My body begins to tremble from head to toe, my thighs shaking wildly against his. He presses his face into my breasts and gasps, grunts and yells satisfied cries as I begin to knead and grip him, my orgasm like a tiny seed springing to life, that heat and unreal relief inside me fanning out to the rest of my body and pushing pleasure into every tendril of my being.
My last thrusts on top of him are painful and without rhythm or pace. I’m eking out the last of it, pulling him deeper into me. I grab him around the head and hold him to my chest as he spurts into me, my body gripping his so tight as the warmth of my wet orgasm envelops and encourages him, his body at my mercy.
I’m delirious in the aftermath, wondering if it’s even real as he tugs back the covers and lowers me into bed, tucking me in across his chest.
“I know you don’t believe me right now, Freya but I’m telling you, I would do absolutely anything for you. I’ve loved you since the moment we met. I loved you when all other hope seemed lost, and I loved you even when we never saw one another for weeks on end while you were on your trips abroad. One day, you’ll tell me I was right. You’ll eventually come to know that I’d do anything for you and you’ll say to me, ‘You were right, Ruben.’ There’ll be times when you can’t see it, when that darkness in you is vying for control, but we’ll always come back together, always. I realised that today. I also realised that I’ve made mistakes, fucked up royally even, but this is the one thing I won’t allow myself to get wrong. I won’t.” He looks into my eyes with shiny tears in his, strokes my cheek and kisses my mouth with featherlight tenderness. “I love you.”
I wrap my arms around him, all that shit in my head earlier having evaporated. “I love you.”
Bloody hell, this man…
What is he doing to me?
Chapter Sixteen
Second Date – Two Years Ago
When he texted me about meeting up again for a drink in London, I almost threw my phone in the river on the way home from work. In freezing weather, I sat on a bench staring at the choppy Thames, holding the phone and wanting so much to toss it away. It would have simplified everything if I’d just dunked my phone beneath the freezing waters. I hadn’t memorised his number yet and anyway, I wasn’t good with long-term memory. He didn’t know where I lived because he never gave me a lift home from Freddie’s wedding that time—my dad’s cousin’s cousin had ferried us all home in his bus (don’t ask) and neither did I know where Ruben lived, except that it was somewhere in London (needle in a haystack). I didn’t particularly keep in touch with anyone from the past and the only people who rang my phone were colleagues or my mum, who I could give my new number to anytime I wanted. Tossing away my phone seemed highly tempting for a while there…
Except I knew, deep down, I couldn’t turn my back on Ruben and the way he made me feel. Just to be in his presence was enough.
The only problem was defining the parameters of our meetings and what they meant. I didn’t want it to become awkward. I didn’t want to hear about Fiona.
I liked people to believe I was cold and ruthless, but that was far from the truth. I didn’t want Ruben to ever see that I was one of those women with secret yearnings for a real lover… nor did I want him to think I was the same as everyone else, powerless and out of control in the face of love. I had so many fears, but my main one was never seeing him again. That would’ve been awful, so what I needed to do was minimise the chances of things getting too complicated.
I picked up my phone and texted: Same time and place?
His reply came instantly: See you there! R x
I made sure our second meeting was different from the first, arriving early at the pub with my hair scraped back and wearing virtually no jewellery. I put on make-up as per usual but dressed in a hugely oversized sweater and baggy jeans. I also wore trainers. I never wore trainers. Plus, I dragged out my big gangsta puffa coat. That was orange. I had it for work and wore it whenever accepting deliveries in the coldest conditions.
I don’t know what I was thinking, only that maybe I wanted to discombobulate him. Early, but not dressed up? I hoped he’d ask. What does it mean? Or maybe I was overthinking everything and he wouldn’t even notice my clothes.
When Ruben found me at the same table we’d drank at the first time, I already had drinks set up. He looked completely surprised and for a second, perhaps, a touch overwhelmed.
“Freya, you’re…”
“What?” I asked, bouncing up off my seat to accept a kiss on the cheek from him.
“Nothing. Good. Good. Hi. Glad we’re doing this again.” He sat down promptly, shaking off whatever thoughts he had about the situation.
“You look well,” I said, picking the sort of chitchat normal people used.
“Thanks, so do you.”
The first time we’d met here, he’d been the one in flannel and boots, his hair a mess and his beard untrimmed. This time, it was me wearing an oversized winter garment and him in a smart shirt, hair combed, beard trimmed and shoes shined.
He was definitely discombobulated.
“Not just come from a screw, have ya, Ruben? You’re a bit… flushed.”
“Erm, nah, no… I… uh… got some tickets for Ronnie’s later, that’s all.”
“Oh yeah, got a hot date, have you?”
His eyes scanned what I was wearing, trying to figure me out… what to say…
He could hardly take me to Ronnie’s, not with me dressed like this. He’d clearly set out that day to play it cool and had misjudged everything. He should have called me in advance about Ronnie’s, but of course he hadn’t wanted to seem too forward… too confident or presumptuous.
I was far too impatient to be with someone who wasn’t forthright.
