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I felt my cheeks burning. “I, um... we had a healthy relationship.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Stuart is attractive.”
“That’s not what I asked, either.”
“Well, yeah, sometimes. I mean... he could.”
“He could, but he didn’t?”
I sat agog, waiting for him to crack a smile and admit he was joking, but the smile didn’t come. “It was nice, but with work, and long days and general life. You know how it gets.”
“So, he didn’t. You’re a young woman, with your whole life ahead of you. When the betrayal fades you’re going to do just fine.”
“You aren’t so old, yourself.”
“Old enough to know what I want, and more importantly what I don’t want.”
I chanced my arm. “So whatdoyou want?”
“Dessert.”
He called the waiter.
***
Chapter Four
James
The splash of cold water did little to bring me to my senses.What the fuck are you doing, James? What the fuck?It was the eyes, her fucking eyes. Cat’s eyes. Pale turquoise eyes full offuck me hard.Lydia Marsh was a sharp little cookie, a guarded little conker full of pain. Tough, and tight, and aching to be broken apart. Jesus pissing Christ.
Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck.
She’d driven me crazy this trip. The sight of her reverent fucking gaze as I’d delivered my pitch. Staring up at me like I was the God of fucking everything, standing in front of my PowerPoint deck like some kind of goddamn guru. Sweet fucking Christ. I recalled the gentle swell of her tits as she breathed, the slightest imprint of a lace bra under her blouse. Her sweeter than sweet little handshake, her quiet confidence, her eagerness to please. Yet, Lydia Marsh was clearly a fighter. Someone who bottles it all up inside, buries it deep. I’d avoided everything to do with her in the weeks since Kitchengate. Sworn abstinence and no fucking way. Yet here I was, my cock alive and kicking in spite of my better senses. Would she beg? Would she kneel on her soft little knees and plead for release? Would she sob under the cane like a broken little doll? Not easily...
A far off memory danced across my retinas. The gangly unease of inexperienced youth. The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I chase after Katreya. Katreya Moore, just a year older than me, but so much taller. Her white socks gather messily at her ankles, showing off pale, bruised legs as she runs. Dark hair streams behind her, tangled in tails. She turns to call after me, her face still streaked with the tears from her scolding indoors. The skidding halt of her body, long skinny fingers reaching for mine.
“I’m going to run away, James, come with me!” Her eyes pleading, wide and green, the palest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Where?”
“Who cares.”
“What about school?”
“Don’t be such a sissy.” Her savage eyes tease me. Cut me down before her. She smudges her tears with the back of her hand.
“I’m no sissy.”
“Sissy boy, James. You’re so fucking good. So nice. Such a good little boy, James Clarke.”
“Shut up, Kat.”
“Make me.”
My throat chokes up with childish desire, too young to understand how to really play this game.
