One Night: Promised(11)

‘You’re in the ladies’,’ I breathe, swinging around to face him. I try to put some distance between us but I don’t get very far with the sink behind me. Through my shock, I allow myself to drink in his closeness – his three-piece suit, his clean-shaven face. He smells out of this world, all manly with a touch of earthy wood. It’s an intoxicating cocktail. Everything about him sends my sensible being into a tailspin.

He steps forward, closing the already narrow space between us, and then shocks me by kneeling and gently lifting the leg of my trouser. I’m pushing myself back against the sink unit, holding my breath, just watching him run his thumb softly over the gauze hiding my cut.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asks quietly, lifting those incredible blue eyes to mine. I can’t talk, so I shake my head a little and watch as he slowly stands back up to his full height. He’s thoughtful for a few moments before he speaks again. ‘I need to force myself to stay away from you.’

I don’t point out that he’s doing a terrible job of that. I can’t take my eyes off those lips. ‘Why do you need to force yourself?’

His hand meets my forearm, and it takes every ounce of my strength not to flinch at the heat radiating through me from his touch. ‘Because you seem like a sweet girl who should get more from a man than the best fuck of your life.’

My lack of astonishment shocks me. Instead, I feel relieved, even if he’s just promised to fuck me and nothing more. He’s taken by me, too, and that confirmation pulls my eyes up to meet his. ‘Maybe I want that.’ I’m goading him, encouraging him, when I should be running in the other direction.

He seems to drift into thought as he concentrates on the soft trail of his fingertip travelling up my arm. ‘You want more than that.’

He’s telling me, not asking. I don’t know what I want. I’ve never stopped and considered my future, either professionally or personally. I’m drifting, that’s all, but I do know one thing. I’m on dangerous ground, not just because this unidentified man seems to be forward, dark, and way too stunning, but because he’s just said that he’ll do nothing more than fuck me. I don’t know him. I’d be inconceivably stupid to dive into bed with him, just for sex. It goes against all of my morals. But I can’t seem to locate the reasons to stop me. I should be uncomfortable with what he’s provoking from me, but I’m not. For the first time in my life, I feel alive. I’m buzzing, unfamiliar feelings attacking my senses, and an even more demanding buzz attacking me between my clenched thighs. I’m pulsing.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘I don’t want to tell you, Livy.’

Before I can ask him how he knows my name, Sylvie’s cry across the party room plays on repeat in my head. I want to touch him, but as I lift my hand to rest it on his chest, he backs up slightly, his eyes nailed to my floating palm between our bodies. I pause for a second to see if he withdraws further. He doesn’t. My hand falls down and comes to lie on his suit jacket, coaxing a sharp pull of his breath, but he doesn’t stop me; he just watches as I gently feel his torso over his clothing, marvelling at the solidness beneath.

Then his eyes flick up to mine, and his head slowly falls forward, his breath heating my face as he nears until I finally close my eyes and brace myself for those lips. He’s getting closer. His scent is intensifying and my face is scorching from his hot breath.

But the happy chatter of women breaks the moment, and I’m suddenly being hauled down the row of cubicles and shoved in the very last one. The door slams and I’m whirled around, pinned to the back of the door with his palm over my mouth, his face close to mine. My whole body is heaving as we stare at each other, listening to the women preen in the mirror, reapplying lipsticks and refreshing perfume. I’m mentally yelling at them to hurry the hell up so we can pick up where we left off. I could very nearly feel his lips brushing over mine, and it’s just increased my desire for him tenfold.

It seems like an age, but the chatter eventually fades. My heavy breathing doesn’t, though, not even when he allows air into my mouth by removing his hand.

His forehead meets mine and his eyes clench shut. ‘You’re too sweet. I can’t do it.’ He lifts me and removes me from the doorway before hastily exiting, leaving me a stupid bag of pent-up lust. I’m too sweet? I let out a sardonic snap of laughter. I’m angry again – pissed off and ready to track him down to tell him who gets to decide what I want. And it’s not him.

Letting myself out of the cubicle, I run a quick check over my face and body in the mirror, concluding I look harassed, before exiting the bathroom and making my way to the kitchen.