The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights

by Sarah Lefebve

  ‘Really? Was it because of your long work hours, did she feel neglected?’

  ‘I – no. I never really thought about it.’ He goes silent for a moment. ‘I suppose at the beginning we saw each other at the office and I must have made more time for her, but … She was ecstatic when she gave up work and seemed happy to go and spend my money so … ’ he trails off, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Still a lonely life, though. You have to spend time together as a couple to make it work; have fun together. Otherwise you can lose sight of each other.’

  ‘Quite the relationship expert, aren’t you?’

  ‘Actually no. I’ve never had a serious relationship.’

  He shifts under me, tips my chin so he can examine my face. ‘What? How old are you? Twenty-seven? Don’t you believe in them then?’

  ‘I do. It’s not that.’ I free my chin, rest my cheek back on his chest. ‘I just – my career’s always been important to me and I’ve never met someone I felt strongly enough about to compromise it for.’ I rush on, ‘And mum started trying to marry me off from about the age of twelve. It kind of put me off, especially surrounded by all the die-hards in the village who believe women should stay home as housewives and raise children. Which is fine if that’s what you want, but there should be a choice and a partnership in which both parties are happy.’ I squint up at him. ‘I’m not abnormal though, or anti-men. I’ve dated. A lot. I could be in a functional relationship if I wanted to. Anyway,’ I clear my throat, hearing the defensiveness in my voice, ‘you were saying, about Louise?’

  ‘Dated, a lot? Right. Uh, Louise, yes. Well, there was something missing, something kind of crucial for a lifetime commitment.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘She didn’t love me. Not for a minute.’

  I lift my head, frowning. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself. Relationships go wrong for all sorts of reasons.’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t feel sorry for me.’ He sits up and I roll onto the mattress with a yelp, before propping myself on one elbow. I really know how to kill a mood.

  He rearranges the pillows behind him and half-sits against the headboard. I feel bereft. ‘She loved the lifestyle, what I could give her, who or what she thought I was, but that was it.’ A deep sigh expands his chest. ‘When I said it was over she wasn’t happy. She’s been difficult ever since. No,’ he corrects, ‘impossible. If only we weren’t connected.’

  ‘You won’t be much longer, though.’ I drag the covers over me. ‘Once the divorce is final, you don’t have to see her again. Unless you run into her socially?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ He reaches over to the dresser and grabs a glass bottle of mineral water, strong tanned hands unscrewing the top with ease. My gaze flits down his toned body.

  ‘What then?’ I prompt, sweeping my hair around one shoulder.

  He pours a couple of glasses of water and passes me one, avoiding eye contact.

  What’s he hiding? ‘You don’t want to talk about it,’ I guess.

  He eases the covers down to my waist. ‘No. Enough talk about my ex. Let’s have some fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ I feign confusion. ‘You know what that is?’ Before reality intervenes tomorrow, I’m going to enjoy this night and the experience; mind-blowing sex with a complex, charismatic, smoking-hot guy who makes me feel amazing.

  Growling, he pounces, tipping his water down over my boobs and stomach, making me gasp. ‘How unfortunate, I seem to have spilt my drink,’ he drawls, ‘I must be learning some of your bad habits. I guess I’ll just have to mop it up.’

  He proceeds to do so, using nothing but his tongue. At some point, various other body parts get involved and I pour the rest of the bottle into his lap, ‘Oops, clumsy me.’ I take great delight in returning the favour with my mouth until his hands are in my hair and his body is shaking and quaking. ‘I’ve got to get inside you,’ he says huskily and puts on protection and then he is and oh God, oh God, ‘Alex!’ I yell.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he whispers later, raising his head from my hip, breath warming my skin.

  I look down at him. Maybe I’m not as fantastic in bed as I think he is, if he can even contemplate other needs. I don’t know if I’m hungry, I’m struggling to remember how to inhale. ‘Uh,’ I grunt.

  He chuckles, grinning. ‘I am.’

  ‘Really? Hungry for … ?’

  He gets my drift and squeezes my waist in a tickle, making me writhe around on the soft bed.

  ‘Not that.’ He sits up, rolling his eyes. ‘All you think about is sex, sex, sex, woman. I’m starving. Shall we call for room service?’

