by Ashe Barker
Chapter Seven
“Out? You want to go out? At this time?” I realise as I’m saying it that I have no idea what time it actually is, but I feel sure it must be late. A belated glance at the window suggests not—it’s not quite dark yet. Nathan, who incredibly has managed to still be wearing his jeans, more or less, digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. After handing it to me he sits up as I fiddle with the phone to switch it on and get a time check. Twenty-one twelve. Not even quarter past nine. The night is indeed still young…
“Where do you have in mind? We missed the theatre.”
“Mmm, pity that. Tennessee Williams will have to keep for another time. That leaves clubbing…?”
I am shaking my head. I don’t mind loud, thumpy music occasionally, but I have to be in the mood. And today I’m not.
“No? Fine, what about the cinema?”
I shrug, non-committal. “I’d just as soon snuggle up here in front of a DVD. And we just ate your lovely steak and Mrs Richardson’s even lovelier pudding, so a late supper might be a bit of an anticlimax.”
“Definitely don’t want an anticlimax, Miss Byrne. What about the casino then?”
Now he’s talking. I love casinos. I perk up immediately. “That sounds good. But we’d need to get dressed.”
“Yes, and a more traditional approach to black tie may be appropriate, I think. Going by that mountain of boxes and bags piled up in my spare room you must have another new outfit needing an airing.”
I nod enthusiastically, thinking of the classy little black slinky thing I picked up at Harvey Nicks. I wasn’t at all sure where or when I’d get to wear it when I was handing over my credit card, only to be informed that Nathan had everything covered, but it’s perfect for this.
Scrambling to my feet I’m itching to get going. “I need to get a shower, wash off what’s left of this sticky stuff—you’re a sloppy eater, Mr Darke. And I’ll need to do something with my hair. Give me half an hour…” I’m halfway across the floor headed for the spare room before his voice stops me.
“Grab your stuff and take it into my room, then use my shower.”
“What? Yours? Don’t you need to use that? I’m okay with the spare one.”
“I don’t want you, or your stuff, in the spare room anymore. Share mine. My shower, my room, my apartment. Move your stuff in. Share. Please.”
His shy smile, his uncertainty, is what breaks the dam, and happiness just bubbles up inside me. On impulse I run back to him. He gets to his feet just in time as I throw my arms around his neck. His arms come around me and I’m lifted off my feet as he swings me round. I wrap my legs around his waist and grab his face between my hands. I plant a huge kiss on his mouth before leaning back to look into his somewhat startled eyes. “I’d love to share with you, Mr Darke. I warn you, though, I’m messy.”
“Yeah, so I heard. A car crash. Still, we’ll manage I expect. Now, you head for the shower and I’ll move your stuff, okay?”
A quick peck on his lips again, and a pat on my bum, which is Nathan trying to show who’s boss, and I’m headed for the shower, this time in his—our—room. I realise I have absolutely no idea now where this relationship is headed or what Nathan wants long term, but I’m living for the moment. And we’ll see what it brings.
* * * *
“You look gorgeous.”
I’m perched on a padded stool in front of Nathan’s dressing table, my mascara and lip gloss scattered among his cuff-links and aftershave. Very domestic. Very intimate. His stuff and mine just blending, mingling, to become ours. I glance up, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror, ultra smart in his evening wear. I’m happy, content, and I smile as much as I can while painting on lip gloss.
Despite the civilised veneer, he’s in a dirty, sexy mood apparently. “I’m just going to smear all that so you’re wasting your time.” His runs his fingers through my hair, lifting the smooth amber and copper waves, artfully cut, courtesy of Damien, to kiss my neck. It tickles so I shiver—our gazes lock in the mirror. “Why did I have to suggest we go out? Why didn’t I just leave well alone and keep you here, with me, all night. I still could. I want you again. Now.”
I’m caught between the rush of wetness already forming between my legs—God, I hope I don’t stain my lovely new dress—and disappointment that we may not make it for our night out after all.
