We stand side-by-side as we watch the few seconds of cinematic perfection we’ve created. It looks exactly as it’s supposed to: like a moment of passion in a moonlit kitchen. Sheknew how to position the camera to get the best light, the best view. She knew how to pose so she looked like she was having an orgasm on the counter just from being lifted onto it.
I don’t know what to say.
“Wow,” she murmurs. “You did do it in one take.”
Later, as I’m finally falling asleep, I replay her words. Was it disappointment I heard in her voice, or did I imagine it?
Perhaps,just perhaps, I wasn’t the only one who wanted to do it over and over again.
19
DIANA
Iwake early, after a restless night of sleep, and the first thing that pops into my head is Rafe. It’s this way every day; he’s a plague I can’t get rid of.
He hasn’t offered to make any more content with me since the midnight kitchen episode a few days ago. In fact, he hasn’t mentioned the episode at all. If I didn’t have the evidence of it on my phone, I’d think I dreamt it. I felt so guilty about the fact he’d hurt himself that I forgot about how turned on I was when he lifted me onto the counter. Recalling it now, I can still feel the heat of his hand and the firmness of his grip on my thigh. The torment in his voice when he asked for permission to let go, and how I’d clung to his shirt like a desperate, love-sick fool. If he hadn’t cut his hand, I don’t know what might have happened.
No wonder he hasn’t mentioned it again.
I posted the video after I’d edited it. It got millions of views, and my follower count exploded overnight.
I didn’t tell him, and he didn’t ask. It feels like another dirty little secret, but this time it’s one we’re both in on. Since then, he’s kept a bit more of a distance between us, and ourinteractions have been strictly professional. He’s been more focused on helping me find ways of increasing my income quickly, pushing me to reach out to people who can help: authors, publishers, PR companies. He’s even convinced me to create an online course for content creators, sharing what I’ve learnt over the past few years, and I’ve started drafting it. My mind is constantly full—of work, of him, of the future. Sleep eludes me.
I sit up in bed, arousal building low in my hips as I think about Rafe. I drag my hands down my face, wishing I could control the way I feel about him, at least a little bit.
But I can’t.
As I see it, I have two choices. Masturbate while thinking of my friend’s dad or go for a swim.
A swim it is.
Getting up quietly, I put on my bikini (yes, Rafe’s PA thought of everything), grab a towel and make my way to the basement. The pool room is dimly lit, and the ceiling is painted in gold leaf. It’s a bit like a mermaid lagoon down here, and apparently the water is fresh, not chlorinated. I swim uninterrupted for half an hour, free-styling fast, my blood whooshing in my ears as I spin a turn at each end and push off to return.
I begin to relax, releasing my early morning Rafe-induced tension, when I come up for air only to see a figure enter the room.
I pause, hooking my elbows over the tiled edge to rest, my breaths coming fast. I’ve pushed myself harder than I’m used to.
But that’s not why my heart is racing. It’s Rafe, wearing a pair of pale blue swimming trunks and a white t-shirt, standing in the doorway, watching me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“You swim well,” he says as he approaches, tossing his towel onto a nearby lounger.
I swipe the water droplets from my face. “I used to be on the team at school, but now I’m just average.”
“Not average,” he says, toeing off his loafers, which strike me as a curious choice of footwear for the poolroom. But then they’re more formal than flip-flops, and he’s not a flip-flop kind of man.
He sits on the edge of the pool, his legs, all tanned and covered in dark hair, sliding into the water. His thighs are thick with muscle, and the exposed part above his knee, but below the hem of his trunks, is so close I could reach out and touch it without even having to stretch.
I should leave; I know I should. But I don’t want to. I want to stay and endure the delicious awkwardness of his company, feeling how his presence makes my heart beat faster and my body tingle. I want to be alone with him, without my laptop or my spreadsheets, and now that he’s here, sitting on the edge of the pool, and we’re alone at some crazy early hour in the morning, I can’t move away.
Heat brushes my skin as his gaze lifts from the water’s surface, rising over my bikini-covered breasts. I feel almost naked, butterflies soaring in my stomach as his dark eyes lift to meet mine. There’s no sign of want or desire in his gaze; his face is fixed in neutral—a careful mask that offers me nothing.
“I took another look at your financials.”
“You did?” I ask, determined to sound calm.
He nods. “They’re looking strong. Much better. You’ve done really well.”