  ‘I thought men were supposed to fall asleep straight afterwards?’ I watch his eyes darken. He looks mean and dangerous and it’s pretty sexy. ‘It was just an observation,’ I defend, edging away, my breasts jiggling.

  His hot gaze zooms in on them and a firm hand clamps around the back of my neck, hauling me in for a swift kiss. ‘Maybe I’m not most men. And maybe I’ll fall asleep on you later,’ he adds meaningfully.

  ‘What, we order food and then I’m dessert?’

  He winks. ‘Maybe. Now go and find some menus.’

  ‘Bossy!’ I climb off the bed hoping the size of my naked backside won’t put him off a repeat session, although it’s too late to do anything about it now. He’s already seen everything.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he mocks, ‘but then, I am the boss.’

  I pause in the act of pulling on his shirt.

  ‘Sorry. That was stupid. What an idiot.’

  ‘Technically we’re off the clock,’ I say lightly. ‘You’re not my boss after hours.’ Tugging his shirt down to cover the tops of my thighs, I stick my tongue out at him. ‘But I will go and get the menus, because I might be tempted to eat.’

  Wandering into the lounge, I grab the room service cards off the side and pause, cheeks burning. Will this get charged to the room? Suppose Alex expects me to buy the meal. I’m not sure there’s enough in my bank account. On the other hand I don’t want to assume he’ll pay because he’s rich. I don’t want him to think I’d make that assumption. People must use him for money all the time and I don’t want him to lump me in the same category as them or his grasping wife. But if I make the offer to go halves can I find a credit card with enough available funds to cover the cost?

  I’m overthinking this. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.

  Walking back into the bedroom, I find Alex engrossed on his phone, frowning and tapping the screen rapidly. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

  He gives me a slow, sexy smile, ‘It is now,’ he says huskily, before carelessly throwing the phone on the floor. Something in my chest catches at the action. He’s willing to put it down for me. Flinging the covers back, he tugs me closer by the hem of the shirt, ‘I got bored, so I decided to check the markets. You took ages.’

  ‘A few minutes,’ I counter.

  ‘It felt like forever.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Never mind,’ he says, gaze fixed on where my boobs are pressed against the fabric of the top, before dropping to my bare thighs. ‘Come here.’ He pulls on the hem of the shirt again and once I’m on the bed switches his hold to the collar to bring me in for a sweet, unhurried kiss. ‘Better,’ he says, sitting back. ‘Now hand me those menus. I’ve worked up an appetite.’

  We lie curled up in bed together later, surrounded by plates scraped clean of aromatic Spanish dishes, both of us full to bursting. The room smells of spices and tender meats and fiery vegetables. I guess when you stay in a suite costing about a grand a night the kitchen never closes. Rain lashes against the windows, running down the glass in random patterns. It’s cosy. I feel content, way more than in a very long time. I can worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. There was an uncomfortable moment when Alex insisted on accepting delivery of the meal alone in the lounge, but he was so thoughtful in passing me cutlery and napkins and condiments when we camped out on the bed (a suggestion he pulled a face at unt
il I accused him of being uptight) that I forgave him wanting to be discreet.

  Groaning and shifting, I press a hand to my overfed belly. ‘I feel so fat.’

  ‘Yes, you look it,’ he agrees gravely, getting up and clearing the plates into the lounge.

  As he climbs back into bed, I punch his arm playfully, ‘Hey!’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he lifts the covers and pretends to leer, ‘you know you’ve got a gorgeous body.’

  I’m incredibly, proudly flattered. ‘Right answer,’ I joke. ‘You can have a brownie point.’

  His shoulders rise and the movement rubs his wide chest against my side. ‘It’s only the truth. Anyway, you women are too obsessed with how you look.’

  My mouth swings open. ‘Maybe that’s because any woman over a size six is considered obese and catwalk models are still skinny. Maybe it’s because according to the media we’re supposed to have impossibly glossy hair and long eyelashes and smooth, dewy skin that defies the ageing process. And anyway, isn’t that a bit hypocritical? I bet the women you normally socialise with are all slim.’ Why on earth did I say that?

  ‘I’d love to say you’re wrong.’

