I follow him into a square hallway with dark wooden flooring, spotlights on the ceiling and five doors leading off to different rooms. There’s a smell of vanilla coming from a plug-in near the front door.
‘Just through to the right, Cat. I’ll put the kettle on.’
I wander through, park myself on his couch and sink in. Holy shit, I’m comfortable. The room is nothing like I thought it would be. Bright and airy, lots of plants, and an old-fashioned record player in one corner. He does have a massive wall-mounted flat screen, but the most impressive aspect of the room is the large mahogany bookcase that sits against the left wall. This man is a serious reader, which of course makes him a million times more attractive, if that’s possible. I creep over to have a look. You can tell a lot from the books a man keeps, and I want to find out exactly who I’m dealing with. I tilt my head and run my finger along the spines; Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Dickens, King, Koontz, David Nicholls, Tolkien –
‘There’s another bookcase in the bedroom, if you want to peruse that next.’
I spin around as if I’ve been caught reading through his emails. ‘What? Oh no, sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just like books.’
‘Coffee’s ready.’
I spot a small tray with two black cups and some milk and sugar sitting on the coffee table. So far there’s nothing about this place I don’t like, but the night is still young . . . he could have a waterbed and a sex swing waiting in the next room.
He puts on some music from an iPod dock.
‘Doesn’t your record player work?’ I ask, plopping a brown sugar cube into my coffee.
‘It does, but I don’t use it very often.’ He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. ‘I only have really old LPs – you probably wouldn’t enjoy them.’
‘Why not? What kind of music are you into?’ I sip my coffee, thinking that this whole scenario is much more civilized than I expected. ‘Please don’t tell me you have a stack of really shady eighties bands on vinyl.’
‘Hey! I can get just as excited by an eighties pop tune as I can by Frank Sinatra or Daft Punk. Although I draw the line at country. Even Johnny Cash can’t make that shite cool. The vinyl is mostly from the seventies.’
I notice that while he’s been talking, he’s also been unbuttoning his shirt. Before I can say anything more, he’s taken it off and is laying it over his jacket. Fucking hell, he’s confident, and one look at his torso makes me understand why. His abs are toned and his skin looks peachy . . . but I guess biting isn’t an option on a one-night stand.
‘Um, you seem to be undressing.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ He sits down to take off his socks. I place my coffee cup back on the tray and decide to join in.
‘I like Johnny Cash.’ I kick off one of my shoes, praying that my big toe hasn’t tried to liberate itself from my tights. ‘“Rusty Cage” is a genius song. And John Denver wrote some amazing stuff.’
His socks are off and he’s standing up. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a Taylor Swift fan too? Dixie Chicks? If you mention Shania Twain, I’m throwing you out.’ He watches me peel off my tights and I straighten to meet his gaze.
‘As it happens, I do like Taylor Swift, but I’m also very involved with Johnny Cash. Are you really going to criticize my musical tastes when you’ve got Jessie J on your iPod?’ I reach behind to unzip my dress.
His hand moves down to his belt buckle and he smiles. ‘Yeah, I’ll let you have that one. Though “Price Tag” is a tune . . . Do you need help with that?’
I have one hand behind my neck and the other trying to grasp for the zip, which is caught on the fucking fabric. I must look like a really shit contortionist, so I laugh and nod. Dylan walks towards me and I can see the little line of hair running from his belly button and disappearing under his undone jeans. My heart begins to race.
‘Turn around,’ he says forcefully.
Don’t sing the next line from ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’.
I turn and face the other wall and suddenly he presses his body up against my back, moving my hair out of the way. I can feel his breath on my neck. He tugs slowly at the zipper and it slides down, followed by my dress, which pools around my ankles. As I step out of it, I hear him kicking off his jeans. He puts his hands round my waist and firmly pulls me into him.
Christ, he feels huge. The teenage girl in me wants to swing round for a look at his bulge, but he’s kissing my neck and running his hands over my breasts and stomach and I’m torn between never wanting this part to end and throwing myself down on the ground in a happy tantrum, yelling, ‘PUT YOUR PENIS IN ME THIS VERY SECOND OR I MIGHT JUST DIE!’
Suddenly he spins me around and grabs my hand. I subtly try to stuff my tits back into my bra as he leads me along the hall to his bedroom, but eventually give up when I become transfixed on his very naked arse. He has a better arse than I do.
His bedroom is dimly lit but the light from the hall lets me see that it’s very spacious – several prints hang on the dark walls, and the carpet feels soft and inviting between my toes. I stand beside the bed while he closes the door behind him. It’s pitch black.
‘Should we turn a light on? I can’t see a thing,’ I ask quietly.
He takes my hand again and pushes me gently on to the bed. ‘I don’t want you to see this. I want you to feel it.’
He gives me the softest, slowest kiss. Soft lips, soft tongue – one hand holds the back of my head and the other undoes my bra like a lingerie ninja. His kisses continue down my body, and by the time his mouth is between my legs I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out, because this is outrageously good. Then it happens. Dylan makes me come so hard, I want to have a little cry, but before I can offer him a standing ovation and a knighthood he wraps my legs around his waist. Two hours later we’re three condoms down and I’ve had the best sex of my life. I’m lying next to a man who’s vaping on an e-cig and has turned me into a shuddering wreck. I’m a dishevelled mess. He nudges me.
‘You’ve gone all quiet again. Are you thinking about Taylor Swift?’
