by JC Harroway
Temptation personified.
At the heliport, I spring into action fuelled by the relief of switching off any thought unrelated to lighting, angles and resolutions. I’m keen to get my teeth stuck into more than elegant stills anyone could take with a decent phone.
Kit wanders inside the building with Bob to speak to the owner-operator, someone he tells me he knows well, while I set up my tripod to capture a few stills of our shiny white helicopter sitting against a backdrop of London’s iconic skyline.
When I’m happy with the shots taken from various angles I speak to the pilot, who fires up the motor while I film some footage approaching the craft at differing walking speeds I hope will translate into the very real excitement bubbling inside me. I’d love to have booked some models, a glamorously dressed couple, him in a tux, her in a floaty dress, just to lend the footage more class and authenticity, but I can always return another day to film those sequences. The Kit distraction has rendered today’s filming rather ad hoc.
I shake my head—I’m usually more organised. I should have turned him away from my brother’s doorstep last night, kept things strictly business. But then, where’s the fun in that?
As if he’s heard me inwardly cursing his nocturnal proclivities, he appears and within minutes we’re strapped into the chopper and up and away.
The afternoon weather conditions are perfect for filming. I’m up front with the pilot, the comforting weight of my shoulder-mounted camcorder capturing what has to be the best way to see London. I don’t bother with the microphone, as the finished video will boast an elegant soundtrack suited to the contemporary opulence of the Faulkner hotels.
The helicopter is fitted with multiple external mounts, one of which fits my action camera, which I’ve gaffer-taped in place, just to ensure it doesn’t end up at the bottom of the Thames. I can splice together the dual footage to give both the personal and bird’s eye views of this thrilling scenic tour.
As our pilot points out the city’s landmarks I scan the city beyond the landmarks lining the Thames. Filming is almost second nature, something I don’t have to think about. This frees my mind to spin off in distracted circles. Does my biological mother live somewhere out there? In one of the sprawling suburbs, perhaps, under one of the thousands of chimney-sporting rooftops? How easy would it be to track her down? To see a picture of her as she is today—not just the faded, blurry one my parents have of a young woman with big scared eyes. Is my father still alive? Still in New Zealand? Were they together, or am I just the product of a casual hook-up?
Kit taps my shoulder and points out the Faulkner, the largest of the group’s hotels.
‘We grew up there.’ His disembodied voice reaches me through my headset. ‘I was always jealous of kids at school who lived in a regular house with a garden and a letterbox. Somehow having your birthday parties in the Faulkner ballroom couldn’t compare with having a den in the garden shed. The first thing Reid, Drake and I did when we got our first jobs was buy a house. With stairs and a garden.’
I smile at the image of a young Kit and breathe through the band around my chest. The Faulkners, for all Kit’s personal loss, are a unit. They have history. A family-run business. Identity. Roots.
The forty-minute flight is over too soon. Back at the heliport, while Kit talks to our pilot, I lead Bob down to the path lining the river and set off at a jog, knowing, like me, he probably has excess energy to expend and he’ll bound alongside. Pretty soon we’re on Battersea Bridge, the photo-worthy view east along the river of the white suspension cables of Chelsea Bridge in the foreground and the London Eye and the Shard in the distance. I tie up Bob to an obliging lamp post and climb onto the barrier, sitting up on it to shoot some selfies for my website and social-media feeds.
I’m halfway back to the City Heli Rides base when I spy Kit striding to intercept us, his scowl firmly back in place.
‘What the hell was that?’ He takes Bob’s lead and walks back in the direction of the car.
My smile slides from my face. ‘I wanted some photos—the views are spectacular.’
‘The views are just as good from the pavement.’ His voice is matter-of-fact, but his jaw is clenched. Is he annoyed? ‘I didn’t know where you’d gone.’
‘I needed to blow off some adrenaline. And I figured Bob would appreciate the walk. He was perfectly safe.’
At the car park he opens the car door for a panting Bob. ‘You could have fallen. People die in that river, every year.’
