by Penny Jordan
‘Yes,’ she managed to breathe out. Yes, yes, yes!
‘Is this the kind of thing you had in mind?’ His fingers teased at the edge of her panties, brushing ever so lightly around the hem.
Since the moment I laid eyes on you, she thought.
She began to tremble. Her hands shot to grip onto the padded bench. Her toes dug harder into the soft carpet. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, which felt as if they were burning up. ‘So far so good.’
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his arm and into his hand. Until her legs eased further apart. Just enough to give him all the access he desired.
Then, with no more finessing, one finger slipped behind the cotton barrier, then two. And her whole body shook with such a tremendous release of tension; hours’ worth, weeks, years, a lifetime worth of holding everything close to her chest lest someone take what little she had away from her.
This trick, this game, was no longer anything of the sort. As with her eyes closed tight, her knees shoulder-width apart, and her usual abundance of common sense having taken leave on another planet, she put every ounce of faith she had in her body not to let them get caught. And to let this man continue bestowing gift upon gift upon her every second his desire for her grew.
He touched her gently, deftly, as if he knew her. As if he knew exactly how far to go. When to apply pressure and when to pull away. A warm, melting weight made her body feel heavy. Pulling everything inwards towards his barely there contact.
Her breaths began to hitch in her throat. Her surroundings swarmed in on her. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her voice a desperate plea.
‘Yes, you bloody well can.’ His voice became little more than a growl, and it only made her hotter still. ‘You have no idea how much I want shove this table aside and lunge at you and sink my teeth into that spot where your neck meets your shoulder. I have truly never seen anything so gorgeous in my entire life. The only way to stop that kind of racket from happening is to give in and let me do this instead.’
With that he pushed her panties aside so that his whole hand could cup her, his every finger could move with her as she moved with him. As she tried so hard to keep still while instinct took over and she gave into it as he’d told her to do. She slid forward, let her head press against the back of the seat, and trusted him.
And in that moment she knew that even if she lost this round, she won.
It was enough for the last shreds of her self-control to fade away like a mirage in the far distance of her subconscious. She bit her lip to stop from making any sound as every warm, delicate sensation built to a tremendous crescendo before everything turned a blinding white and she dissolved into a million tiny little pieces.
It felt like hours later when his hand tidied her panties before sliding away. When her breathing returned to normal. When she could see more than a swirl of colours behind her eyelids.
‘Are you ready to choose your orders, sir?’ a male voice called from somewhere to Chelsea’s left.
Her eyes flung open to find Damien leaning back in his chair, cool as you please. ‘Are you ready, Chels?’ he asked.
He smiled at her then, a smile that would have seemed to any onlooker as though he was politeness himself. But she saw the pulse in his neck throb and his fingers clench the menu.
She pressed her knees back together and brought herself fully upright. It took for her to lick her lips and blink about a dozen times to collect herself into a position where she could find a word to say, but she got there in the end.
‘Steak,’ she said, ignoring her menu. ‘I was promised steak.’
‘Twice over,’ Damien said, closing the menu and passing it to the waiter. ‘I’ll have mine rare.’
‘How would you like yours cooked, ma’am?’
‘Well done for me. To the point of being dangerously dark. Tell the chef to take all the time he needs to cook it.’
The waiter glanced up at her, then at Damien, the slightest of frowns as he tried to decipher what he was missing in the conversation. But when they continued making eyes at one another across the table he figured it was better left unknown. ‘Very good,’ he said, then walked away.
Chelsea tugged her skirt back into place with one hand and reached for a glass of water with the other. She took a long sip, not quite knowing where to look. But when her eyes eventually found Damien’s, what she saw there eased her mind.
His eyes were the colour of a starless midnight sky. His hair ruffled as though he’d just run frustrated fingers through it. He wanted her even more. And she had the distinct impression this wasn’t even close to being as good as it was going to get.
She had to take a deep breath before throwing him a quick, ‘So what’s the party trick? I’m still waiting.’
And with that he burst into laughter. Loud, rolling waves that took the slow burn lingering in her limbs and blew them into the beginnings of a wildfire.
‘I’m going to freshen up,’ he said, sliding out from behind the table. But before he left he leaned down to kiss her. Holding her chin with enough force that as his mouth moved over hers she melted in his hold. Their tongues slid past one another. Their body heat intermingled.
He pulled away looking down into her eyes. ‘Delight,’ he said. ‘An unmitigated delight.’
Then he was gone, easing past the Ficus and through the labyrinthine tables and out of sight.
By the time dessert was almost over Damien cleared his throat and Chelsea glanced up at him, playing with the last strawberry, pushing it around with her fork and drowning in his dark eyes and chiselled jaw line.
He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, ‘Well, I for one think this has been a remarkable first date. What do you say to a second?’
His words hit somewhere deep inside her like a flaming arrow shot from point-blank range. It was enough for her to put her fork down, sit back in her chair, and fold her arms.
‘I’m undecided,’ she said. ‘Though they do say it’s the last five pages of a book that sell the next one.’
