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I found her in the kitchen, preparing pancakes. After any big night out, she always made me a fry-up.
Bacon on pancakes with spinach. It was a crazy breakfast, but I loved it. And no one made them like her.
“There you are, my darling.”
She smiled brightly, and I hugged her.
“Your hair’s still wet. You should dry it,” she said.
After I’d woken up half-disorientated and still buzzing from what had been the greatest fuck of my life, I had intended to rush off, but Manon had insisted I shower.
She’d then joined me, gotten down on her knees, and tried to suck me off. It hurt—her teeth. But it was sweet anyway, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her. In many ways, her lack of experience made me glad, for some unclear reason.
As her firm, curvy arse danced against my cock, I almost crushed those tits that I couldn’t stop fondling while I thrust deep into her. She was a wet dream come true.
I’d never come like that before. She was more than I’d ever imagined, a drug that I could see myself getting hooked on—only drugs were dangerous.
Was Manon bad for me?
Just as I was zipping up my jeans, her mother arrived with George, the rich boyfriend, and things got pretty weird.
“What’s he doing here?” Bethany asked.
“I’m allowed to have who I like here.” Manon looked at me and rolled her eyes.
And before the argument blew out, I scuttled off without even giving her a kiss.
Manon followed me to the door. “Why don’t you wait, and we can go for breakfast somewhere?”
“I have to be back at Bridesmere this morning. I’ve got a client.”
“Kylie.” She gave me a dark grin while slanting her beautiful face.
“No. A male client.”
“Oh, that’s a pleasant change.”
I pecked her cheek, despite the urge to devour her lips again. Something we’d been doing all night. Between fucking, instead of sleeping, we’d kissed.
I’d never wanted to just hold someone all night long and kiss them. It felt nice. Too fucking nice.
Manon freaked me out. I couldn’t tell if she had a dark heart or whether she’d adopted that rebellious nature as a protective front. I couldn’t stop thinking about that scene at the police station. And though my body craved her, my need for a sane, honest life warned me to run a mile. So I had, for the nearest station, where I’d ridden the tube home with dripping wet hair.
I poured tea from the teapot into a cup for my mother, then one for me.
She passed me a plate filled to the brim with pancakes, and my stomach groaned with delight.
“Thanks, Mum.”
Sitting down, she took her cup and poured milk into it. “So, how was your night? You look flushed.”
“We had a good night.” I munched on a piece of bacon.
“You didn’t drink too much, I hope.” Her eyes landed on my bruised knuckles. “Oh, Drake, you didn’t fight again, did you?”
“Just had to defend a girl. Some losers were trying it on.”
She nodded. “I hate it every time you go out. It’s becoming more violent these days. All those Middle Eastern gangs.”
