He grinned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what I’d said. “What sixties movie did you fall out of? Get into my pants? Baby, if it was all about my own pleasure, I’d be wanting you inside my pants.”
My cheeks were so hot, I was sure the hostess would be back with a fire extinguisher.
“Except,” he went on, “This has always been about your pleasure, Angel baby. Not mine.”
I swallowed down embarrassment. This was an adult conversation. I could handle it. “Are you going to tell me that’s why you’re pursuing me, for a ‘date’ and ‘romance’, so you can give me…orgasms,” I whispered.
His smile widened and I had the distinct feeling that he was amused by me. But he only said, “Among other things?”
“What things?”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I wanted them back. I didn’t want to hear about the things he wanted to do with me, but it was too late. He leant down to whisper against my ear—ostensibly to maintain the privacy I wanted—but all that did was send warm breaths of whisky against my neck, making me excited all over again as he said, “Well if we’re going to keep up our ratio of three to one, then I’m obviously going to have some orgasms myself, and I’ve been thinking about how I’d like that to play out…”
I stared at the wall in front of me, my good hand clenched in my lap as he told me in graphic detail all the many and varied ways he’d imagined we might use our various body parts—and props—to achieve those orgasms, not to mention the variety of ways he intended to make me climax.
It was both the best and worst conversation of my life. And while part of me wanted it to stop right now, there was an undeniably sensuous part of me stirring to life, considering the options he was mooting and favoring some over others.
I was appalled at myself, and double-appalled at him.
When he’d finished, I turned to face him, ready to shut him down. But his face was only inches away, and breathing that delicious whisky scented breath, I was tempted—so very tempted—to kiss him. Just be done with it. Stop fighting. Because right at that moment, I was fighting.
My body’s impulse was to give in to whatever pleasure he wanted to administer, and take instruction on how to return the favor. I could do that. I could tell Kamal I had a meeting and I could let Jack take me somewhere with a bed.
Alternately, I could pretend the whole one-night-stand hadn’t happened, and move on. I knew which option would give me more ability to focus and concentrate, and surely I’d need those attributes if I was to make the right decision about my singing future. In the end, I knew that’s what I had to concentrate on if I was to have any ability to pay my bills.
Worrying about my mother finding out about my promiscuity had nothing to do with it…
The captain’s voice came over the loud speaker, announcing our imminent arrival in Sydney. Seatbelts on. Phones off. That gave me precious seconds to calm myself. And when the cabin was silent again, I said, “I’m afraid I’ll be too busy to explore your imaginative scenarios. I’ve got a career to pursue.”
He leant back and his beautiful mouth turned down at the corners. “One minute you’re sexy and amenable, the next you’re arrogantly dismissive—”
“Arrogant? Me?” I blinked at him in outrage. “You’re the one—”
“When?” His chin tilted up, demanding.
“At breakfast,” I shot back. “Waving your…” I pointed at his nethers. “In my face and expecting me to jump back into bed with you.”
“Don’t confuse sexual confidence with arrogance. They’re two completely different things.”
That made me falter. Were they? “So you’re telling me you’re just confident—”
“Of making you howl with pleasure? Yes, ma’am.”
The hostess took that moment to return and he handed over his empty glass, as if he had no idea that she’d overheard our conversation. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment a moment longer so I turned away and put my good hand up over one ear. “I’m not listening to this. You’re not going to humiliate me into having sex with you.”
“So reminders of how I’ve pleasured you won’t work…” From the corner of my eye I could see him counting off fingers. “Humiliation is off the list, and I suppose romance was a silly idea anyway because you’re far too busy with your career?”
Finally, he was listening. I dropped my hand. “Correct.”
“So it’s not just me. You’re not having sex with anyone?”
“With anyone,” I agreed, although I wasn’t sure why he wanted to qualify that. “I’m all about the work.” In reality, I couldn’t imagine anyone else being able to elicit the responses he’d so easily drawn from my body, but I wasn’t about to admit that. I just wanted the embarrassing conversation over and done with.