‘Talk about putting pressure on a guy,’ he joked, but for a moment he seemed genuinely surprised that she was keeping her options open. But he recovered remarkably quickly and said, ‘Time to turn the spotlight, I think. I’ve told you far more about my screwball family than you could ever want to know, so now it’s your turn. What’s your family like, apart from felonious?’
She coughed out a laugh, her turn to be surprised by him. ‘One sister. She was Kensington London to my Chelsea London until she very smartly married a guy called Greg Hurley. I blame my mother, who named us then left. My father died when I was sixteen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Neither of us have followed in either of their footsteps. Though Kensey did sell life insurance for a while. I’m sure there are many who would consider that a scam.’
‘One I’m afraid shadows my own family name. My father owns Universal Life,’ he said, naming one of the largest insurance companies in Australia.
Chelsea blanched. She’d known Damien was one of the bright and shiny ones, but he was a Halliburton of those Halliburtons? He was beyond a New Uniform type. Half the buildings in his school were likely named after his ancestors while her father had been a scab on the face of existence and she had no clue if her mother was even still alive.
Enough was enough. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loud enough to grab the attention of a passing waiter, as well as the five tables in between. ‘The bill, please,’ she told him, ‘and the faster it comes the more my friend here will tip.’
As Damien helped her from her seat he whispered in her ear, ‘If you only knew how much that acid tongue of yours turns me on I’m afraid you’d only bite it.’
He was dead right; she didn’t say another word, even as she quickly slid a small package from the pocket of her coat and left it with the hostess to give to Carrie.
Once they sorted out whose phone was whose, Damien held open the glass door fo
r her and led her outside. It was dark. Cold. Her breath expelled in short white puffs of air. She stomped her feet against the cold pavement and waited for him to join her.
He walked to her side, rubbing his hands together. ‘So,’ he said.
‘So,’ she said back through cold lips. ‘This has been some day.’
‘One I don’t think I’ll easily forget.’
She glanced sideways; her gaze caught with his and held. So blue. Her heart did some kind of acrobatics in her chest and, though she knew it was a bad idea, she desperately wanted him to ask her out again. Again.
‘I bet you didn’t picture being here twice in a day when you woke up this morning,’ she said, giving him time.
He laughed. ‘Ah, no. I think I may have pictured meetings, phone calls, working through lunch, leaving the office way past dark, taking more work home and falling into bed some time after midnight.’
Bed… At the word bed his voice dropped, and her nerves danced beneath her skin.
‘How about you?’ he asked.
‘Believe it or not you took the words right out of my mouth.’
Mouth… At the word mouth his gaze dropped to hers. It felt dry, in need of a quick lap of her tongue. As though he knew the self-control she was struggling against Damien smiled, abundantly confident in his sexual power.
But it didn’t make Chelsea feel like smiling. Her lungs felt tight, her nerve endings on fire, and her heart was beating so fast she thought it might pop fair through her chest.
Was he punishing her? Leaving it up to her to ask him back to her place for coffee and finish what they’d started because she’d been so blasé about the idea earlier? It was what her body was aching for her to do. It was practically screaming.
She was beginning to shake with the cold. She should just listen to her head, and kiss him on the cheek, and say goodnight. Or better yet goodbye.
But then she thought about what it would be like to go home to her empty apartment, where she would shiver for a good ten minutes until the central heating kicked in. And even when she was dressed in her comfy flannelette pyjamas and bed socks, she would still be alone.
So without a second thought she followed her instincts and reached out and grabbed two handfuls of glorious soft wool coat, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him full on the mouth. Giving everything she had.
As though he’d merely been waiting for her to make a move, he immediately wrapped his hand behind her neck, pulling her closer still. Her eyes closed, she breathed out through her nose and once again let down her guard and let him in.
He opened his coat and scooped her inside. She slid her arms around his waist and sank against him. And in his hold she felt warm, secure, desired, beautiful, and brimming with power. And maybe, just maybe, this thing that had sprung up so suddenly between them had the potential to be far more than what it seemed.
A wolf-whistle from some young punk in a passing car pulled Chelsea out of her reverie. She slowly ended the kiss and pulled back just far enough to draw breath. Hard breaths, heavy breaths, but not nearly as hard and heavy as those belonging to the man in her arms.
‘Come home with me,’ she said, her voice husky and soft.
He swallowed and leaned his forehead against hers. For so many seconds they felt like minutes. Until she began to wonder if he’d heard her at all. She prepared herself to ask again when he finally said:
‘Not tonight, Chelsea.’
Her blood turned to cold sludge in her veins. Now she just wanted to get out of there and fast. She began by uncurling her fingers from his coat.
‘You have no idea how much I want to,’ Damien said, not letting her go just yet, pulling her closer until she felt the physical evidence of his words. ‘But I have an early meeting. And after spending every spare minute on the phone to you, I have a pile of papers to catch up on at home before then.’
He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Any chance I can get your phone number, though?’
Chelsea thought about telling him where he could stick her number. But now more than anything she wanted to walk away feeling sophisticated, or at least hoping he saw her as such. Not used and shattered and weak and self-destructive for trusting him so quickly when he’d given her no real cause to apart from seeming too good to be true.