Is he serious? It was just some tourist snaps. ‘Come on—it’s not like I jumped from the chopper into the Thames or anything. Although I totally would.’ He’s not impressed so I switch tack. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to worry you. Bob was perfectly safe the whole time.’
Kit’s mouth twitches and then he sighs, holding the door open for me.
‘So where next?’
‘Drinks. I’m checking out a new potential partner for Bounty.’
Great, he’s forgotten his snit. He settles beside me and gives instructions to his driver. If we’re still on the clock, I can ask another probing question I’ve been pondering.
‘You downsized Bounty a couple of years back.’ He nods. Bounty Events used to be international, Kit’s brand of tailor-made luxury available anywhere your heart desired. Then he sold up, keeping only the London-based operation. ‘Why?’
He stares for so long I wonder if he’s still smarting. My fingers start fidgeting. I force myself not to blink while I wait for his answer. With a reluctant sigh, he looks away. ‘I got sick of travelling.’
It’s believable but insufficient. I want more. It’s as if I’m determined to poke and prod until I satisfy myself he’s still in love with his wife. The green light I need.
‘Is that all? I love travelling. Seeing the world.’
I’m unaware it’s still moving, so Kit’s hand covering mine where it taps on the leather seat between us makes me inhale a small gasp. His fingers press, warm and insistent and stilling my own.
‘You’re never still, are you? Are you okay? Is it a nervous thing?’
My fingers tense. Heat climbs my neck. Of course Mr Observant, Mr Flay-You-Alive with the deeply penetrating stare would notice my worst habit. I don’t need his permission—I can fidget as much as I like. ‘I’m fine.’ I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for my temperature to return to normal. But his hand still covers mine, reminding me how his warm, slightly callused touch explored my body last night.
Why can’t I pull away? This gesture feels way more intimate than everything we did in that hotel room. And if he’s going to get personal...
‘Was it because of Laura?’ My voice cracks.
A hard gleam enters his eyes. Then he lifts his warm palm from the back of my hand, which, perversely, instantly misses his touch.
He stares, as if debating how much to say, while emotion filters through his dark eyes. I want to reach out, to touch his hand the way he’s just touched mine, to let him know I see his pain, but I’m frozen, my stomach flipping through somersaults. I should have kept my mouth shut. He owes me no explanations. All we’ve done is share some pretty great sex.
And I shouldn’t care, but...
‘After Laura died, my job, the travelling... It all just seemed so...pointless.’ He shrugs. ‘Don’t you get sick of roaming the world?’ His beautiful mouth pulls into an unexpected smile, given the gravity of the conversation. ‘If you lived in one place, you could get a whole heap of your own dogs...’
I smile at the image of canine bliss he depicts. He’s hit the nail on the head—my lack of pet-ownership the only downside to the way I live. I stroke Bob, gorging myself while I can. But the last thing I want is Kit picking apart the reasons for my fancy-free lifestyle. ‘I’m lucky. I love my work. There’s always another view to capture, another adventure to film.’
‘I used to feel that way.’ His voice is low, hi
s eyes pensive.
I sober. ‘It must have been very hard for you.’ I think of Will and Josh’s domestic contentment, their plans for a family, a future together. My brother’s happiness makes me smile, but an acidic burn settles behind my sternum.
Kit’s hand joins mine on Bob’s back. We set up a rhythm of alternate strokes, avoiding each other’s hands. ‘So where are you off to after London?’
I suck comfort from Bob’s sleek fur, resisting the temptation to slow my stroke and allow Kit’s hand time to catch up. ‘I’m going to Rio. I have work lined up that will take about two weeks, and then I’m going to travel to Machu Picchu, then Bolivia and wherever else the wind takes me. Chile has great ski resorts—ever tried heli-skiing?’
‘Once. In my single days.’ His eyes cloud, perhaps with memories, but then he shakes it off, leaning forward, and says, ‘We’re here.’
