by Parker Swift
As he went to get the shower running, I took in my reflection. I felt warm, replete. I couldn’t help but smile.
When he returned, he came up behind me, his eyes travelling over my reflection. “Look at you. You’re glowing.” He was right. He stroked my back, and then he gently pushed me forward, causing me to bend at my hips, and ran his palms down my arms. He leaned over me, into me, and laid a kiss between my shoulder blades. He firmly planted my hands on the vanity, under his own. “Keep your hands there. Understand?” I nodded at him in the mirror. “No moving.” Then, he grabbed my hips and pulled them back, so I was bent over fully. “Spread your legs.” I complied, moving them a couple of feet apart. “Wider,” he instructed, and I moved them again. I suddenly felt so exposed and available. He whispered in my ear, sweetly, firmly, “Bossy, remember?”
“I know. I think I like it,” I replied in a matching whisper.
He ran his long fingers down my spine and slid them through my wetness. “I can tell.”
He reached over to my side, opened a drawer in the vanity, and grabbed another condom. Did he have them stashed in every room in the house? I wasn’t sure I liked what that implied, but I pushed the unpleasant thought aside, determined to enjoy this, enjoy him. The room was beginning to fill with steam as he positioned himself at my entrance, holding his tip right there, grazing me.
“This time,” he said, breathing into my back and kissing my neck. I started to quiver, desperate for him to enter me again. “I’m not going to be quite so gentle.”
“Oh god.” I grunted as he entered me.
He was right. This time was fierce and uncompromising, and my knees were going to buckle under the intensity of the orgasm headed my way. He reached around and began strumming my clit in sync with his thrusts, and my back arched to try to absorb the pleasure. His feet were firmly planted between my own, preventing me from closing my thighs and curbing the oncoming tidal wave.
Finally, he leaned over, and whispered harshly in my ear, “Come now, Lydia. I want you to come now.”
And his words kicked me over the edge. My orgasm was a ship and Dylan was its captain. He’d willed it with sheer determination. He reached his climax and held himself firmly buried in me for moment. I collapsed, leaning backwards into him, my own reverberations still pulsing through me. He withdrew, turning me and letting me sink into his chest, my cheek buried against him, and he brushed my hair from my face.
“I can’t get enough of you, Lydia. I’ve never known someone so…” He paused, breathing into my hair.
“So what?” I asked, catching my breath against his skin.
“So alive.”
* * *
We showered, soaking up the heat together. He washed me carefully, tenderly. He glided his soapy palms between my legs, and I winced as I became aware of the growing soreness.
“How do you feel?” he asked, rising and pulling me into a slippery soapy embrace, my back to his front.
“A little sore.” I leaned back into him.
“Good.”
I turned to look at him with a “what are you, a sadist?” look.
He smirked back. “You’ll be feeling me all day tomorrow.” He was gently stroking me between my soapy legs.
God, that sounded sexy.
I had no idea how late it was, but I was completely wrecked. I also suddenly realized that I had no idea what his expectations were. “So, I’m hoping that sleeping over is part of this deal; otherwise you’ll have to carry me home.”
I felt him flinch and tense next to me. He paused, but then gave me a slight smile. “A bit knackered, are we?”
“A wee bit.” I gave him my best English accent. “Turns out you’re an absolute beast in the sack.” I stepped out of the shower, and he followed, handing me an enormous white fluffy towel.
“And that was only our first go.”
“And second,” I said.
He smiled. “Sure, spend the night.”
Why did that feel like a concession? It was clearly going to take some stumbling to figure out the boundaries of this secret sex fling I was embarking on.
I sat on the edge of the bed and combed through my hair with my fingers, waiting for Dylan to join me. He came and swooped in behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me into bed with him, whisking away my insecurities about whether it was ok for me to stay. He pulled up the covers around me.
“So, um,” I began, “the bossiness thing…”
“Just tell me if it’s too much.” He must have sensed that I wanted more information, because he continued unprompted, “There is enough that is unpredictable and fast-paced about my life, Lydia. I may not have freedom and control in certain things, but when it comes to sex…” He paused for a moment, looking as though “sex” wasn’t quite the right term for what was happening. “When it comes to this, I need total control, no surprises. None.”
He was lost, thinking of something else, and a quick coldness flashed between us, but then he came back to me. He curled around me, and with his hand spread across my stomach, he pulled me against him.
“I’ll make it good for you, baby. Always. Now sleep, Lydia,” he instructed.
And I did. I fell into a deep, sated sleep, dreamily aware of the big, strong hand that lay over my hip the whole night, and silently trying to convince myself that I was fine with just being Dylan’s well-attended-to secret friend with benefits.
Chapter 11
Lydia, wake up. It’s nearly seven.”