She reached into her purse, pulled out a pen, grabbed his hand, turned it over and wrote her mobile number on his warm palm and then began backing away.
‘So that’s goodnight?’ he asked, arms outstretched, broad form haloed by the light spilling from inside the restaurant.
She kept backing away, her heels clacking on the concrete beneath her feet, putting more and more distance between them. ‘You’d better get home quickly if you don’t want my number to rub away.’
His arms dropped to his sides and, the further she went, the darker and more shadowed his face became until she could no longer see the expression in his eyes. And just like that he was no more to her than a beautiful stranger again. She would do well to remember it.
He pushed his coat aside, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. Lifting his hand towards the streetlight, he punched in a bunch of numbers.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and out rang the theme tune from The Mary Tyler Moore Show—a show she and Kensey had loved watching the few months growing up they’d had access to a television. Despite the fact that she was doing her best to disentangle herself from him, she answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Chelsea, hi. It’s Damien.’
‘Damien who?’ She felt his smile from twenty good metres away. She didn’t know him, but it sure felt as if she did. Knew him, liked him, and much more…She picked up her pace.
‘Ah, the age-old question. Right up there with who am I? Why am I here? What’s my favourite colour? Now you have my number in your phone you can call me back some time in order to find out.’
She watched him flip his phone shut, a flat tone buzzed in her ear. She flipped hers shut as well and slid it back into her purse. From halfway down the block he was now half hidden by the light pedestrian traffic.
She saw him raise a hand goodbye, but she just turned and walked away, knowing there was no way on God’s green earth she’d be calling him.
His second rebuff in one night well and truly restored the temporary kink in her self-control.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘SIR?’
Damien’s vision cleared to find Mindy looking at him expectantly. ‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘Are you ready for our reports?’ she asked.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just after seven a.m. He looked around the oval conference table at his team, who all had mugs of steaming hot coffee in their hands to combat the early hour, and looks of faint concern in their eyes that their intrepid leader obviously wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
‘Your reports,’ he said. ‘Of course. Go. Shoot.’
‘Right,’ Mindy said, then launched into a bullet-point breakdown of every news report of the night before that she thought might be relevant to the upcoming day’s trades.
Damien’s leg started shaking at the lead story. He’d torn off the ends of his fingernails on one hand by the time they hit the special interest section. He almost made it all the way through the weather, before he scraped his chair back so loud the whole room went quiet.
Caleb mouthed, What are you doing?
‘I’ll be back in a sec. Keep going.’
And then he tore from the room.
‘I have an early meeting,’ he said aloud, repeating the words that had been thumping in his head the whole night through as he’d lain awake on Caleb’s couch, alone, wishing he could turn back the clock and follow Chelsea wherever she led.
He had had an early meeting as he did every day of the week and it had never stopped him from indulging in night-time action before.
But when Chelsea had asked him to come home with her, something about her, about
the ingenuous intensity of her preceding goodnight kiss, had spooked him enough for him to tell a beautiful and willing woman who’d had him wound up as tight as a new spring, ‘Not tonight.’
He’d been, of all things, honourable. And then somewhere in the middle of the night, as he’d tossed and turned on Caleb’s couch, he’d decided honour could go jump.
So what if she smelt like sunshine not perfume? So what if she was soft, and vulnerable, and honest and nothing about her screamed one-night stand?
He had to see her again.
He found himself in the lift and pressed the button for the ground floor. He slid his phone from his pocket and keyed in her phone number, which was now already imprinted on his brain like a brand. It rang. And rang. And rang.
The lift binged, he was in the foyer and moving through the revolving glass doors to Collins Street. The autumn chill seeped beneath his shirt, tie and suit trousers in a Melbourne minute.
Damien gripped the phone in preparation of slamming it closed, when the ringing tone stopped and a familiar voice said, ‘Good morning, Damien.’
‘Chelsea.’ He turned down a side alley and out of the way of passers-by and the bluster shooting down the Collins Street wind tunnel. ‘Hi. Hi. Good morning yourself.’
He slapped a hand across his eyes. Okay, so now that you have her what are you going to do with her?
‘You’ll have to be quick,’ she said, her voice far cooler than his. ‘I’m literally on my way out the door. Early meeting.’
Well, he deserved that. ‘Of course. No worries. I just…I wanted to call to say hello.’
Smooth. You are truly some kind of Valentino. She’ll be quivering at the knees right this second.
‘Would have been cheaper to send a text message. Or a postcard. How about next time you get the urge you post me a letter? People don’t write nearly enough nowadays.’
‘Chelsea—’
‘I get it,’ she said. ‘Truly. You don’t have to ease your conscience with some heartfelt rendition of “it’s not you it’s me”. Yesterday was one out of the box. And last night was something else entirely. But all in all it was a story with which to delight your friends come Friday night happy hour. You’re not the first, and I’m sure despite my best efforts you won’t be the last, man I meet who’ll have an early meeting.’
