She’d thought of him as a puppy whose tummy she could tickle. Instead, it was like having a tiger by the tail.
‘Wait—’ she started, but then his tongue was in her mouth again, and she found herself helpless to do anything but respond. It was all she could do to keep her hands on the sink edge instead of running them all over him as he was doing with her, tracing every curve through her body-clinging dress, making her shiver from head to toe.
Lexy had been with Frank for six years, married to him for nearly three of those and faithful to him all that time – if you didn’t count the recent encounter with Silantra, which Lexy was definitely not doing. Her husband was one of the best lovers she’d ever had, always up for it. She could roll home drunk and horny, climb into bed with him, straddle his sleeping body and know that he would wake up nothing but hard and happy at this unexpected early morning bonus treat, holding out as long as he could while his wife rode herself to one drunken orgasm after another.
But this – a sexy stranger ambushing her in the loos, pushing her up against a sink, snogging her as frantically as if the world were about to blow up in five minutes and he needed to drive himself inside her and explode as the whole planet combusted in flames – this knee-trembling, frantically urgent passion that only a man under thirty could summon, as if he would literally die if he couldn’t fuck her this second – this was the kind of encounter it was simply impossible to have with your husband.
You could sneak off for a quickie, say, in a broom cupboard at a restaurant, suppressing your giggles as you fumbled around to manage a consummation as diners clinked cutlery and waiters bustled back and forth so close to you. Frank and Lexy had done that at Nobu years ago, and it had been great fun to exit with smug smiles and twin glows of satisfaction on their cheeks, Lexy’s knickers plugged with a wodge of paper hand towel ripped from one of the huge industrial rolls that had lined the shelf she had clung to, arse in the air, while Frank gave it to her from behind.
Delightful though it had been, however, it could not compare to this. There was something about the intensity and heat of a young man entirely driven by his erection, his full straining balls, that you would never find in a forty-year-old like Frank. Young men genuinely thought they would die if they couldn’t have you: they begged and pleaded as if their very lives would be forfeit if they weren’t granted the satisfaction of ramming their cocks into you with an energy and desperation that no older man could reproduce.
Deacon’s hands were dragging at the tight elasticated bodice of her dress, pulling the cap sleeves down to bare her shoulders. The Léger was so snugly fitted that this had the unintended effect of binding her upper arms to her sides. Her hands flew up to stop him, grabbing at his shirt, but with only her forearms able to move, they flapped like a penguin’s flippers, so awkwardly that her fingers caught on its buttons and pulled it open even more, baring his chest.
It was so smooth, so hairless, so young that it made Lexy’s breath catch in her chest. She stared at it, hypnotized, wanting to see even more, to pull the shirt right off him. And then her gaze dropped down to his concave stomach, the belly-button a neat little shallow swirl like a whipped white chocolate bite, the faint, almost invisible trail of pale brown hairs starting below it, the most delicate of pencilled lines leading down to the big insistent cock that was pressing even harder between her legs. Deacon groaned and shoved his hands under the edge of her dress, cupping her breasts around the silky bra cups, squeezing them together, his tongue delving into the even deeper cleavage he had created, dipping wet and hot into the cleft.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. She tottered back, half-supported by her bottom catching on the ridge of the copper sink trough, half by Deacon’s crotch holding her in place. Still licking her breasts, his hands stroked down her hips to the hem of her skirt, tugging it up, wrestling against the tight elastic of the fabric; just like a bandage, it rolled up tightly, hobbling her legs together, making it even harder for Deacon to get his hand up her skirt.
‘What the fuck?’ he groaned into her breasts. ‘This is like you’re wearing a suit of armour!’
And then his fingers hit an even more impenetrable barrier, because beneath the bandage dress, Lexy was wearing Spanx, a high-waisted style that reached right up to her bra. It was a garment she would never have dreamed of putting on if she had planned to give someone access to her crotch that evening.
