‘I need it to show myself that I’ve been doing things wrong for too long.’ I brave a kiss and reach up on my tiptoes to push my lips to his, hoping I’ll remind him of what it felt like last time, hoping he experienced the surge of energy, too. Before I can even think to engage my tongue, I’m wrapped in his arms and being pulled up to his chest, our mouths fused, our bodies bonded, my heart falling further. His lips on mine and his hard body coating me feels . . . right.
‘Are you sure?’ He removes me from his embrace, holding me at arm’s length and hunkering down to ensure he’s got my eyes and my attention. ‘I’ve made clear how it’ll be, Livy. If you can deal with that, then for the next twenty-four hours, it’s just us – my body and your body doing incredible things.’
I nod my head convincingly, even though I’m not at all sure. I can see doubt lingering on his stunning face, which pushes me to force a smile, worried that he might pull out on our deal. I might not know what I’m doing, but I certainly don’t know what I’ll do if he walks away from me now.
‘Okay,’ he says, sliding his hand around my nape and pulling me into him. ‘I’ll take you home.’ He starts to guide me from the square, his palm secured firmly on my neck as he pushes me onward. I glance up to him, just to check he’s there – to check that I’m not dreaming.
He’s there, and he’s gazing down at me, assessing me, probably analysing my mental state. Should I ask him his conclusion because I haven’t the foggiest? All I know is that he’s mine for the next twenty-four hours, and I am his. I just hope that I don’t find myself in further desolation once my time is up. I’m ignoring the voice in my head, currently screaming at me to stop this right now. I know how this’ll turn out, and it’s likely to be messy.
But I just can’t refuse him. Or myself.
Chapter 6
‘I’ll wait here for you.’ He pulls up outside my house and takes his phone from his pocket, waving it at me. ‘I have a few calls to make.’
He’s going to wait? And he’s going to wait outside my house? No, no he can’t. Bloody hell, Nan’s probably sniffed him out already. I look up to the bay window at the front of our house, watching for twitching curtains. ‘I can get a cab to your place,’ I try, making a mental list of things I need to do once I get inside – shower, shave . . . everywhere, moisturise, spritz, make-up . . . tell the fattest lie I ever will.
‘No.’ He dismisses my offer without even looking at me. ‘I’ll wait. Go get your things.’
I wince, letting myself out of his car and walking slowly, cautiously, up the path to my house, like Nan might hear me if I go any faster. I insert my key slowly. I turn it slowly. I push the door open slowly. I lift my foot slowly, ready to step inside, clenching my teeth when the door creaks.
Damn.
Nan’s standing three feet away, her arms folded, her foot tapping the patterned carpet. ‘Who’s that man?’ she asks, her grey eyebrows raising. ‘And why are you behaving like a cat burglar, hmmm?’
‘He’s my boss.’ I blurt the words fast, and so begins the fattest lie I’ll ever tell. ‘I’m working tonight. He’s brought me home to change.’
I definitely see a wave of disappointment travel across her age-worn face. ‘Oh, well . . .’ She turns, losing interest in the man outside immediately. ‘I won’t bother with supper then.’
‘Okay.’ I take the stairs two at a time and burst into the bathroom, cranking the shower on and stripping down at lightning speed. Then I dive in before it’s warmed up. ‘Oh shit!’ I pin myself to the side, goose pimples invading me, my body shivering uncontrollably. ‘Shit, shit shit! Warm up!’ My hand hovers under the spray, and I’m frantically egging the hot water on. ‘Come on, come on.’
After far too long, it’s just warm enough to bear, and I step under, making super-fast work of washing my hair, soaping everywhere and shaving . . . everywhere. By the time I’ve sprinted across the landing in my towel and made it into the safety of my room, I’m out of breath. Under normal circumstances, it usually takes me ten minutes flat to throw some clothes on, give my face a quick brush over with some powder, and rough dry my hair. But now I care; now I want to look nice. And I haven’t got bloody time to do it.
‘Underwear,’ I prompt myself, hurrying over to my drawers and yanking the top one open, instantly grimacing at the piles of cotton knickers and bras. I must have something – anything other than cotton, please!