He sees, relents. “Oh well, I suppose you’ll keep. For a couple of hours anyway. But any longer than that and I swear my balls are gonna explode. So, you’ve been warned, Miss Byrne. You’ll be very thoroughly fucked as soon as we get back. It’ll be hard and fast, and you’ll just have to try to keep up. Okay?”
I nod, dumbly, my lip gloss forgotten. I’m getting used to his crude directness a bit, but it still shocks me. No one else I know—have ever known as far as I can remember—speaks like that around me, about sex and fucking and body parts and, well, everything. And no one has ever made my nipples stand to attention and my pants wet just by making a few crude suggestions. But Nathan can. Does. All the time. It’s wonderful.
After shrugging into his own jacket, he picks up mine from the bed, a loose floaty affair in pearl grey that I thought would go with anything. My dress is a black silk sheath, mid-thigh-length and drapes in soft folds around my body. The back is low, the front decent but fragile-looking, as though the folds could drop away at any moments to expose my breasts. It’s actually a lot tougher than it looks. Nathan tested it thoroughly earlier, when I first modelled it for him, finally finding his way in by sheer determination and sucking my nipples until I stopped wriggling. He declared a distinct preference for strawberry mousse flavour so I just hope there’s plenty more in the freezer. And now, at last, we’re ready to go.
The casino is nearby, about a five-minute walk along the side of the dock. Well, ten minutes in my favourite fuck-me red heels, but we’re in no hurry. This is a very handy place to live, I’m finding. Who needs a car or taxis? Theatres, the opera, ballet, shops—everything I like within about twenty minutes on foot. Except the moors, of course, but Black Combe and the Brontë countryside seems like another life just now. And while on the subject of other lives, I’m turning over in my mind whether to tell Nathan about my previous experience with casinos…
Maybe I should tell him that I am a fairly regular gambler. Well, very regular. Frequent, in fact. A frequent visitor to casinos, that is. The truth is I’m not much of a gambler, strictly speaking, as it’s not really a gamble for me. I invariably win. I take a deep breath. Best get it over with…
“Do you come here often?”
“My, my, what a traditional pick-up line, Miss Byrne. But I’d have thought we were past all that now.”
I dig him in the ribs. “No, idiot. I mean do you come to this casino often?” I can see now that we’re close that the casino is one of the Alea chain. I have an account with this lot so I probably do need to come clean before we get there. There’s a good chance I might be recognised—they rotate the staff around different sites and my face is quite well known in these circles.
“No, not often. I’ve been a couple of times—they offer special introductory packages for locals to try to drum up regular trade. I’ve popped in, I like an occasional flutter, but I can manage to lose my money perfectly well through my business in this bloody recession. I don’t need to gamble it away as well. Don’t worry, though, I don’t mind blowing a couple of hundred quid on a good night out.”
“Well, that’s just it. You won’t be blowing it, probably. Well, I won’t. I’ll win.”
He gives my shoulders a quick hug. “Maybe once or twice. But eventually everyone loses. That’s how these places stay in business.”
I stop, turn to face him. “Not everyone. I don’t lose. Well, hardly ever.”
His head is cocked to one side as he considers this. By now he’s learnt not to underestimate me apparently. “Eva? Is there something you’ve not told me?”
“Nothing bad, honestly.” I
pull my light jacket around me. He might disapprove of professional gamblers for all I know. Although I don’t usually think of myself as a professional, exactly, it’s just that this is an easy way to make ready cash and I’m not above using my talents when I need to.
“It’s, well, it’s not unusual, quite common really… For people like me… For…”
“Eva, just spit it out.”
I take a deep breath and do just that. “I’m a mathematician. That means I can do a lot more with numbers than just adding up. I can see number patterns, remember sequences, calculate probabilities. So I don’t need to gamble, I can work out the probabilities of what card’s coming up, where the little ball will land, and only bet when the chances are I’ll win. And I do win. Most of the time. I like roulette best. American roulette…” I stop babbling, and fix my gaze on my feet, waiting for his reaction. After all my previous revelations this seems like a small thing to me, but you never can tell.
I wait a few seconds, staring at my red shoes and his shiny black ones, until his finger under my chin pushes my face up again. His dark chocolate eyes hold mine and I cringe, my mouth twisting into an embarrassed grimace.