The car slows outside an indistinguishable glass tower block. An unusual location for a bar. Kit informs me we won’t be here long enough for me to capture any footage so I leave my equipment in the car with Bob and the driver. Kit guides me inside the building with a hand in the small of my back, the heat generated sliding down into the pit of my pelvis—a bubbling cauldron of lust in no way diminished.
‘What is this place?’ I watch his mouth, torn between prying about Laura and kissing him again, uncertain which urge is more unexpected. The dwindling adrenaline from the helicopter ride must have me worked up. Less than twenty-four hours ago, this man had wrung more orgasms from my body than I thought I could survive. How can I still want more? Especially the intensity of the brand of sex on offer.
‘It’s a champagne bar—the highest in London. You’ll like the views.’ His mouth twists, eyes alight, so certain, just as he was certain of the pleasure he could draw from me last night. The promise of that pleasure is back in full force now, the toe-curling throb between my legs. But I won’t enslave myself. Determined to raise the subject of Laura again, I follow Kit as we disembark on the thirty-eighth floor. It’s barely four p.m. The bar doesn’t open for another hour. We have the place to ourselves.
The manager welcomes us and sits us at the best table in the house, although the entire place is a testament to class—a glass castle at the top of the world, every contemporary chandelier sparkling, every table, every glass gleaming as if doused with fairy dust.
A bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice at our table—the real thing, no imitations. We’re handed menus so we can see what’s on offer but the chef delivers a platter of delicious amuse-bouche that we’re told complements the champagne.
My head spins a little and not in a good way. Being in a gravity-defying skyscraper viewing the city doesn’t bother me. But this—the luxury, the extravagance, the hedonism—carries a date-like quality that shunts me out of my depth. Is this how he wined and dined Laura? Of course, Kit isn’t even trying to impress—it’s work.
I wriggle in my seat, left wondering what it would be like to live in his world. To attend his parties and work functions alongside family and then return home to Bob. I swallow hard, forcing ridiculous images from my mind.
Our flutes are filled with a flourish and I snatch mine up, too fast, sloshing some of the bubbles onto my wrist in my haste to take a calming sip. Kit raises his glass, one eyebrow arched in puzzlement. ‘Cheers.’
I touch my glassware to his, the clink adding to my discomfort. Like a scab I can’t leave alone, I plough back into the conversation we began in the car. ‘So...do you mind me asking? How did Laura die?’ I wince, worried I’ve crossed a line, the hairs rising on my arms.
He’s so young to have been married and widowed, I’ve assumed his wife must have died from cancer or a car accident. And although it really makes little difference to what we’re doing—just sex—I want to know what’s shaped Kit into this rarely smiling version who needs control and rules to function.
He shrugs as if neither my probing nor the answer bother him, but the truth is in his eyes. He clears his throat, staring at me over the rim of his glass. I squirm inside, wishing I’d kept my curiosity to myself. Wishing I didn’t need to know. Wishing I could simply walk away, right here, right now, without a backward glance. No more sex and no more Kit.
‘She died suddenly.’ His words, when they emerge, are brisk, clipped, as if he’s torn off the mental bandage. ‘She was there one second, gone the next. A brain aneurysm.’
I can’t envision the shock, the devastation. But then, I can’t envisage the kind of matrimonial love that Kit and Laura had, that Will and Josh have, either.
Far from satisfying me, his candid response reveals further questions I have no place asking. His hand is right there on the table beside mine. It would be so easy to reach out. I hover on the edge of a decision, the air trapped in my lungs. But I’m not his girlfriend, or even his friend, comfort not mine to offer.
I swallow, disguising my tight throat with another glug of wine. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He tilts his head, a Don’t be stupid look on his face.
‘What I want,’ he places his barely touched glass on the table and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, ‘is to fuck you again. Have you considered my suggestion?’
And we’re back to something he likes to control... I shake my head, onto him, but the tension coiled in my belly unwinds, replaced by the easier to handle simmer of lust. I understand why he wants to change the subject. He’s right to steer this back to the sex. I should be relieved...
