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‘Yes, er, hello darling. Just got caught up. I won’t be long,’ Ryan hissed into the phone, quickly moving down the corridor and out of the front door.
Erin smiled to herself: the girlfriend. Clearly Ryan’s sledgehammer seduction techniques worked on someone. She wandered back into the hallway, trying to add up her outgoings in her head, when suddenly there was the clatter of the lift door opening followed by raucous laughter. Seconds later, a head appeared round the door.
‘Oh hello. You must be
looking round,’ said an Irish accent.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Erin, a little surprised. She took a moment to look at him. He was late twenty-something with a crop of dirty blonde hair, a mischievous smile and lively eyes that looked a little glassy and drunk.
‘Sorry. Just being a good neighbour and all that,’ he said, slightly slurring his words. ‘I saw the door open, so I was just checking it hadn’t been burgled or anything.’ He vaguely extended a hand but then thought better of it and used it to prop himself up in the frame of the door. ‘Anyway. I’m Chris Scanlan.’
‘No, not a burglar, just looking round,’ smiled Erin. Chris Scanlan was dressed in a suit, she noted, but not one that suggested he worked in the City, more like a student dressing up for a wedding. He was standing next to a petite pretty girl with long dark hair who wrapped her arm proprietorially around his waist. She looked a little drunk too.
Chris Scanlan pointed to the door of number twelve. ‘I live there, by the way. Are you going to take it? I’m not drunk and noisy very often, honestly,’ he added.
‘I like it, but it’s a little pricy for me,’ she whispered, hoping Ryan Hall couldn’t hear her. ‘And,’ Erin smiled, ‘I think the all-night parties might be a bit much.’
‘Talking of all-night …’ smiled the little brunette, tugging Chris Scanlan’s hand towards his flat.
‘Well, it’s definitely a great place to live,’ said Chris over his shoulder, before he was yanked inside and the door was slammed.
What a prat, thought Erin. Do I want to pay all that money to live opposite some womanizer with balls bigger than his brains? She’d had enough of that with Richard.
‘So. Do you want overnight to think about it?’ asked Ryan Hall, appearing in the hallway slightly flustered. ‘Although I have to warn you, I’m showing three people round tomorrow morning.’
Erin turned around to look at the flat lying invitingly behind her. All cosy colours and soft lighting. And she thought of the Bayswater hotel costing her a hundred pounds a night.
‘How about I make a offer of four hundred a week?’ she said, smiling as sweetly as she could. ‘I can supply excellent references. I actually work for Adam Gold, you know, the property developer?’ said Erin hopefully.
But Ryan Hall didn’t need any more incentive. He was already thinking that, if he could get a nice low rent for this very pretty girl, then she might somehow owe him a favour. Like dinner at Lola’s.
‘Tell you what, I’ll put in a few calls and we’ll see if I can wave my magic wand,’ he said with a wink.
Erin drove all the way back to her single bed in Bayswater, hoping that Ryan Hall would do just that.
15
Alexander Delemere, fifth Lord of Stowe, thought his cock was about to explode. Molly Sinclair sat astride him, grinding her hips into his, the muscles of her pussy tightening exquisitely around his shaft, dipping her body so she lowered a sweet brown nipple into his mouth. Molly leant back, her spine arched, her rounded breast pointing skywards.
‘Yes, yes,’ she screamed, feeling the sweet pulse of orgasm swell around her body. ‘Hell yes!’ shouted Alex in reply, before collapsing on the crumpled linen of the hotel sheets.
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered, as Molly slid herself off his cock and lay down beside him to light a cigarette.
She propped herself up on a pillow and looked at Lord Alexander Delemere through a haze of grey smoke. Ever since Marcus had come on the scene, Molly had cut down her current list of lovers, but Alexander Delemere was one fix she was not prepared to give up, no matter how serious things were getting with Marcus. It never ceased to amaze Molly how good sex with Alexander Delemere could be. Age was not an issue when it came to Molly’s lovers: but enjoying sex, not having to fake orgasm, certainly was. Men over sixty were so soft – their crepe-textured skin, their blancmangey buttocks and their baggy balls could be quite off-putting unless she was drunk, but Alex was in fine shape for a man his age.
They had been meeting once a week at the Basil Street hotel ever since Evie Delemere’s christening, and the pattern was always the same. They would meet for a quiet lunch in Mayfair in dusty restaurants so far off the social scene they might as well have been in Scotland. Alex would have fish or pheasant. They would take a black cab to the Basil Street hotel where the concierge would pretend each time not to know them. They would undress, have sex, a little conversation, each time getting to know one another a little better. Sometimes Alex would present her with a gift. He was not a generous man. So far she had received an obvious red satin camisole that was too big, a box of chocolates and a small butterfly-shaped brooch with coloured stones that Molly thought were rubies but later discovered were merely crystal.
She was realistic enough to know that at this point she was no threat to his marriage, and that although Alex seemed to crave her body like some infatuated teenager it was going to take a good deal more than a handful of fucks in a Mayfair hotel to break up his marriage to Lady Vivian. He was old money, and that meant golden handcuffs and traditional values. But Molly wanted to keep this iron in her fire to see what would happen. And there were worse things to be than the mistress of one of the richest men in the country, after all.
She watched him get out of bed and put on a towelling robe.
‘Shall I order a little room service?’
Molly shook her head. ‘I assume you have to be going soon.’
‘You assume correctly,’ he replied, glancing at his watch. ‘Although I might ring down for a pot of tea.’
Molly had to suppress a smile. Rock and roll.