“Okay.” He shrugged, as if the subject was closed. “So, if I see you in the news with some boy-band member draped around your neck, I’ll know it’s publicity and not sex.”
I frowned at him for almost a full minute before I said, “What are you talking about?”
He pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket. “Have you seen the videos of you singing last night on YouTube?”
I frowned at his phone. “I saw Jill’s.”
“Did you read the comments under them?”
“No.”
I tried not to be anxious while I waited for his response, but it seemed to take eternity. While I waited, the plane landed and taxied. It was only when the ‘fasten seatbelts’ light went out that he said, “Read them, Angel. You’ve got my phone number.”
Then he flipped his seatbelt off and stood into the aisle, chatting to the hostess as they waited for the door to open. I sat back against the window, looking at him, telling myself I was relieved this was the last I’d see of him.
But I took my time in the inspection, from the worn heels of his cowboy boots up long legs and over the most scrumptious male butt I’d ever seen, then to an expanse of back I’d alternately stroked and clawed in excitement, past wide, wide shoulders to that soft brown hair that just touched the collar of his white shirt.
Seen objectively, he was one hell of a good looking man, and despite the fact that he confused me with his behavior—cocky one minute and humble the next—I had a sudden instinct I’d never forget him. I also imagined that, given time, I’d be very grateful for what he’d shown me.
I was a sexy, responsive woman who could have as many orgasms as her caring partner wanted to bestow. In fact, during sex, I could bestow orgasms on myself. That had been one of his fantasies: standing in front of a mirror and watching me stroke my clitoris while he took me from behind—watching me bring myself off.
I’ve got his phone number.
I could call him if I wanted to. Even if I decided to take my singing to the next level, surely I’d need some time off, to relax. And what sort of relaxation could be better for the body than orgasms. Only, what if Jack was busy then, if he’d moved on to someone else? Would he be ‘amenable’ to fitting me into his schedule? And would I like that? Being part of a schedule?
No. I didn’t think I would. Last night I hadn’t given it a thought, but if I had, I would have imagined I was his only lover right at this moment in time. But maybe that wasn’t true.
A shockingly strong impulse to ask him came and went. Then I watched as he strode off the plane without a backward glance. When most of the passengers had disembarked, the hostess retrieved my handbag for me. I scrabbled around the floor one-handed and found my drink bottle and tissue packet, but I wasn’t in a rush to leave. The last thing I wanted was to see Jack at the baggage claim. Better to let him leave and come in for my suitcase later. So I sat with my phone in my hand, an easy search away from looking at those comments on YouTube.
Wondering why I was nervous.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Mummy-ji, I’m sorry if—”
“No. I am sorry, Angela,” she said sharply. “I am sorry that you are such a disrespectful daughter w
ho thinks more of her own vanity than she does of her mother’s happiness.”
I breathed in slowly through my nose, trying to calm myself down, but my pulse was racing. The only good thing about this conversation was that I was in the apartment alone. Kamal had gone out for lunch with friends. So I straightened myself on the edge of the bed and tried to get through it as quickly as I could. I knew from past experience that when my mother got truly wound up, she was difficult to stop.
“If you’re talking about my singing, I haven’t decided—”
“You are clearly on a path of material gain,” she snapped. “Not a path of nurturing, as you should be, especially at your age.”
I took another long slow breath, reminding myself that although this conversation was unpleasant, at least it wasn’t about Jack and morality. I could be thankful of that. So I tried again with, “I understand your concerns,” and when she would have spoken over me I hurried on with, “…but as I said at the start of the call, I haven’t decided on anything. I simply have options.”
“You do not have the option of being a mother. You rejected that option when you threw your husband out of his home.”
What? I stared blindly across the room, and for the very first time, while speaking to my mother, I felt something flare inside me—a kernel of grief opening up to reveal hot anger. Before I could stop myself I said, “He threw me out, Mummy-ji. I am the one who has no home, and who will never own a home unless—”
“If you had a husband, you would not need a job.”
