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‘Nothing. Just...you surprise me.’ He pushes the door shut behind him and it closes with a resounding thud, as if to underscore that we are alone.
I force myself to remain unaffected, but the butterflies in my tummy are fluttering wildly. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘Whatever you’re having,’ he says as though it’s not important.
What is Connor Hughes doing in my kitchen? In my tiny flat in Putney, being all huge and overpowering, strong and distractingly masculine? I pause the lecture and turn my back on him in the hope that I can catch my breath, reaching into the fridge and pulling out the bottle of wine, pouring him a glass which I slide over the bench without meeting his eyes.
‘Thank you.’ The murmured gratitude is unexpected and it slicks my insides with awareness. I lift my eyes to him then and almost wish I hadn’t when my knees, already so weakened, threaten to buckle.
‘What are you making?’ He asks the question softly, and I wonder—absurdly—if he’s nervous. Connor Hughes doesn’t get nervous. And not because of me.
‘Gnocchi.’ I lift my wine to my lips and sip it, then wish I hadn’t when I am instantly reminded of the way he dribbled champagne into my mouth last night.
‘For dinner?’
‘No.’ I lift the bowl and show him the quantity of dough. ‘For lunch tomorrow.’
He doesn’t say anything and now I’m the nervous one, so I explain. ‘We always have family lunch at my parents’ place on a Sunday. It’s a lot of people for my mum to cater for so I like to bring a dish.’
He nods, and I have the strangest sense that he’s filing this information away.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask after a moment, pressing my hands into the flour and then reaching into the bowl and lifting a walnut-sized piece out and forming a small circle in my hands.
‘I wanted to...’ He clears his throat. ‘You were gone this morning. When I woke up.’
My forehead crinkles. ‘I know.’
He reaches across, his touch on my cheek light and surprising. ‘I wanted to make sure you were okay.’
My eyes are wide when they lift to his face. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Relief is palpable. My genuine confusion seems to warm him and he smiles. ‘Jesus. I thought I might have scared the shit out of you with all the tying up and blindfolding...’
‘The makeshift nipple clamps,’ I remind him with a teasing smile.
‘Yeah.’ Regret is back in his voice. ‘All that.’
‘No.’ I bite down on my lip, knowing I need to be honest with him. ‘You didn’t scare me.’ My reaction did, though. The depth of my desire for him. The way I needed him. The way I really didn’t want to leave him.
‘Jesus, Olivia. Why’d you run out, then?’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t run out. I just woke up and thought it would be easier if I came home.’
His laugh is a beautiful sound. Neither of us speak for a moment, but the silence is filled with the ebb and flow of thoughts and wants. He sips his wine, his eyes trained on my hands as they work, expertly shaping the gnocchi, one by one.
‘But you’ve never done that before.’
I bite down on my lip as I grab another piece of dough. He reaches across and pads his thumb over my lip, reminding me forcefully of how he did that last night.
‘No.’ I answer directly, with no need to dissemble. ‘I’ve never done anything like that.’
I don’t return the question. He was too confident with the belt, the blindfold, for it to have been his first time with that kind of kinky shit. An image of his vibrant sex life with other women is the last thing I want in my head so I smile brightly in the hope of dismissing it.
‘And did you like it?’ he prompts, his expression inscrutable.
My insides heat. I nod, almost incapable of speech.
‘What did you like?’ he asks.