“So what is it, some sort of system you have? Is it legal?”
“Legal? God, yes! I’m not a cheat. I just… I just follow the sequence of events and predict what’s coming next. Anyone can do it, given enough time. I just do it fast.”
“No matter how fast you are, how can you predict where the ball’s going to land? How can anyone? It’s a random event. Poker, yes, you can play that and use your skill to win. Up to a point. But a game of chance? Roulette? How can you be sure of winning at that?”
“It’s not random.”
He shoots me a look of disbelief and I start to get irritated. How many times do I have to tell him before he believes me? How much proof does he need before he’ll accept that I can do what I say I can do? Christ, why lie? It’s easy enough to demonstrate after all.
“I’m not going into the detail here, but just believe me when I tell you that particle physics has proven that the universe is not a random system. There is always order, always a sequence to be found. If the sample is large enough, the sequence repeats. Eventually. Otherwise the world would be a chaotic place, which it isn’t. Usually. Haven’t you ever wondered why it is that time moves forwards, not backwards?”
One glance at his face, his expression of utter incredulity, is sufficient to convince me that this is not a question that has troubled Nathan Darke over the years. I shrug. “Oh well, it must be just me then. Believe me, though, when I tell you that very little of what happens is ever random. And that’s all I do. I watch, wait until I see the sequence of colours, numbers, whatever, until I see the pattern emerging. And then I can forecast what’s coming. If I get it wrong occasionally I adjust my perception of the sequence slightly, just to make it more perfect, and go again. I rarely lose. In fact, I can’t remember when I last lost.”
Those incredulous eyebrows slowly lower as he considers my explanation. And, amazingly, accepts it. Hands on hips, he lowers his head, shakes it slowly before spearing me with his gaze again. “Bloody hell. So you’re going to make us our fortune in there, are you?”
I stiffen, straighten. I need to take charge of this, if he’ll let me. “No. They’ll throw us out if they think we’re cheating, if it’s too obvious. And anyway, they know me at Alea’s and I have a sort of agreement with them. I always limit my winnings to around a couple of thousand pounds.”
“An agreement?”
“Yes. I started going to casinos as soon as I turned eighteen, although I’d known since school that I could win at so-called games of chance by working out the number sequences—lots of us could. But I got carried away at first. I was too greedy, and got thrown out of the first couple of houses I tried it in. Then another time a pair of security guards marched me off to the manager’s office where I was searched for magnetic devices and such like. God, that was awful. I was so scared, I thought they were going to beat me up and throw me out in a back alley. But once she’d convinced herself I wasn’t cheating, the manager was actually very nice. She told me I could carry on gambling in her casino as long as I kept it moderate, as long as I didn’t take too much of their cash. Having a winner at the table encourages everyone else to have a go so the house sort of recoups its losses. In a way, I’m good for business.”
“But even keeping it moderate, as you put it, you could make a fortune by going around different places, taking just a thousand or two each time.”
“Yeah, but I only do it for fun, not for a living. It’s how I lay my hands on a bit of spare cash for luxuries, things like foreign travel. I get a lot of time off in the summer and I like to travel, and this is how I pay for it. Or if I want to buy something special—like my violin, for example—I nip into a casino and win the money.”
“Like the rest of us get cash from a cash machine?”
“Well, I never thought of it quite like that, but yes. Maybe. It really is quite legal. And doesn’t harm anyone. You don’t mind, do you? I should have told you all this before we came out. I’ll understand if you don’t want to go in with me now. We can just go back to your apartment and… Well, you know…”
“Yes I do know. And tempting as the prospect of fucking you is, like I said earlier, you’ll keep. Now, I just want to see you in action, in there.” He jerks his head to indicate the brightly lit casino entrance behind us, the revolving front door swishing around slowly. “But only on condition you let me buy the chips. It’s my treat, after all, I invited you out.”
I smile, delighted to have company on one of my gaming excursions. We glide through the doors, nodding to the smartly tuxedoed doorman as we make a beeline for the cashier’s desk to get some chips.
