only a fool would fall in love with Nicholas Rothsmore, and I’m no fool. Reassured, I step out of the shower and towel myself down. When I step into his bedroom, my eyes are transfixed firstly by the stunning view of Central Park, and then by a bag on the foot of the bed. I recognise the distinctive thick black paper with the embossed white logo. Curious, I reach in and pull out a lingerie twin set. My smile hurts my cheeks.
Pale cream and the most delicate lace, it antagonises my already sensitive body, the lace so raw on my nipples that I gasp as I move, every single shift of my flesh reminding me of his possession of my body.
I suspect this is something he foresaw.
When I slip into the kitchen a few minutes later, his knowing smile confirms my suspicions.
‘Thank you for this.’ I wave a hand over my flesh.
He shrugged. ‘It seemed like a wise precaution, given the whole paint-on-body situation.’
‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ I say, reaching for the coffee. He’s made it black, which is strange, because that’s just how I have it. I sip it and let out a small moan of appreciation.
‘Good?’ he prompts over the rim of his own mug.
‘Shh,’ I tease. ‘Let me drink this, then we’ll talk.’
We drink our coffee in silence, my little ritual one I’m glad to observe, even side by side with Nicholas.
‘I didn’t mean to stay over,’ I reiterate, a few minutes later, placing the empty coffee cup in the sink.
‘Why?’
‘I just didn’t plan on it.’ I shrug.
‘We were up late.’ He says the word with emphasis.
I think it was about two when I last saw the time. ‘I remember.’
‘It would have been kind of dumb to slink home at that hour.’
‘Nonetheless,’ I murmur, my voice a little icy, ‘I prefer to sleep in my own bed.’
His face shifts with something like amusement and then he shrugs. ‘Sure, if you’d like.’
I’m slightly mollified, but not completely. Our conversation from earlier sits inside me like the sharp edge of a blade and I can’t really say why.
‘Do you have much on today?’
‘Yeah.’ I nod, looking around for my clothes. They’re arranged on the edge of a chair. I stride to them, pulling the dress on over my head only to find him watching me with a small smile on his face. My blood pounds through me. ‘You?’
‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘But I’d like to see you tonight.’
Tonight. Pleasure sounds in my head, pleasure so intense it almost drowns out the warning bells. Because he is ever so slightly too much for me to handle. Because I would fully believe it if a doctor told me he had the addictive properties of a drug and that I was already way over quota.
‘Not tonight,’ I say, shifting into my coat, then looking around for my handbag. It’s on the kitchen bench. I lift it over my shoulder, checking I have everything.
‘Tomorrow night?’
My heart is hammering. I keep my head bent so he doesn’t see the way I’m shaking. ‘I’ll message you.’
He nods, a frown on his face that he quickly erases.
‘I don’t have my bikini,’ I say, when I reach the door.
‘Leave them. Next time, we’ll use the hot tub.’
It conjures images that are too hot to forget.
I smile and nod, pushing down on my doubts as to the wisdom of this. ‘Sounds fun.’ I lift up and press a kiss to his lips then turn and walk away, needing a bit of space and a bit of time.
And maybe he gets that, because I don’t hear from him at all that day. Nor the next. By Friday afternoon I’m starting to worry I’ve done something stupid and ruined this.
And it is truly the best sex I’ve ever had, but, more than that, I’m having fun.
Why did I get so bogged down in worrying about the future when we’ve both been clear about what we do and don’t want?
Because I’m a worrier. It’s what I do. If it were a job, I’d be supremely qualified.
Before I can regret it, I pull my phone out of my handbag and pull up our message chat.
Is it my turn to plan a date?
I have a pounding in my throat as I send it, and a nervousness that seems somewhat ridiculous. But when he hasn’t replied an hour later, I’m having to fight not to send another text.
It’s six o’clock when finally a message buzzes in.
What a day. Hot tub? Beer? Takeout?
My smile is so huge I feel as if it’s splitting my face in two.
Perfect. See you soon?
His answer is immediate.
The sooner the better.
I breathe out, relief rushing through me. Everything’s fine; nothing to worry about, whatsoever.
THREE DAYS AND I feel as though I haven’t seen her in three years. It’s just like that first godawful week, after Sydney, when I had no idea who the fuck Miss Anonymous really was and I worried I might never learn. That I might never see her again, nor know the pleasure of her beautiful, sensual body.
I am beyond impatient.
I have had to fight hard not to message her, but I had the feeling when she left on Wednesday morning that she needed a bit of space, and the last thing I want is to pressure her. This is all about fun—for her and for me.
Fortunately, things exploded at work, which kept me busy. Still, I must have checked my phone eleven billion times. My bed smells like her, sweet and lightly fragranced, so I have lain awake at night and remembered everything we shared.
She arrives a little after seven and I prowl to the door, buzzing her up and waiting impatiently.
When she walks in, I groan and pull her into my arms, smiling as I kiss her, holding her tight to my body, breathing her in, tasting her, feeling her, needing her, wanting her, loving this.
‘Hey.’ My greeting, minutes later, is gruff.
‘Hey yourself.’ Hers is breathless.
I want to drag her to bed and never leave, but already