  ‘But you can’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t think the majority of them started out tiny, though, I think they battle with each other to be the slimmest. They put that pressure on each other. What they don’t realise is men are simple animals. We’re not that bothered about your weight or dress size as long as we get to touch it all, and play with it.’

  I smother a laugh as his hand creeps under the covers to squeeze my thigh. ‘You’re right,’ I concede, grinning. He seems thrilled at my surrender, until I add, ‘Men are animals.’

  ‘Well, in that case—’

  And just like that I’m flat on my back, pinned down.

  ‘No, no, I’ll pop, I swear,’ I giggle. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Okay.’ He frees me.

  I roll onto my side and within seconds he’s settled in behind me, lean hips spooning my bum, a large hand resting across my ribs and holding me close. My back is against his toned chest and he presses a kiss to my hair.

  ‘Night,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Night.’

  This feels so easy. So right. I feel cared for, happy.

  Alex gives a deep mutter of satisfaction and is asleep within minutes, but wrapped up in his warm hard body, my hormones and emotions are out of control, bouncing up and down. I lie wide awake for a long time, staring into the darkness. What have I done?

  Chapter Twenty One

  DAY FOUR

  – Monday –

  I wake on my stomach to murky dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains and a warm mouth surrounded by raspy, delightful stubble running a set of open kisses down my spine. I murmur drowsily, the muscles between my thighs clenching as a whiskered jaw moves to rub over my shoulder. My hair is gathered up and tucked into my neck. A hot muscular body slides against my back, pressing me into the mattress.

  It wasn’t a dream, Alex is in my bed.

  And he stayed all night.

  My head is foggy from lack of sleep and I’m barely able to lift my eyelids. I don’t want to wake yet. Today is doomsday. Except I’ll only be telling him to be honest with him, not to ask him for help. I’m walking away from the claim too. I can’t pursue it. Not after spending this time with Alex. It’s clear to me now. Some things you have to let go. Some things are just not worth it.

  ‘Morning,’ he says throatily, nibbling on my earlobe. Squirming, all I can offer is a moaned greeting in return, a flush running over my entire body. I feel feverish. Big hands slide my hands above my head onto the pillow. I’m at his mercy and open my legs, feeling wildly excited and wired, breathless.

  ‘I thought we had to go over some work stuff this morning,’ I gasp.

  ‘It’s still early,’ he whispers, ‘and I definitely have time for this.’

  It’s dangerous being dominated by him. I like it too much. A thrill of lust shoots through me and I twist beneath him, breasts swelling and nipples hardening as my hips lift off the mattress. He takes his time, covering my back with more kisses, sucking the pulse at the side of my neck. I wriggle, panting, shaking, wanting him to do it, take me on another orgasmic trip deep into outer space.

  A scorching hand sweeps under my hip and a knowing finger finds the waiting heat and wetness and I grind myself against his hand shamelessly.

  ‘Charley,’ he groans, kneeling and tilting my hips upwards. I hear a rustle of foil and thank God that he carries condoms.

  My inner muscles clench with anticipation, the sense of it so strong I can’t breathe as I rest on my elbows. I expect a hard, demanding thrust and tense, but instead he fills me slowly, holding me steady so I can get used to the pulsing rigidness, feel every throbbing movement as he pushes in deeper. I close my eyes, arching my back, and only then does he start to move in and out, back and forth, leaning over me, his toned stomach and chest causing delicious friction across my damp back.

  A purposeful hand plays with one of my nipples, sweeps down over my stomach, holds me as he pumps in and out faster and faster, groaning hotly in my ear. ‘You’re so sexy, it feels so amazing being inside you.’

  Then we’re both coming and I’m lost in sensation, my hands bunching up the bed covers, and I’m sobbing at a rush of pleasure so intense I think I might fly apart under his hands.

  Sanity takes a long time to return. Will I be able to walk today? I wonder. Will he? Wow. I can’t believe his stamina. There’s something powerful and pleasing about someone being so desperate to have you they can go three times in twelve hours. But now it’s the morning after. Bright light is spilling through the curtains. I break into a prickly sweat. It’s time.