I patched the awkwardness with a smile. “I don’t like jazz music, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself nonetheless.”
“Well, I… got the tickets, just in case, you know?” He sounded so… hurt.
I pretended to scroll through my phone, just so I wouldn’t have to look at him and see disappointment.
The silence was deafening, however.
I had to clear something up.
“Ruben, you know the last time we met?”
“Yeah…”
“You said that we’re both sluts. You said you could tell that about me.”
“Erm, no, no, that’s not the way in which I meant it and you know it!”
I looked up and found him even more red-faced than before. Plus, he was wearing a hideous frown, as if I was wronging him or something.
“When a man tells a woman she’s a slut, that’s because he’s built up a certain perception of her, no?”
He chewed his lip, terror in his eyes. I was frightening him. He felt backed into a corner. He was coming undone. His fantasy was unravelling.
It was one thing buying tickets to Ronnie’s, but now he was showing me he actually cared what I thought of him. Big alarm bells. Huge, in fact.
“I didn’t… I couldn’t…” He sighed and rubbed his face. “It won’t matter what I say now, will it?”
I shook my head at a glacial pace. “Nope. Look, let’s not complicate this. I have no intention of settling down, do you?”
“No, but I do like you,” he admitted, a hurriedness to his tone.
“I like you and I’d like not to unlike you, do you get what I’m saying?”
He squirmed in his seat and said nothing.
I knew that, traditionally, the second date was when two people generally decided whether they liked each other. So, with that out of the way, we could decide what to do with it. Rather than go the traditional romance route, I suggested, “Let’s stick with what we know, Ruben. Agreed?”
He finally took a sip of the drink I’d bought him. “No problem, Freya.”
“Good.”
I knew I’d probably hurt, shocked and offended him, but I couldn’t help myself. Self-protection had saved me once before and would again.
“So, what have
you been doing this week?” I asked, now that the trivialities were out of the way. “Or should I say, who have you been doing?”
I willed him to say something about Fiona. Just one word and my phone would be at the bottom of the Thames later that night. One word. Just one. About the woman he used for sex.
I waited with bated breath for him to tell me the woman meant something to him, and yet he was still here with me—cheating. It’d make it that much easier to toss him away, because connections were a complication on this road to nowhere that I could do without… and any excuse to get rid of him was a good one in my view. It’d make it easy.
Instead, he leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “Well, there was this one girl…”
“Oh, do tell.” I flicked up an eyebrow and he proceeded to tell me about a woman he’d fucked behind a Chinese takeaway.
I switched off throughout the story and daydreamed about him holding me in bed… his arms sure and sturdy… his kisses real…
…and how they would never be mine.
It was best this way. Best he never found out about the real me.
Chapter Seventeen
Meeting the Parents?
Friday evening arrives, my working week finally at an end. I’ve worked long shifts back-to-back these past three days and I’ve not even had time to consider how my work life leaves little room for anything else when I’m snowed under like this. I’ve taken the train into work every morning, but each evening I’ve crawled into the front seat of his car and then he’s scooped me out of it once we’re back at his. This evening is no different.
I’m soaking in the deepest bubble bath imaginable with the most delicious glass of red when he enters the room and perches on the closed toilet lid.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, three words I never thought I would have to hear from a man.
I’ve heard just about every dirty word going from men, but this… never heard anything so serious as this.
“Yes?”
“I’d like you to meet my parents.”
Shit.
I can feel myself not responding outwardly, but inside I’m bricking it.
Say no and hurt him? Say yes and potentially screw up anyway?
“Why?” I blurt, when he frowns.
“Why not?” he says, a nervous chuckle rumbling out of his chest.
Man, this guy should be a politician.
Why not, indeed?
“Well, when?” I demand, doling out a little sass.
“Perhaps Sunday? I sometimes go over on Sundays for lunch.”
Sunday fucking lunch.
“Sounds good. I mean, if you’re sure.”
He cocks his head and examines me carefully. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?”
“It’s only been a week, Ruben. Remember? A week.”
He shakes his head vigorously. “It’s been a bit longer than a week. A week in bed together, yeah. But friends for much longer than that.”
I’m tempted to say, “Okay, fine…” but guys know that when we say something is fine, it’s really not fine. Ruben is way more clued in than he sometimes lets on.
“What do I wear? Is it formal? Do I need sleeves? Heaven forbid… a dress,” I joke, because Ruben has always known none of that is me. I stretch to fancy dresses for weddings and stuff, but on dates it’s a skirt for a reason, otherwise I’m a jeans gal. Always will be.
Ruben looks quietly disappointed by my attitude and suggests, “So we’ll go shopping.”
Then he leaves the room before I can argue against a shopping trip with an angle about fast fashion impacting the climate etcetera.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“I heard that, madam,” he says with a sneer, before chuckling on his way back down the stairs.
Maybe this is punishment for the past few nights…
Whenever I’ve been at work all day, I rarely even manage a quick fumble on myself once I’m in bed, let alone full sex. The past couple of nights, Ruben woke me in the middle of the night, then fucked me in the missionary position while I did bugger all and lay back, enjoying myself.
