Dirty Bad Secrets(44)

Andy followed my eyes but didn’t comment.

“I’m surprised you’ve let me loose in your home,” I said. “Considering it’s my week. Who knows what I have in store for you.”

He smiled but shook his head. “Coin toss stays in the club.” His tone was non-negotiable. “The rules don’t apply here.”

“Convenient,” I smirked. Nerves were fluttering though my stomach, a whirlwind of tiny wings. “So, what now?”

“I show you to your room. You can make yourself at home,” he said. I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed at the sleeping arrangements, even though I knew it was dumb as shit to consider anything else. He tracked back to the hallway, and opened a door to his right. “This is you.”

It was a nice room, airy and light with a comfortable-looking double. It had built-in wardrobes and a dressing table, but very little else.

“Lovely. Best room I’ve had since arriving.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He dropped my case at the side of the bed. “Bathroom is opposite, there are towels in the rack by the door. Tea and coffee in the kitchen, probably some bread for toast if you’re lucky. Do help yourself.”

“And where are you?” The words tumbled out unfiltered, but he didn’t break a sweat.

“Next door,” he said, tapping on the wall to illustrate. His room was the other side of the headboard, and I found myself wondering if his was a mirror image. His face would be just inches from mine through the wall. “Goodnight, Faye. Don’t be late up in the morning, or I’ll leave you in bed and give you hell for it when you get to work.”

“It’s my week,” I protested. “Don’t you be forgetting that.” I smiled to lighten the tone. “I’ll be up.”

“Good,” he said. “Sleep well.”

The bed was comfortable. Really comfortable. Crisp white sheets and fluffy pillows embraced me as their own, and I snuggled down with a sense of ease I’d been missing since Vincent’s text message. There’d been plenty more since, rambling declarations of love and devotion, the same old crap I’d been listening to for three fucking years, only these days it meant less. Maybe his magnetism was slipping. Maybe I really was getting over him.

Although I didn’t fancy seeing him to put that theory to the test.

The flush of the toilet sounded across the hallway, followed by the hiss of running water. I smiled at the idea of him wincing under the shower faucet as the water pummelled his bruises. The water eased off a few minutes later, and I imagined him towelling dry, crossing the hallway with just a low slung towel around his hips. Footsteps sounded across the floorboards, and his bedroom door clicked shut. I held my breath, listening hard for sounds of movement, and it sounded as though a wardrobe door creaked, but I could have been imagining it. My heart was racing way faster than it should be. I wanted to laugh at myself, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, but it didn’t feel funny. Not at all.

I stayed awake for a long while, wondering if he was awake too, wondering if he was thinking about me, thinking about us, contemplating storming my bedroom and paying me back for his wounds. Maybe he’d tear off my nightdress and bite my ass until I bled for him. And then he’d fuck me, fuck me hard enough to hurt, and I’d grip his tender fucking ass and beg for more, beg him and squeeze his ridged fucking flesh until he punish-fucked me into next fucking week. I shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t want to complicate things any more than they already were, yet still I wondered, and waited, and played with my horny little clit until I was stifling my moans with his fluffy white pillow, over and over a-fucking-gain.

But still he didn’t come.



I fucking hate early risers, and Andy Morgan was one of them. Figures.

I was wrapped in a dressing gown with crazy hair, struggling even to remember my own name when he arrived through the front door in gym gear. I’d never seen him in gym clothes before, and it took me aback. He looked… different. Totally different. I couldn’t decide if I liked him better or worse outside of his suit. Naked, my clit answered. You like him best naked. His hair was still wet, which pointed to the fact he’d even bastard showered already. I pulled a face and flicked the kettle back on.

He held up a racket in explanation. “Squash,” he said.

“I’m surprised you know anyone dumb enough to want to play squash at this godforsaken hour.”

“James,” he said. “Or Masque, as you know him.”

Now that did surprise me. “How the fuck did you start playing squash with Masque? I didn’t even think you knew the guy.” A strange feeling of jealousy snaked around my stomach, and I couldn’t have actually told you who or what I was jealous about. It was totally bloody ridiculous.