‘This is going to slice my dick off if I try to fuck you!’ Deacon complained vividly, trying to pull the gusset to the side, defeated by the expensively heavy fabric. ‘How the fuck do I get it off?’
He managed to get a couple of fingers into the small space he had created, tickling her as expertly as he was kissing her now, tongue in her mouth, fingers parting her, sliding inside her, finding her wet and ready in both places.
‘I’m going to come in my jeans if I don’t fuck you!’ he panted. ‘Take this thing off, come on, let me, you want it just as much as I do –’
In retrospect, it was extraordinary that no one had come into the women’s toilets before now. Lexy had been so caught up in the rush of lust that she hadn’t even considered the fact that they weren’t in a private space. Besides, her plan had been to garner attention, to create headlines about herself and Deacon. A passionate embrace in a bathroom, with them both fully clothed, was about right for the level of publicity she wanted. That would definitely crank the lever several turns on the gossip mill, get her name plastered for weeks over gossip blogs and magazines, keep her in the Daily Mail sidebar on a daily basis as their paps followed her and Frank around.
And yes, the kids too, she’d admitted to herself, but Frank worries about that way too much. They’re much too young to realize what’s going on – we’ll just tell them we’re playacting for the new show. God knows, Laylah loves having her photo taken, the little minx! That one takes after me – I’ll have to watch her like a hawk when she gets into her teens . . .
This would be a fantastically juicy story. Fans and foes alike would reach eagerly for Lexy’s novel and TV show, wanting to see if they could detect cracks in the happy facade of her marriage.
And this way, she’d reflected, I don’t come off like some stupid wife who nearly got cheated on, but a sex bomb who can pull the guy that half the world wants to shag! God knows why Emily even suggested it the other way round – thank goodness Ghost Mouse came up with the idea to flip it! Come to think of it, Ghost Mouse’s been more use to me than the PR agency I pay a fortune to every year . . .
Deacon couldn’t know, however, that Lexy’s intentions towards him were strictly limited. Which was why he had stopped the woman who had been powdering her nose in the toilet as she emerged from the ladies’ loos, asked her whether there was anyone else in there but Lexy, and on receiving an answer in the negative, had stationed his manager outside the door of the loos with strict instructions not to let anyone else in.
The manager had, for some minutes, been directing women to the disabled toilet just down the hall with an excuse that these ones were out of order. But that had only worked for so long. Eventually, while her back was turned as she shooed one woman away from the door, two other tipsy partygoers slipped inside and promptly froze at the sight of Lexy O’Brien, her dress pushed down at the top and rolled up at the bottom, her head thrown back in ecstasy as Deacon’s fingers drilled between her legs.
Oblivious to the fact that he now had witnesses, Deacon hooked his fingers and pulled them out slowly, hitting the exact point to send Lexy, stimulated as she already was, into an instant orgasm. Overwhelmed, she toppled against the sink. Her hips thudded against Deacon’s hand, her mouth opened in an O of pleasure, and the sight of her coming so fast and hard was way too much for Deacon, already on the road of no return.
Just as he had said would happen, his balls tightened fatally as his cock strained against the fly of his jeans. If these had been looser, he might just have managed to exert some control. But the jeans were so fashionably skintig
ht that they had already ripped at both knees, and the insistent pressure of the fly against his swollen cock head was the last straw. A sound that was half a grunt, half a yell of surprise issued from his lips; he slammed against Lexy, and a rush of hot come started to spread over the front of his jeans. The expression on his face, simultaneously horrified and blissful, was superb, and it lasted long enough for both of the partygoers to whip their phones out from their bags and start snapping away.
There was plenty to capture. The women might not be sober, but neither were they drunk enough for their photos to come out blurred and unusable. As Deacon crashed into Lexy, he tipped her back into the copper trough, legs in the air on either side of his waist, her head smashing into the mirror behind it. Still coming, Deacon’s fingers between her legs, she yelped in shock and pain; by this time, one of the spectators had been quick-reflexed enough to switch from photo to video mode, and the moment that Lexy’s head hit was captured live.