“And what happens if I marry again and he divorces me, if he decides to replace me with someone else?” I could hear my voice rising and I had no hope of calming myself. Thirty-five years of resentment was bubbling up. “What if I am sixty and he owns the house? What then, Mummy-ji?”
She was uncharacteristically silent, and I jumped into the gap, my heart racing with reckless fury. “Can you imagine how you’d feel if your husband threw you out and you had nothing? Not even health insurance.”
“Your Daniel would never—”
“You have no idea what he’s capable of. And you’ve never asked me about my side of the story, so don’t talk to me about disrespect!”
Amazingly, in the next second I flung Kamal’s cordless phone onto the floor so hard it bounced and hit the door, then I stood up and kicked it for good measure, thinking—but somehow managing to stop myself saying—Unfeeling bitch!
I was trembling from head to foot as I stood in the center of my bedroom, staring at the phone which was ominously silent on the other side of the room. Belatedly I walked across and snatched it up, still shaking as I hit the End Call button. Then I walked it back into the living room and slammed it into its cradle.
Now you’ve done it.
I stood staring at the phone, trying to push my adrenalin aside to work out what the hell had just happened. I’d never spoken to my mother like that before. Ever. And I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be. Miraculously, however, I didn’t regret what I’d done. If anything, I felt a soaring sense of elation, as if I’d just climbed a mountain and was gazing down at the vista—which was beautiful.
I knew I could ring Jill or Fritha or Louella and they’d be thrilled for me. But this was a revelation I needed to absorb on my own. I’d stood up to a bully. And the only consequence I could see was that she might not speak to me again, which would ultimately mean an end to the bullying.
Why had I not done this decades ago?
There had to be a punishment I wasn’t remembering, but I couldn’t think past relief to properly assess the damage. Perhaps I’d ruined my relationship with my father as well. But right in that moment I felt so good I wanted to start singing showtunes.
And that reminded me…
I went back into the bedroom, picked up my own phone and looked at the text that had come through from Noah Steele’s assistant. It had contact details for agent extraordinaire Rosie Tatts, who was confirmed as wanting to meet me. Jill’s text had followed soon after with Just talk to her. You don’t have to commit. Clearly Finn had kept her in the loop.
Talking to Rosie Tatts was sensible. I knew that. I’d be crazy to ignore the opportunity, not to mention rude to Noah Steele who’d gone out of his way to help me. So I was more than willing to meet her. I just wasn’t…excited.
I was confused about the whole baby/career issue, not to mention shockingly distracted by Jack and his offer of regular mind-blowing sex. But I had to forget that, because no matter what happened about my singing, I needed to spend all my free-time looking for a good father—now, while I was still fertile.
First things first, however. I needed a job to pay my bills and singing would certainly be easier than working in the deli while I had a broken wrist. I rang Rosie’s office and her secretary said she was currently in Sydney, so I made an appointment to see her the next morning, thinking it’s just opening a discussion. I wouldn’t be committing myself to anything.
Then I rang Louella to fill her in on my career news—leaving out the fact that I’d had my first ever one-night-stand and just hung up on my mother. There was only so much you could say over the phone.
Louella sounded surprisingly well for a woman with such a bad flu that she couldn’t go to the launch. And when she heard I was coming into the city for an appointment, she organized to meet me for lunch, confirming my suspicion that the illness had been a cover story. I wondered if I’d hear the real reason for her boycott. I hoped it was nothing to do with Frith or Jill. I found dissent among the four of us hard to weather.
But there was no point worrying about that in advance. Instead I forced myself to mundane things, like washing clothes and making dinner, albeit slowly with one hand. When I had to take Kamal’s clothes out of the dryer so I could use it, I found myself wondering what it would be like to fold another man’s underwear and iron his shirts. Not that I did that for Kamal. I just dumped his clothes on his bed. But I had for Danny. And I knew I would again, or at least I hoped I would, when I found the right man.
