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It’s all the reminder—and insurance—I need. There’s no danger here. No risk. I know who I am and why. I know the forces that shaped me into this man, and they were strong—too strong to ever resist or ignore. Even if Jessica begged me to turn this into something more, I’d say ‘no’—albeit gently—because I know I’ll never want a relationship. So I can let go of the worry and just surrender to the pleasure of what we’re doing. Just as we agreed.
* * *
‘You come here often?’
She fits perfectly into my side, her body so sensational that I’ve struggled to take my eyes off her since I picked her up half an hour ago. I’d told her we were going to a bar and she’s dressed in a silk dress with thin straps and a draped sort of neckline that hangs low enough to show more than a hint of her rounded breasts. It’s cut in a way that sits firm on her body without being skintight, and it stops mid-thigh. In strappy high heels and with her hair out and waved, she looks good enough to eat. And I can’t wait to do just that.
Why did I even suggest we go out?
To prove to yourself you can, a voice reminds me. To do the normal stuff I do with other women. I don’t usually chain a woman to
my bed for the whole time we’re together, so why am I guarding my time with Jessica so fiercely, as though she means too much to share?
More stupidity from me.
‘From time to time.’
‘I just thought the doorman seemed to know you?’ She has to lean closer to be heard above the low, bass-heavy music. She smells like vanilla and honey.
‘Maybe.’ I don’t point out he probably recognised me from the newspapers, because it seems unnecessarily arrogant, but a second later her grin shows me she’s jumped to the same conclusion.
‘You’re such a big shot.’
I laugh, low and soft. ‘And don’t you forget it. Champagne?’
She wrinkles her nose as she considers that. ‘No. A cocktail.’
I run my fingers over her hip—the dress is silky and soft to touch. My dick jerks in response to her warmth, her proximity and the feeling of silk beneath my palm.
At the bar, I reach for a menu. She scans it and, when a barman approaches, leans forward to place her order. I see the way his eyes drop to her cleavage and every masculine instinct I possess fires to life, my hand forming a fist at my side before I realise what I’m doing.
Since when is that in my repertoire?
Jessica is a big girl, she can look after herself. One thing’s for certain—she’s been hit on by a lot of men in her life and she’s more than capable of deciding for herself if she’s interested or not.
I add my order to hers then loop my hands behind her back, drawing her closer to my body, letting one hand inch lower to the top of her butt, brushing her there, aching to have her home and naked. Her breasts against my shirt are soft—she’s not wearing a bra, and that makes my head thud, close to exploding.
‘Seriously, though, do you come here often?’
I look around the bar, my eyes taking in the opulent setting, rich with details that evoke the glamour of the twenties. The décor is distinctly art deco, the carpet a rich burgundy, the tables a mix of banquettes that look as if they’d be at home in a mob hang-out, seats with green leather and table tops heavily glossed timber, and high tables with gold seats. The bar throngs with well-heeled patrons, many of whom I recognise—some as people I’ve done business with, others because they’re personalities. Anonymity comes from the fact it’s busy, and busy with the kind of people who value privacy.
‘I like it,’ I say.
‘So it’s somewhere you’d come to hook up?’ she prompts as the waiter slides our drinks across the bar. I hand over my black credit card with its distinctive gladiator logo and silver edge.
‘Hook up?’
Her eyes lift heavenwards. ‘You know, meet women.’
I wonder why I shy away from the conversation when Jessica apparently has no issues with it.
‘I’ve met women here.’
Her eyes narrow inquisitively. ‘And you do that a lot.’
I can’t say why but this conversation is one I really don’t want to have.
‘Why do you ask?’