Where was I? I opened my eyes and took in the expansive white bedroom. I had only seen it in the dark, but I now appreciated the unfinished wood accents and subtly masculine features of the space. The enormous bed took up only a fraction of the room. Past the end of the bed was the wide entrance to a sitting room with another fireplace and lined with built-in bookshelves, filled perfectly with enormous art and design books and rows and rows of old-looking leather-bound volumes. Off to the left were two enormous elegant windows bordered with long natural-colored linen drapes that pooled at the floor. I saw the low chair in front of the windows and blushed remembering the way he’d unzipped my dress there the night before. Off to the right were doors leading to the bathroom and, presumably, a closet. This guy had mastered the combination of cool modern and old English—there wasn’t anything snooty about this place, but it was undeniably luxe.
I propped myself up and took him in as well. He was showered, dressed in another perfectly fitting suit and crisp blue shirt. A thin striped tie grazed my breasts as he leaned in for a kiss.
“Up,” he commanded. “I’m going to head off now. Lloyd will be back at half seven to take you to your place. I just ask that you leave through the rear door.”
He had every right to ask—that was our deal, after all. A secret. I was going to have to retrain my brain not to interpret requests like that as hurtful. But oddly, the way he avoided my eyes when he asked made me think that, just maybe, he didn’t feel great about asking either.
“Ok,” I agreed and pushed my hair away from my face.
“There’s coffee,” he said, pointing to a steaming mug on my bedside table. “Make yourself at home.” Why did this feel so awkward in the light of day?
He looked at me, surely sensing my hesitation. “Lydia, last night was lovely for me. Not my usual situation, but lovely all the same.” He was inserting cufflinks and straightening his shirt beneath his jacket, all while making his way to the door.
Not his usual situation?
I thought what we were doing was exactly his usual situation—casual sex. “What do you mean?” I asked, holding the duvet against my chest.
“You spent the night,” he clarified matter of factly.
Oh.
“Dylan.” I stopped him before he had a chance to leave. “Thank you for dinner. I really enjoyed it.”
“Oh, I know,” he said, with a wry smile. “I’ll call you,” he added, turning back towards the door.
And he was off. I got up to
use the bathroom, and then returned to his bed, living it up in his million-thread-count sheets with my steaming cup of coffee. I thought I could seriously get used to that, but then I remembered it probably wouldn’t happen again. This retraining my brain thing was going to take some time.
When I next looked at the clock, it was already 7:25. I scampered into my dress and jacket, but I couldn’t find my panties anywhere. After looking for a few minutes in the bedroom and bathroom, it dawned on me that I probably wasn’t going to find them. I probably should have found it gross that Dylan had obviously stolen them, but I couldn’t deny that the idea of him taking them, thumbing them in his pocket, and maybe getting off while holding them was making me wet. If I’d had more time I would have gone right back to his bed and taken the opportunity to get myself off. Fuck, what had gotten into me? One night of hot sex, and I was a crazed fiend? I downed my coffee, headed downstairs, and was just putting my cup in the sink when I saw Lloyd pull up to the side door.
* * *
On my walk to the tube from my house, where I’d gotten ready for work in record time, I checked my phone to find three texts from Daphne.
TUESDAY, 9:43 pm
Those are gorgeous!
WEDNESDAY, 1:13 am
How was dinner? I want to hear everything
WEDNESDAY, 6:09 am
These texts are expensive and you’re leaving me hanging here. Call me!
Shit. This was going to be a conversation. She’d be thrilled that I was finally actually sleeping with someone, but I could hear her worry already. After weeks of talking about Dylan, convincing her that I could roll with the casual non-commitment secrecy aspects of thing would be a hard sell. She was going to be worried for me, and maybe she had a right to be. I was going to put off talking to her until I’d sufficiently convinced myself. I replied hastily before descending the steps underground:
WEDNESDAY, 8:23 am
Dinner was good. Details later. Xo
She would not be satisfied with that.
I walked into the office at 8:45, and everything was already abuzz. Josh quickly caught me up that Hannah had just been notified that a dress from her upcoming collection would be on display at a museum gala on Friday, and everyone was frantically putting together media materials, tracking down a model, and anxiously checking things off lists. I could see Hannah behind the glass wall of her office, talking on the phone. Just as I was about to duck into my own office, she looked up, caught my eye, and gestured for me to come into her office.
I was nervous to be meeting her on this busy day, but at least this way I could jump right in and be helpful. I dropped my jacket and bag quickly, picked up a notebook and pen, and quietly ducked into her office. She gestured to a chair, where I sat down, back straight, waiting to make a good impression while she wrapped up her phone conversation. “I’m honored, Tom, really. Thank you for thinking of me.…We’re busy making the selection right now.…Terrific. Thanks again…Sure. Cheers.” I looked around as she chatted and took in the perfectly hip and modern office. She was surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches. She put the receiver down and looked at me. “And you must be Lydia.”
“Yes. It’s such an honor to meet you in person, Ms. Rogan—”
“Hannah. Please,” she said while looking at something on her desk in front of her. I straightened my back and refocused. She obviously wasn’t the buddy-buddy maternal type.
“Hannah. Yesterday was a great day, and I’m thrilled to be here. I know it’s a very busy time of year, so I hope I can hit the ground running. Fiona has been extremely helpful in getting me settled.”
“Terrific. You’re ready for this? You don’t need any additional time to acclimate to the time change?” she asked, without looking up at me. I had the feeling this was a test.
