I will make some calls.”
There’s a pause where I just look at him with raised eyebrows.
“Congratulations, Quentin,” I say, flatly. He hates that I call him Quentin.
“Thank you, Sloane,” he says, glaring at me.
“Aggie has set aside some dresses for you to try at a shop on Bond Street. I’ll get Margaret to send you the details.”
“Wonderful.”
He rolls his eyes at my sarcasm as the waitress appears and pours more wine.
Agatha Kendall is what Americans picture when they think of England.
She’s exceptionally posh, grew up a stone’s throw from Kensington Palace, and has ‘chums from boarding school’ who are all called things like Hortensia or Solitaire.
Every time I’ve met her, she’s regarded me as if I’m some sort of zoo animal, trilling things like, “Darling, that voluminous top you’re wearing is a delight – is men's clothing all the rage now in your little set?”
Being in her presence is akin to being stung repeatedly by bees.
I endure fifteen more minutes with my father, and I leave before dessert.