Chapter 32 Open Your Eyes
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
open your eyes
REY
Neil pulls up outside Mark’s place in Mayfair (of course he lives in bloody Mayfair) and I look up at the building, clutching my overnight bag.
What can I expect? Did I pack the right things?
What did I pack? I’ve been in a panic state pretty much all day.
Luckily, work kept me preoccupied—Tolu and Noor showing off their involvement in the Dragon Trials expansion was the best distraction.
When I came home, I stared at my wardrobe for so long, I only had an hour left to shower, shave my legs, cut nails, pack some clothes, brush my teeth, and scream of joy and anxiety into the void.
Now, the bag on my lap feels weirdly light, and I’m sure I’ve forgotten everything except my toothbrush, which I turned up with in my hand to a questioning look from Neil.
“Rey, this is it.”
“What? What do you know? What do you mean this is it?” I ask, panicking even more. Did he drive me here for Mark to break it off?
Neil chuckles. What the fuck is funny?
“This is Mark’s building. You can get out now.”
“Oh, right, yes, I gathered. Leaving now. Just making sure my legs work.”
“Do you need a hand, lass?”
As I contemplate accepting, the door to the building opens and the heart-melting shape of Mark fills the doorway. He’s in a black v-neck and grey joggers, leaning on the door frame like a normal man. But he’s far from normal.
He’s Mark.
Formidable.
Remarkable.
“Don’t leave your man waiting,” Neil says, and I meet his twinkling eyes in the rear-view mirror.
My man.
I take a deep breath and step out of the car, hoping my exit will be remotely more refined than how I feel right now.
My trusted Converse carry me safely down the path towards Mark, and if I’m not mistaken, the look in his eyes tells me I made the right choice; my figure-hugging blue cotton dress seems to do the trick.
Once I’m close enough, he reaches out and pulls me to him, his large hands cup my jaw and tilt my face up towards his.
“I thought you were about to change your mind,” he whispers, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips.
“No, you didn’t.”
He flashes me that ovary-imploding grin of his and plants a kiss on my smiling lips. Arrogant arse.
One of his arms wraps around my back, and he pulls me inside.
“So, which flat is yours?” I ask, but I have an inkling.
“I live in the penthouse,” he says, pushing the button for the lift.
“Of course you do.” I grin at him.
He scans his thumbprint in the lift before he presses the button for PH, and we arrive directly into his vast lounge. It’s spotless, of course. He’s probably got a whole cleaning crew.
It smells like him. Clean, with a hint of that woodsy, smokey scent from his soap or cologne.
There’s a massive light-grey U-shaped sectional that looks brand new. It’s facing a wall decorated with art and one of those sneaky TVs that looks like a painting. His style is clean, minimalist. The ceiling is tall, with a square of warm light built into it. It makes it feel airy and calming.
Every item, every colour, and texture seem to have been meticulously picked out. It all comes together wonderfully.
Classic Mark, I believe. High quality and only the important things.
I walk towards the paintings, brushing my hand over the sofa as I pass it. It’s softer than I imagined, and the light friction tickles my fingertips. When I reach the collection of paintings on the wall, I’m not surprised to see that they’re all real. The brushstrokes and textures visible.
“Peter Halley?” I ask, nodding towards the bold geometric abstract. Colourful, but rigid lines.
Mark is leaning on the wall next to the couch, a smile playing on his lips. “Yes,” he says. “My decorator picked the art, so don’t analyse it too much.”
“You must like them, at least?”
“Of course.”
I turn to the full-wall floor to ceiling windows behind the sofa on the opposite side.
“Wow!” The entirety of Green Park stretches out behind the balcony railing. London twinkles in the dusk. The Shard and the Eye are visible in the distance, and the sky is a fantastic purple and pink from the setting sun.
Mark walks around the room and comes up next to me. I lean onto his arm and he wraps it around my shoulder.
“You know, I’d taken this view for granted for years until I met you.”
“How? It’s magnificent.”
“You reminded me of the beauty in the world. More than reminded me, really, you pointed out things I’ve never noticed before.”
I turn to face him. He smiles, looking out at the world.
“Oh?”
“I loved this view when I moved in here in my twenties, but it was because it’s impressive and it’s mine. Now I love it because I appreciate the trees, the way the leaves stir in the wind, creating dancing shadows below.”
He’s repeating the words I told him on the phone weeks ago. I made an impact on him that early?
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
He wraps both arms around me and stoops down, pressing his lips against mine.
The warmth of his mouth makes my blood rush, and I open for him.
I want more of everything. His tongue brushes over mine, and I stretch up into the kiss as far as my toes and height will allow.
The feel of him pressed up against me, his hard torso against my soft front, the powerful arms around me, and the soft warm tongue on mine—it all ignites me in a way beyond what I could imagine. It’s as if my brain only functioned on a low level before, and now I’m using all of it.
There’s no coming back from this.
With his solid erection flush against my lower stomach, I’m filled with need. That ache between my legs has been near constant since I met this man. I moan against his lips, wanting him inside me so badly.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his lips hardly leaving mine.
“For you? Yes.”
He pulls away, but still holding my body close. “My chef, Emine, cooked for us. Do you want to eat?”
“Oh, you meant it? What about this?” I ask, and rub my lower stomach against his hard cock. We’re only separated by my thin dress and his cotton joggers.
He groans and kisses my temple. “We’ll get to that, but I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
With his hand firmly wrapped around mine, he leads me through to the kitchen—it’s massive, made of grey and white marble, and with a kitchen island big enough to seat his whole family—and once we’re past it, in a dark alcove, he stops and turns to me.
“Close your eyes,” he whispers, and there’s a sweet, almost sheepish smile on his lips that I’ve not seen before.
I do as he says, of course, although I’d rather just keep looking at him. Does he look nervous? Surely not.
He leads me a few steps further, then I hear a door sliding open and the hum of London streets greets us; the drone of tyres on rough roads, muffled voices, and—hold on, what are these sounds? Crickets? Water trickling?
“Open your eyes.”