“Absolutely, Hannah. No acclimating required.”
“Good. I’ll need you here until at least six tonight, and later going forward,” she said, still looking down at the paperwork on her desk.
“Of course,” I replied with as much confidence as I could muster.
“Good. Let Fiona know if you have any questions. I think we’ll get along fine.” She glanced up and towards the door to let me know that the introductory gabfest was over. I rose from my seat and turned to leave.
“And, Lydia,” she said. I turned around, slightly anxious. “Great skirt,” she said, looking back down at the work on her desk.
My shoulders sank in relief. I’d taken a risk on an extremely bright, practically neon pencil skirt with a white blouse and nude pumps. I figured it might distract from my unshowered ponytail hair and hasty makeup job.
I had a feeling that while Hannah might not be the person I went crying to when I missed home or broke a nail that I was going to learn a lot from working with her.
The rest of the morning went by in a blur. My soreness was a constant reminder of the night before, just as Dylan had promised, and the fact was I loved being sore from him. But given that it was day two at my new job, I did my best to distract myself. Fiona was out scouting the space for this museum gala that would be featuring the works of contemporary designers and artists, including one of Hannah’s gowns. I was fielding calls and scheduling appointments with a few important clients whom Hannah would dress for this party. It was apparently one of the big social events of the year, and even some of the royals would attend.
I was grateful that Josh and Fiona were both unavailable at lunch. I needed to catch a few moments on my own. I’d barely had a second to even register the night before since it had happened. I grabbed my tote, and carted myself to a nearby park with a coffee and sandwich.
I couldn’t believe it—I was sitting here, light, happy, and the previous night I’d had incredible, mind-blowing sex with Dylan Hale. For the past few years I’d become increasingly afraid that I was never going to want someone, that I’d never know the crazy, giddy, glowy attraction I’d seen on Daphne and my other friends, that sex was always going to be for someone else. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how terrified I’d been that it would never change, what a sad weight that had been.
The one therapist I’d seen when I was nineteen thought I’d formed some kind of association between my dad’s illness and sex, but that time would heal it. And maybe it had. Or maybe it had been Dylan. I honestly didn’t care. I wanted to do it again and again. With him. It killed me that I didn’t know when I would see him again, but I knew my role was to play this cool. And that—having to play it cool, having to be a secret—was something I just couldn’t question at that moment.
I wouldn’t.
Because if I let myself go there, let myself reflect on the fact that I was walking headfirst into a one-hundred-percent casual non-relationship with Dylan, that I was probably going to end up shattered by this thing between us, there was a chance that everything that had been perfect about the night before would disintegrate. So for now, I was going to embrace playing it cool.
I felt my phone vibrate in my bag. Surely it’d be Daphne. But I looked down, and it was Dylan:
WEDNESDAY, 1:12 pm
What are you doing?
Shit. My grin was face splitting—playing it cool was going to be harder than I wanted it to be.
WEDNESDAY, 1:13 pm
Reminiscing
WEDNESDAY, 1:14 pm
About?
WEDNESDAY, 1:14 pm
Well, I’m having trouble remembering the details. Something about showers and being sore?
WEDNESDAY, 1:15 pm
I’ll jog your memory. Come see me tomorrow. My office. 6pm. Lloyd will pick you up from work.
How the hell was it possible for a text to make me wet? Just knowing I’d be seeing him again made me shiver with anticipation. He was still thinking about me.
WEDNESDAY, 1:15 pm
I’ll be there.
WEDNESDAY, 1:16 pm
Also, for the record, stealing panties is kind of pervy.
WEDNESDAY, 1:16 pm
But worth it to be able to imagine you in that dress with nothing on underneath. Plus, I’m willing to bet you were turned on.
WEDNESDAY, 1:17 pm
See you tomorrow.
WEDNESDAY, 1:17 pm
Busted, damsel.
Chapter 12
By the time I got home at the end of the day, I felt like I’d lost hours. We’d been up and moving and on the phone the whole afternoon, trying to get things ready for the museum event on top of preparing for London Fashion Week. When I left, the office had still been buzzing.
As soon as I walked in the door of my little house, I changed into jeans, poured myself a glass of wine, and decided to sit on the patio in the back and soak up what was left of the day’s warmth while I watched the sky darken.
I was letting the day’s busyness slide off of me when I heard a very loud, very boisterous “Well, hello there!” I nearly fell off my chair and lost half my wine in the process. I looked up to see my neighbor in his backyard looking over the low wall with a chummy how-do-you-do smile on his face.
I wiped the wine off my jeans, and pulled myself together. “Um, hi.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Michael, the neighbor. Obviously.” He said it in that classic English self-deprecating way. And he was handsome. No one would have argued that point, although my definition of handsome had recently been shifted by Dylan. No one stacked up anymore. Michael was wearing the remains of a workday suit, with his purple-checked sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned. His floppy dirty-blond hair gave him the air of a jovial tennis-playing collegiate type.
I stood up and approached the wall. “I’m Lydia Bell,” I replied with as much cheer as I could muster after having my solitude interrupted. “I’m housesitting—”