‘Shit!’ Deacon said when he could, reaching out for her. ‘You okay? Sorry, babe, I shot my load, but give me ten minutes and I’ll be good to go again—’
It was then, in the mirror, that he saw the women with their cameraphones.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled, jumping back instinctively from the image in front of him. Unfortunately, this put him closer to them, and now that the front of his body wasn’t pressed against Lexy, the cameras captured, both in video and in slow-motion stills, the come stain as it widened over his crotch. It was bad luck for Deacon that his jeans were not a dark colour that would have helped conceal it, but a virulent shade of chartreuse which the fashion magazines were declaring the colour of the season. It was light enough to show every drop of come, and, Deacon being young and virile, there were copious amounts.
‘Can you stop, please?’ he pleaded, as Lexy started hoicking herself out of the sink.
Such was Deacon’s charm that the women, dazzled by his smile, did in fact lower their phones, which meant that at least Lexy’s inelegant descent, skirt hoicked high, one hand pressed to the back of her head, was not recorded on camera. She staggered as her high heels made contact once more with the black-tiled floor, catching onto the edge of the trough to steady herself, the cap sleeves still wedged down her shoulders; she shrugged them up again, but the process was horrifically inelegant, and one of the women, unable to resist the temptation, started surreptitiously taking pictures again with her phone at waist level.
‘Deacon, management’s telling me I have to let people in!’ his manager called urgently, cracking the door open a foot or so, for discretion. ‘Are you guys done, or at least –’
She stuck her head into the room and gasped at the sight of the two women, who, as soon as the door had opened, had shoved their phones into their bags and, their need to use the toilet subsumed under the much more urgent priority of getting their photographs out of the club, shoved past her and shot out down the corridor. In members-only clubs, taking photographs – unless you were in a private room having a launch – was strictly forbidden. That was the whole point of these clubs. Celebrities could relax and let their hair down, knowing that photographs of them drunk and chatting up people they weren’t married to would never hit the papers.
If Deacon or Lexy had alerted the management, they might have managed to stop the women, confiscate their phones, delete the photographs they had taken. But to Deacon, being caught in flagrante delicto was no big deal. People expected him to be a bad boy. And Lexy, after all, had wanted this, or something very like this, to happen . . .
‘Oh, no,’ Deacon’s manager said, in the infinitely weary tone of a woman who has spent the last year following around a priapic ex-boybander, trying to encourage him to write and record the occasional song in between his endless escapades. She sounded like the owner of an enthusiastic puppy that was not only addicted to dragging toilet paper rolls all round the house, but left messes everywhere for her to clear up. ‘Deacon, your jeans!’
She stared at his crotch, her shoulders sagging as she asked a question to which she already knew the answer.
‘Please,’ she said faintly, ‘please tell me that’s just water on them?’
Deacon’s sheepish expression was both endearing and comical. In the silence that fell as the manager heaved a sigh and Lexy rubbed the back of her head, grimacing in pain, a man’s voice made itself heard once more:
‘The Caterpillar said: “So you think you’re changed, do you?”
“I’m afraid I am, sir,” said Alice; “I can’t remember things as I used – and I don’t keep the same size for ten minutes together!”’
Deacon burst out laughing, looking ruefully down at his crotch, his cock detumescing inside his tight jeans.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I know exactly how she feels!’
Chapter Twenty-One
Lexy made the biggest mistake of her life that night, but it wasn’t the fumble with Deacon in the toilets of the Camden Club. It was how she acted directly afterwards.
In her defence, she had hit her head fairly hard against that mirror. While not concussed, she was genuinely dizzy and sore from the impact. So, making her way out of the toilets, she was in no condition to summon her driver and be taken back to Sandbanks. Although her head was spinning with the blow it had taken, she was also buzzed on vodka and dizzy from the high of her amazing encounter with Deacon. She could still feel his fingers between her legs, remember vividly the intoxicating sensation of coming all over them.