Like I said, we’re heading down that conventional route of routine, monotony and downright laziness. Before you know it, we’ll both be wearing onesies every evening, eating Phish Food ice cream and downing bottles of beer as we dissect the latest game-changing documentaries on Sky.
Shit.
Man, oh man.
I leave the bath and feel a bit wobbly on my legs. Finishing the last of my wine, I rinse out my glass with water before filling it full with liquid from the tap. Downing it, I feel better but still wiped out.
I dry off while the bath empties and pull on a cute little set I bought on my lunch break the other day, a silk camisole with matching French knickers.
The room is spinning when I reach the bedroom and I immediately set about pulling the covers open and climbing inside.
Another thing I’ve not had time to worry about but am still aware of… is me working long hours while all Ruben seems to do with his days is meet friends, pick up his dry cleaning and do the grocery shopping. Not to mention he seems to have an obsession with writing notes all over the three whiteboards in his home office in the attic—there are spider diagrams and speech bubbles full of ideas as to how he might salvage Laurent’s Legacy… or at least make something else out of it. I’ll leave that to him.
Meanwhile I’ve spent three days straight answering to irate customers and stressed-out staff members coping with extra work. It’s that time of year when every man either has a cold or is coming down with one, due to the weather outside combined with perfect incubating conditions inside warm hotel rooms. Staff sickness at this time of year means I’m always needed to plug gaps, sometimes even to stack chairs myself or haul carts of laundry down to where it needs to be.
I’ve had the fallout of Wayne’s misadventures and the general fatigue that comes with a long train journey in the morning and sometimes an even longer car ride home. I’ve eaten crappy meals in my office and I’ve fought and fought the urge to walk down to the school where my father works and tell anybody who’s interested that he’s a bloody villain. Not to mention I’m worried about my mother and how all this is affecting her.
Yes, I’m exhausted. Enough that I can’t fall asleep right away because my mind is racing and won’t shut off.
Ruben walks into the room wearing sweats and a t-shirt. He still looks hot… but he could have waited until after our first month to bring out the sweats. Anyway…
“Tired, honey?”
“Absolutely shattered,” I groan. “Feel dizzy and yuck.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No, I drank some water from the tap. Could just do with a foot rub if you wouldn’t mind… feet are killing me.”
“Sure, yeah.”
He makes no drama of lifting back the covers and pulling my feet onto his lap to rub them. All I can do is hold my head and groan as he takes the strain away.
“Fucking hell, it’s been a day.”
“Yeah, tell me all about it.”
“Really? You wanna know,” I laugh.
“Think back, Freya. We’d usually be in the pub right now. You’d be slightly tipsy on two wines, telling me all about your day or week.”
It occurs to me he’s right. Strange. It feels weird because I’m a lot more tired this week than I would normally be for our Friday get-together. Maybe that’s because this is all so new and different. Or, it’s the commute. Yeah. I’ll put it down to that.
I tell him about how the local University of the Third Age group’s annual celebration lunch was ruined by bad weather (hail and freezing rain), meaning half of them didn’t show and the half that did were told the discount they’d been promised no longer applied without a full complement of patrons, therefore the U3A left and the restaurant manager turned up at my office in floods of tears because now they have a truckload of miniature cakes and savouries they can’t refreeze or sell on because it was
all plated up ready. The deposit the group put down last week barely covered costs but all the food ended up being given away. I even had one of our porters drive some of it down to the nearest homeless shelter.
Then someone had a bird trapped in their room. How? I don’t know. The windows only open a little and why would anyone open their window in February? Except to perhaps smoke out of the window. Anyway, cue all kinds of mayhem before I decided to go in myself and catch the bugger, then lock down the room for a full deep clean, whenever the staff get chance. Bloody thing struggled like I don’t know what before it passed out and I handed it to someone to dispose of or set free—I didn’t care which.
Another guest said the couple in the room above them was having sex too loudly. I relocated her, only to discover her next room was smaller and without a bath, even though I had explained we were fully booked (comes with the territory of being right near Heathrow). She demanded to be fully refunded but would keep the room because she had no choice (flying out to New York in the morning for a business meeting). I refused and was swiftly told about the refund policy of a hotel she had stayed in before and that ours should follow that. I then had to explain that isn’t our policy and that I was very sorry, but for her troubles she could have a free dinner in the restaurant (perhaps she’d like leftover pork pie?). Maybe not…
Also, I had to fire Wayne after my nosey assistant manager caught him at it again, this time with a girl called Jemima who only started working for us last week—meaning my housekeeper now needs to recruit a raft load of new staff owing to walkouts over Wayne Gate as I’ve now termed it. Apparently, the shame of it all has proven too much for some and the stress got to them. They can’t deal with it, not anymore. They’ve had it up to here. I mean, I don’t see it. Nothing about him appeals to me, but clearly these women have enjoyed his magic cock and now cannot handle it that every time they walk down the corridors of our hotel, they’ll be thinking of it and how it wasn’t theirs at all, but everyone’s, seemingly.
Kismet Page 14
