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CHAPTER SIX
I SNEAK OUT while he is asleep. Somewhere in the middle hours of the night, in the gap between darkness and dawn, champagne and pleasure have receded from my body, leaving only a gaping hole of uncertainty.
I watched him sleep. I watched his chest, his beautiful chest so covered in tattoos, as it lifted up and down with reassuring regularity. I watched his parted lips release their breaths, and I wondered if I dared to steal, while he was sleeping, the kiss we had forgotten about.
I watched his eyelids flutter as he dreamed—of me, I hope.
And then I slid my feet from the bed, my body all kinds of sore and aware, my heart groaning in complaint at the removal of the possibility of more Connor.
I had only the dress to wear. I slipped it back on in the dimly lit lounge before tiptoeing to the door and pushing my feet into my heels.
I half hoped he would wake.
He didn’t. I pulled the heavy door inwards and moved into the corridor of the luxurious building, taking in all the details I’d been too sexually desperate to notice the night before. The large bright artwork on either side of the lift, the polished wooden floors, the stunning view of a new day splitting over the heart of London’s financial district.
I pressed the button and a moment later the lift pinged open and before I knew it I was here, slipping into the bowels of London, surrounded by the early-morning activity of Canary Wharf tube station.
I don’t want to think about what I’ve done. I assiduously ignore my conscience and responsible self as I step onto the Tube, grateful that the earliness of the hour means I get a seat. It’s a long way to Putney.
I refuse to let my regrets break through, though I know they’re there and I know I’ll have to answer them soon enough.
I stifle a yawn and sit up straighter, so as not to fall asleep.
Three tubes, forty-five minutes later and I am home. I keep my head bent as I move inside, pushing the door inwards, and then lay my back against it so that the hard wood holds me upright. My knees threaten to sag anyway.
I am home, in my own place, and yet here the judgement at what I have done is stronger.
He’s my lecturer...
And yet...
I groan as my body, so far from his now, aches to be with him again. To kiss his tattoos and ask him what each means.
This is madness. This is bliss.
I am hard with need for Olivia Amorelli when I wake. She is not beside me when I reach for her. I frown but I’m not, initially, worried. I’m curious, though, naturally. I smile as I see the remnants of our passion—the champagne bottle, bulldog clips, condom wrappers.
The penthouse is deathly silent. My frown deepens as I look into the bathroom and see it empty. The lounge and kitchen are similarly deserted. There is no note nor explanation, yet it is clear that Olivia is no longer here.
I flick a glance at the clock on the oven. It’s just gone eight, so it’s not like I’ve slept the day away and she had to leave.
I can’t fight the disappointment that surges inside me. It is eclipsed only by an unshakeable sense of worry.
Of doubt.
It’s uncharacteristic of me to feel that I’ve erred with a woman and yet now her departure has given me every cause for concern.
I had the sense last night that Olivia was inexperienced. Haven’t I felt that innocence in her all along? Her purity and goodness are a huge part of what draws me to her. She is everything I need and I can’t say why.
Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned my shirt.
And I tied her up and tortured her with desires that must have been overwhelming for her. She enjoyed it. I frown. God, she enjoyed it, didn’t she? She couldn’t have been faking that kind of pleasure?
Her absence makes me doubt everything.
I reach for my phone and swear aloud: I don’t have her number. We didn’t need to swap numbers because we have a guaranteed way of seeing one another each week.
There’s the app, I remember with a growing sense of unease. Is it creepy to use a university enrolment form to get her number?