Three hours later, around one thirty in the morning we are strolling back around the more or less deserted dock, three thousand pounds richer. Nathan’s jacket is loosely hanging from my shoulders to ward off the slight late evening chill, and his arm is around my waist, holding me by his side.
Nathan insisted on buying, and he changed five hundred pounds for chips, which he shared equally with me. He lost his slice of the money within about half an hour, whilst I was still assessing the play at the American roulette table. Then, when I was ready to start playing, he simply stood beside me whilst I placed my bets. I’d decided to keep it simple by betting only on red or black to give myself a fifty-fifty chance without any additional edge from my peculiar talents. It was easy, ridiculously easy, and my winnings built slowly and steadily over the next hour or so. When I reached three and a half grand I decided to call it a night.
Nathan cashed in the chips then handed the wadge of notes to me. I refused, told him to have his stake back and put the rest towards car repairs. His eyes narrowed, he slipped the money into his inside jacket pocket, after peeling off a couple of twenties that he invested in a bottle of champagne. We drank it at a secluded table on a balcony overlooking the gaming floor. I had a wonderful time watching the gaming tables below, subconsciously tuning in to decipher the complex patterns and sequences, and amusing myself watching the many and various reactions of the players as they won or—more often—lost.
Nathan just amused himself watching me. I didn’t care, I was happy, enjoying myself, contented. Eventually, the bottle empty and upended in the wine cooler, by mutual unspoken consent we got up and strolled towards the exit. We both knew where we were headed and why. I was already wet.
* * * *
Now, back at Nathan’s building, we stand side by side in the lift, in silence, watching the lit-up numbers change on the display above the door. Nathan lifts his hands to slip the knot loose on his bow tie, leaving it to dangle around his neck. He opens the top two buttons on his dress shirt. The sexual awareness is palpable, the anticipation delicious, our intent absolute and clear.
The lift stops at Nathan’s penthouse floor and the doors slide open. We step out, cross the landing without lo
oking at each other, without words, and Nathan unlocks the door. He gestures me to go in first, and I hear the gentle click of the lock behind me as I carefully place his jacket, then mine, over the back of the settee. Before I can turn to him Nathan is at my back, lifting my hair to nibble the nape of my neck. I arch and stretch, waiting for him to peel my dress from my shoulders.
Instead, though, he turns me in his arms. Taking my face between his hands he tilts my chin up and his dark chocolate gaze is warm, hot, as he runs his eyes over every feature. He smiles at me, soft and sensual, before dropping his head to kiss me. He starts at my eyes, my cheeks, my ears, my chin, before finally placing his mouth over mine. He trails the tip of his tongue across the seam of my lips and I part them to let him in. He slips his tongue inside, tasting me, teasing me. I groan, the first sound from either of us since we arrived back, and that’s his signal to deepen the kiss. His arms slide around my back, holding me firm against him as he tilts his head to strengthen the seal. I press my hands against his chest, savouring the smooth silk of his expensive shirt before reaching up to loop my arms around his neck and just hang on. Without doubt I’d be on the floor if he wasn’t holding me upright.
At last, when I am near enough mindless with lust, he raises his head, looking down into my eyes. He straightens, steps away. Sliding the backs of his knuckles down my jaw and across my collarbone, he fingers the black silk of my dress.
“This is a beautiful dress, Eva. Take it off now.” The words are spoken softly, his eyes never leaving mine. My lips parted, unmoving, I gaze back as one dark eyebrow quirks upwards. “Now, Eva.” He steps farther away from me to sit back on the settee. He leans back, one ankle crossed over his knee as he watches me, waits for me to obey him. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to. He just waits.
Slowly, facing him, I reach behind me to lower the zip in the small of my back. I shrug my shoulders to let the straps slip off and down my arms. I’m not wearing a bra so my breasts are bared for him and I can see the appreciation in his eyes. He lets his gaze drift from my face, over my body and back again. He smiles, waits. And I let the dress drop to the floor. I am now standing before him in just a pair of bright crimson pants, black hold-up stockings and my beautiful fuck-me red heels. After a few moments I make to complete the strip show, but he stops me with a quick hand gesture, instead beckoning me to him.
