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Chapter Nineteen
Alice
Kip lifts off me, rolls over, and gets up. He takes off his waistcoat, then his shirt while I watch, unmoving, and goes over to turn on the aircon. The cool breeze wafts over my hot skin.
“I’m going to lock up for the night,” he says. “I’ll bring your case down.” He pauses and asks, with some amusement, “You okay?”
Without moving, I give him a thumbs up.
He chuckles. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He goes out of the room.
I watch him go, then turn my face and groan into the pillow. Finally, I roll over and get up, moving as if I’m a hundred years old.
Crossing the room, I go into the en suite bathroom, turn on the light, and close the door.
It’s large and spacious, decorated with simple, clean lines. I pee, then wash my hands, looking at myself in the mirror. Unsurprisingly, I look as if I’ve had wild monkey sex. Talk about a mess. I’m sweaty and disheveled. My hair is all over the place. My makeup is smudged. The edges of my lips are blurred from his demanding kisses.
My eyes widen as I look at the growing bruise on my neck. When he said he wanted to mark me, I didn’t know what he meant, and agreed because I didn’t want to show my ignorance. I’ve heard about hickeys, of course, but obviously never had one. It was an erotic mix of pain and pleasure, and I didn’t expect that, or the possessive growl he gave when he did it.
But then I didn’t expect any of it. It’s only now that I realize how gentle he was before. But this time… I guess it’s my own fault. I did tell him not to hold back.Just remember to be careful what you wish for. He wasn’t kidding. I had no idea what I was asking. I thought he might be a bit more enthusiastic. I didn’t expect him to be quite so… intense. So passionate. To completely consume me like that.
I think about what he did with the ice cube, and my face flames. I didn’t think I was a prude. I’ve watched porn, and I can see why the taboo nature of anything involving slot D is both forbidden and exciting. But for some reason I didn’t expect him to go anywhere near there only the second time we slept together! That tiny thrust of his tongue, the insertion of the ice, so insignificant, and yet so kinky to my uninitiated mind, shocked me. As did the way he lay on top of me, holding me down while the ice melted… I shudder as I remember the aftershocks of pleasure that rippled through me.
I thought lovemaking would be a tender expression of our growing affection. I thought he’d be gentle, respectful, and considerate, the way he was the first time.
Instead, I feel completely and totally fucked. I’d say used, except that implies he gave no thought for my pleasure, and that’s not true. But it was abandoned, raw, and feral. He held me down and completely took what he wanted from me. And the most surprising thing is that I loved every minute of it.
I feel a little ashamed of that. As a modern woman, shouldn’t I be indignant and disgusted at his caveman-like behavior? But I’m not. It turned me on. He completely possessed me. I was totally unprepared to feel like that, and for the first time I hear warning bells, way off in the distance. I feel as if I’ve fallen into the rabbit hole, and I’m tumbling farther and farther into a fantastical world that’s making my head spin.
Is every time going to be like this? Have I signed up for three whole days of being screwed witless? I already know I’m never going to be the same again. And I know I’ve made it twice as hard—no, a hundred times as hard—to walk away from him.
I glance somewhat shyly at the masculine items on the shelves and around the sink. I’ve existed in a woman’s world since my father died, our cupboards at home filled with perfume, contraceptive pills, makeup, tampons. It’s strange to see his razor and beard trimmer, a men’s deodorant, his comb and hair products, the bottles of cologne in elegant, expensive bottles. I pick one up and sniff it, comforted by the familiar smell.
Replacing the bottle, I take the hairband from around my wrist, scoop my hair up, and fasten it in a loose, scruffy bun. I take one last look at my flushed cheeks, the mark on my neck, sigh, and look away.
I go out into the bedroom. I can hear him moving around upstairs. It’s a little cooler in the room now. I’d like to put some clothing on, but my dress and underwear are in the kitchen, and he still hasn’t brought down my case. I cross to the walk-in wardrobe and go inside. I’ve never seen anything like it—it’s a whole other room. Three walls are filled with both hanging space and shelves. The fourth side has a dressing table and chair. The table bears a box filled with cufflinks, tie pins, and wristwatches too big for a woman’s small wrist. The whole place smells faintly of his cologne. It has a very masculine vibe. Very Kingsman.
I go over to the shelves and run my fingers across the shirts on the hangers. Over half the shirts are white. Some have thin red, blue, or green stripes. Others are pastel colors—light blue, pale pink. On quite a few, the placket and underside of the collar are contrasting colors, clearly a style he favors. Another rack contains more casual dress shirts—mostly dark colors: purple, black, and navy-blue, some of them patterned: paisley, checked, or with flowers.
He has numerous suits—navy, pinstripe, gray, black, and a couple of summer linen ones. They have different lapels, pockets, and vents at the back. Now I know the design is connected to where they’re from, and I can tell the difference between the smart, formal British suits, the elegant, flamboyant Italian ones.
A rack contains a huge number of ties—most of them plain or with elegant stripes or patterns, a few fun ones, including one with red hearts. Bought by a previous girlfriend? There are no signs of a woman anywhere in this house, though. No girly items in the bathroom, no leftover clothing in here. For that I’m thankful. I know he’s had girlfriends. I don’t particularly like to think about him with other women, though.
Hmm, are we jealous, Alice? That’s a new emotion for me.
Another wardrobe holds more casual wear: polo shirts and slacks on hangers, and the rest folded on shelves: jeans, sweaters, rugby shirts, and tees. I take out a plain white tee and pull it on. It’s too big, of course, and hangs over my bottom, the sleeves coming almost to my elbow, but I like wearing something of his.
I go out into the bedroom just as he comes into the room, carrying my case and my purse. He glances over and smiles as he sees me in his tee.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Suits you better than me.” His eyes dip down. “Are you cold?”
I follow his gaze and realize my nipples are protruding through the thin cotton like pencil erasers. Embarrassed, I glare at him, and he smirks.
He puts my purse beside the bed and takes my case into the walk-in wardrobe, and I return with him, watching him place it to one side. “Did you bring a toothbrush?” he asks as he takes off his trousers and hangs them over the chair. Now he’s only wearing his black boxer-briefs.
I nod, unzip the case, and take out my washbag. I follow him into the bathroom, place it beside the sink, and take my toothbrush out. He puts some toothpaste on his toothbrush, then offers the toothpaste to me. I put a little on mine, and then we brush our teeth standing side by side, glancing at each other in the mirror.