His lip curls, stare challenging. ‘You know we’re not done. Nowhere near.’ He shoots me a grin I want to hurl back in his sure-of-himself face.
My pulse thrums in agreement with Kit. It’s not over. Yet... ‘Aren’t we?’ The fizz in my blood returns, a belly-flipping thrill akin to seeing London from the sky.
Kit shakes his head—slow, confident, daring.
‘What do you say?’ His thumb and forefinger toy with his lip, a hypnotic swipe as addictive as our verbal foreplay.
I groan inside. Why is he so addictive? Why is ‘no’ the last thing on my mind? I think back to his particular brand of bedroom bossiness and its abundant rewards. But can I do this? Hold myself distant enough to stay whole, stay me in Kit’s crazy, hedonistic world of shiny people while steering clear of the emotional trap of caring too much about the pain in his eyes?
Laura’s face slides back into my mind, a talisman. A safety net to catch me when I fall. I shrug. ‘I’m up for anything.’
He raises one eyebrow, a calculating look in his eyes as if he’s plotting filthy pastimes. Will he take me to another hotel when we leave here, or will we even make it that far?
‘Good.’ A bright flicker of heat lights his eyes, the earlier pain chased away. My heart pounds, pleased to have been instrumental in distracting him, even though I was the one to remind him of his loss in the first place.
Reminding myself it’s just sex, I toss out my condition. ‘And tomorrow, we start work bright and early at a venue of my choosing. No lazing half the day away.’
His eyes narrow and I tilt my chin even though the urge to cave and dive head first into a three-week-long Kit sex-fest is hard to ignore. ‘Full creative direction,’ I remind him.
I swallow the final mouthful, the fizz of bubbles on my tongue spreading throughout my body.
Kit takes the empty glass from my hand, places it on the table and stands. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mia
KIT PLACES MY bag on a chair and rewards Bob for his good behaviour with some playful rough-housing that leaves my lungs shrunken to the size of raisins and blood zinging to all my erogenous zones. A glimpse of sexy, intense Kit Faulkner with his guard down...wow.
When he looks up at me the smile slides from his face, his eyes hot with the brooding look he does so well. My body sways towards that look, as if being burned alive is a
tolerable way to go for another round of amazing sex.
With a small hand gesture he sends an obedient Bob back to his bed and lifts an eyebrow in my direction. ‘Do you want another drink?’
I shake my head, desperate now to be equally obedient so I can have my reward: him.
He licks his bottom lip and jerks his chin at my backpack, his hooded stare midnight-black. ‘Bring the gaffer tape.’
What the...?
I snort, the gust of incredulity leaving me with a blast. But he’s deadly serious, his eyes molten with licentious intent.
The tape I carry in my work kit has a hundred uses, sometimes the only thing between my expensive, sensitive filming equipment and the ground. But I had no idea Kit had spied it earlier, or that he had some perverse plan in mind.
At our continued stare-off, my throat closes and heat engulfs me in delicious waves. I probe my feelings—excitement, euphoria, but no hint of fear. My hands tremble slightly as I locate the two-inch wide tape in one pocket of my backpack.
Kit presses up behind me, his mouth skating the back of my neck, warm lips grazing my skin, the accompanying scrape of his stubble speaking directly to my nipples. ‘Remember the rules—all you have to do is say stop...’
I moan as his tongue licks my neck, sending tendrils of pleasure south. To show him I’m on board, I push my backside into his groin. His fingers clasp my hips while he grinds his erection between the cheeks of my arse, dry-humping me over the back of his beautiful leather Chesterfield sofa.
Laura’s on the wall behind us. I’m past caring why he brought me here instead of to another hotel. And despite the fact he strips me bare with his stare alone, and he’s already probed at the dark place in me, I want him. I want the physical distraction we create—a safety net, a parachute, a soft landing, perhaps for both of us.
Tearing away with a grunt, he takes my hand and marches us to the bedroom. Poor Bob, perhaps sensing the excitement tingeing the air, clacks down the hallway after us, only to have the door closed in his expectant doggy face.