Jack was wrong in every way, except for sex. He was very right for that, and despite my resolve to stop thinking about him, I had only mindless tasks that afternoon so I spent way too much time remembering the scent of his skin, the taste of his kisses and the hard, hot strength of his body.
As I awkwardly peeled bananas one-handed for the curry, I couldn’t help myself wondering what fellatio would be like. Then the mail arrived with a cell phone bill that would wipe out the rest of my savings. I was mulling that over when my phone rang, so I grabbed it absently, wondering if Louella had changed her mind about lunch.
“Angel baby.”
I sucked in a surprised breath, and couldn’t help myself glancing at the banana skins. Bad girl!
“Jack.” I even sounded guilty. “How did you get my number?”
“Phone directory.” Oh! “I forgot to give you those forms to sign.” He sounded so sexy over the phone I could hardly think.
“Forms?”
“The insurance forms, so you can get a refund on your hospital expenses.”
I glanced down at my phone bill. An insurance payout would save me borrowing money from Kamal. But before I could wonder if Jack’s generosity would come with a price, I registered the fact that he sounded all business—even hurried, as if he’d just remembered me and had something better to do.
“Angel?”
“Sorry. I forgot about the insurance claim.”
“So did I.” I heard a clunking sound, as if he was doing something while he was talking to me. It usually annoyed me when people did that because it seemed impolite, but on this occasion, it calmed my libido. “I’m leaving town tomorrow night,” he said, then I heard him say in a muffled voice, “Sure, put that down on the table by the window,” as if he had his hand over the receiver. Then his voice was clear again, “I’m sorry I can’t bring them to you, but if you can come to my hotel to sign them, I’ll lodge them straight away with a priority request.”
More muffled instructions to someone, and when they finished and I heard silence again, I said, “Sure. Give me the address.”
It was a swanky hotel at The Rocks, a short taxi ride from where Louella and I would be lunching, so I arranged to meet him in the lobby at 2pm. Seconds later he’d ended the call and I was left staring at my phone, thinking That was unexpected.
The last thing I’d imagined was a disinterested Jack. And despite the fact that I was the one who’d said no to an arrangement/dating/romance, my pride was stung. He’d moved on. Seemingly effortlessly.
Later that night while Kamal was out clubbing, I lay in bed, still thinking about Jack. I should have been worrying about meeting the agent, or the fact that I had no idea how my mother was reacting to my tantrum. But instead I was thinking about Jack’s hands on my body, his mouth on mine, and the fact that he could make me climax so easily. I should have been elated about that. But instead, I felt disturbed. What if it only happened with him?
I rolled around, restlessly, and then decided I was uncomfortable enough to take off my pajamas, which I never did. The night I’d spent naked in Jack’s arms was one of a handful of nights I’d slept without pajamas in my life.
Even after sex with Danny, I’d gone to the bathroom to clean myself up and dressed in a pajama top and briefs, at the very least. But now, I wanted them off, even though the building might catch fire or Kamal might have some bizarre reason to knock on my door in the night, or…whatever other reason I’d told myself I needed to be dressed. I didn’t.
So in a rebellion against my mother I slipped out of bed and took my loose tee-shirt and shorts off, recklessly stripping my briefs off as well. The sheets were cool against my skin as I slipped back into bed, but I ignored that. I ignored everything except the memory of Jack’s bed, Jack’s fingers, Jack’s mouth.
It should have been no surprise, then, that my hand might find its way to my breast, and then lower. My cast lay heavy at my side as I stroked, tweaked, slipped and slid into places that would lead me toward an orgasm. It was one-handed, admittedly, but I was frustrated by how slowly my arousal moved, how awkwardly. I could feel the sensations building, but after my molten experience with Jack, it was disappointingly one-dimensional.
Husband Stay (Husband #2) Page 12