  I stare at Alex as he stretches and leans over me. Short dark hair standing in spikes and peaks from where I’ve grabbed onto it so many times, the stubble that grazed my body earlier is evident in the dark, sexy shadow along his jaw. I breathe in the male scent of his skin. He’s out-of-this-world gorgeous, out-of-this-world spectacular in bed. And so different to what I imagined when first meeting him on Friday.

  ‘You’re what my brother Kristian would call isse omorfi,’ he tells me, splaying a hand over my tummy, translating at my puzzled look, ‘a beautiful woman.’

  ‘You should speak Greek more often. It’d be a shame to lose that heritage, though I guess it’d be unlikely, given your colouring.’

  He pulls a face. ‘Don’t you like the way I look?’

  ‘No,’ I tease, blanking my face, ‘it really sucks to be in bed with someone tall, dark and handsome, being bedded by a six-foot-something hunk. But every girl makes sacrifices, I suppose.’

  ‘Right,’ he answers dryly, squeezing my hip just where I’m ticklish.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ I laugh breathlessly, trying to get away.

  He goes serious. ‘Am I your usual type?’ He studies my face closely.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He shrugs a broad, bare shoulder. ‘The stuff you said to your friend on Friday on the phone.’

  I roll over on top of him. ‘Forget that,’ I stroke his cheekbone, ‘I was having a bad day and you’d annoyed me.’

  ‘Uh-oh. No brownie points?’

  ‘Nope.’ I shake my head, ‘In all seriousness, you’re not my usual type. I usually go for creative guys. Tortured artists and struggling songwriters. Unconventional, free spirits.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry if my suits and conventionalism disappoint,’ he mutters stiffly, extracting himself and flinging the covers off, ‘still, you seemed to enjoy it.’ Picking his trousers off the floor and pulling them on: ‘We should get up.’

  A ball of steel hits me in the stomach, panic erupting. I’m not ready yet. Not ready to stop feeling wanted, and good.

  ‘You didn’t disappoint. And I’ve got news for you, Alex Demetrio,’ scrambling out of bed, I throw a pillow at his head as he turns around, ‘I don’t think you’re that conventional.’ The pillow hits him ri
ght in the face and he scowls. ‘Wanna play hooky?’ I ask, holding my breath for his answer.

  Glancing down at the phone in his hand, then at me, his scowl turns into a frown.

  ‘Come on,’ I pretend to pout, hands on my hips, ‘we’ve no meetings ’til after lunch, and the company won’t fall apart if you have a few hours away. When did you last take time off?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admits. Eyes landing on my jiggling chest, he throws his phone down on the bed. ‘Okay.’ He gives me a massive grin I wish I could take a picture of and carry inside me forever. ‘Race you to the shower.’

  Half an hour later we’re sitting at a plastic table in a run-down café just off Las Ramblas, the main series of streets running through the centre of the city down to the marina. We sip Café con leche y leche – a luscious coffee with a condensed milk and cream topping – and listen to the Spanish music playing from a tiny speaker in the corner, with a tangle of wires running from it. The paint is peeling and the cushions are tattered, but I like it. It’s homely and charming in its own way.

  I laugh as Alex struggles to shove a rolled-up napkin under one of the table legs to stop it wobbling.

  ‘Bet this isn’t your usual type of place is it?’ I snort, popping a piece of fresh, warm pastry into my mouth and immediately wiping flakes from the front of my loose black jumper and tight grey jeans.

  ‘Not any more,’ Alex reappears from under the table. Picking up a teaspoon, he looks at its smudged, stained handle dubiously.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I went to Oxford, places like this were my favourite. The scabbier the better. I could be anonymous in them. It was probably the best time of my life.’ The corners of his mouth turn down and he looks sad.

  ‘Scabbier?’ I joke, trying to distract him, ‘I didn’t realise you knew such language, Mr Demetrio.’

  He smiles reluctantly, ‘Just because I speak formally in work situations, it doesn’t mean I always do.’

  ‘So why was Oxford the best time?’ I lean forward, interested in his response.

  ‘I could be who I wanted to be back then. If I wanted to pretend I was someone else I could leave the university and hang out in town, where no one knew I had money or wanted to be with me because of the family business. It’s the youngest and freest I’ve ever felt.’