So she was physically and mentally dazed, and quite unable to make good decisions. If she had managed to calm herself down, she would have known that it was essential that she go home straight away and break the news to Frank before the papers could get hold of it. That way they could wake up the next morning and present a united front to the journalists who would be camping outside the house.
In her dizzy, over-stimulated state, however, there was no way that Lexy could contemplate docilely climbing into a car and being driven home so early in the night. It was barely eight-thirty, and she simply wasn’t ready for a two-hour drive home. Of course it would look terrible if she went back to the launch. She definitely needed to avoid Deacon, so that she could spin the story of their encounter as a one-off moment of madness. So while Deacon was cursing, splashing water all over his crotch, and speculating loudly about whether he could go back to the party without his trousers on, Lexy, with Brandon by her side, had taken the lift upstairs to the roof terrace, where she planned to have another drink or two to calm herself down and get a grip on her roiling emotions before she headed home.
Even if she drove back to Sandbanks straight away, she reasoned, Frank would be tucked up in bed and snoozing when she got home; he liked to be asleep by ten at the latest. So what was the point in rushing to give him the bad news? Couldn’t she get home at midnight, say, climb into bed next to her sleeping husband and let him have a good night’s sleep so he was nice and fresh tomorrow morning to deal with the mess she’d created?
The plan had been to find a quiet corner on the sprawling terrace, curl up there with Brandon and go over the plan for how they would spin the scandal. But that idea had been scuppered when Lexy was spotted by a couple of her frenemies on a girls’ night out, women she posed with regularly on red carpets and at parties, gossiped about behind their backs, sniped at in her column and feuded with on Twitter. They might have been part of the cast of a larger reality show, generating endless reams of press to keep them all in the news.
Sam, a TV presenter who specialized in bubbly commentary on recap shows, diving into a studio audience to giggle and flirt with them while coaxing saucy observations from them about the people they’d just seen compete, and Michelle, a reality star who was not as quick-witted or charming as Lexy, but had worked her way up the greasy pole from cast member to household name partly by having sex with her fiancé live on camera, were in a corner banquette, a champagne cooler set up beside them. Their seating choice was highly strategic: every
one could see them, but no one was close enough to hear what they were saying, so that they could let their hair down in privacy, chattering about topics that would never, ever, make their way into the press.
The sexy pink lighting, palm trees and black-upholstered banquettes of the terrace were more Miami Beach than NW1. Candles glimmered on the low glass tables, uplighting below the trees cast dramatic shadows: the entire atmosphere was of a wonderful, enticing party, and Lexy was delighted to see Sam and Michelle, at one of the best tables, beckoning her to come over and join them. She was promptly ensconced between them, giggling about how naughty she had just been, teasing them with the prospect of gossip to come and telling Brandon to order more champagne.
No matter how much they begged, she wouldn’t tell them what had just happened. She didn’t trust them for a second, knew that they’d be sneaking out to try to ring up gossip bloggers. They wouldn’t make any money from the tip-off, but they’d earn themselves credit for future positive mentions and definitely some plugs for whatever brand they were pushing that month.
Sam and Michelle had planned the evening well ahead, ordering in some extra goodies to make the evening go with a bang. Ten minutes in, one of them was palming Lexy a wrap of cocaine under the table. Ten minutes after that, the pain from her head had magically disappeared; and after that, the hours positively flew by.
Lexy was, after all, celebrating. Things with Deacon had certainly gone much faster, and much more crudely, than she had planned. She had intended to be photographed kissing him in infinitely chicer surroundings than a women’s toilet. A secluded corner up here on the roof terrace would have been perfect, the two of them half-concealed behind one of the palm trees, fronds throwing dramatic shadows over the picture. But at least in the mobile phone photographs snapped in the loos, her body had been concealed behind Deacon; she was comfortable that nothing too incriminating could make it to press.
Killer Affair Page 21
