‘It will be better next time,’ he says, and without touching her or comforting her, stands and begins to dress. Rejected and defeated, she watches his strong V-shaped back, the beautifully proportioned buttocks, and the columns of muscular legs as he shrugs into his shirt. He buttons it as he walks to the door.
He cannot wait to get away from her.
She is a great disappointment to him. She should have asked Billie for some lessons on how to pleasure a man.
Instead she has lain there like a pillow and then worse still, she screamed when he entered her. She covers her cheeks with her hands. Oh, the shame of it. And this was what she saved up for. A fine mistress she was going to make.
She hears the door close and she is alone in that stupendous apartment.
Blake punches the button on the elevator and waits for it to come. He is in a state of shock. It is unbelievable. He curses himself. He should never have been so rough. He treated her like a common prostitute. But he never suspected that air of untouched innocence was not cultivated.
Strange how badly he wants to go back into that bedroom and hold her. How much he wants to wipe away those tears and hold her until she falls asleep in his arms.
But a larger part of him hates the way he feels. He doesn’t want to feel for her. He is glad he has left her body. Away from it he can think rationally.
Still he shouldn’t have done what he did.
He got carried away and lost himself in her essence, and the undeniable need to possess her completely. He doesn’t exactly understand why, but whenever he is near her, he loses all his carefully cultivated ‘cool’. Al he wants to do is strap her to his bed and have total control of her body.
And why shouldn’t he? He has paid for the privilege. The urge is strong now, he tells himself, but it will lessen with every single coupling. She will never be more than his three-month itch.
A bottle-blonde is walking down the corridor towards the lift. The occupant of the other penthouse is an Arab sheik. He glances at her. She is wearing a tube top and white leggings. Her boobs are obviously fake, but she is beautiful in a hard sort of way. The way a mistress should be. He thinks of Lana again. The way the helpless tears escaped. He had not expected that. He cannot understand. Why would a virgin be propositioning someone like Lothian for money? For the first time he wonders why she had wanted the money.
The lift arrives and he stands back to allow the woman to enter first. She has a good ass. She turns around in the lift and their eyes meet again. Neither smile, but her mouth twists. The air becomes thick with her unspoken invitation. He lets his eyes travel down her body and convinces himself Lana is not special. Even this one will do too.Nothing has changed.
He will marry Victoria. He takes his phone out of his pocket and leaves a text for his secretary: Red roses—Lana.
White roses—Victoria
Thirteen
’m baking a cake,’ Lana’s mother says.
‘I‘You are?’ There is a brightness in Lana’s voice. Her mother only bakes when she is feeling good.
‘Lemon, your favorite.’
‘Oh good.’
‘What time are you coming home?’
‘I’m leaving now actually.’
‘Good. I want you to take a quarter over to Jack’s mum.’#p#分页标题#e#
‘OK. See you in twenty minutes,’ Lana says and after putting a jar of blackberry jam, two tins of biscuits, and a box of fancy chocolates into her bag, leaves the apartment.
She takes the bus to Kilburn.
As she is running up the steps she meets Tom’s sister who says, ‘Heard you snagged yourself a rich boyfriend.’
‘Not quite,’ Lana replies, and before she can be bullied into a confessional conversation steps aside, saying, ‘Sorry, Ann, but got to rush.’ She runs past her taking the shallow steps two at a time. Already the curtain twitchers have spread the story.
She turns the key in their blue door and is greeted by the fragrant smell of her mother’s baking. It is instantly familiar and dear. This is her home. Her mother is in the kitchen washing up after the baking.
‘Hey, I can do that for you.’
‘No, I’m finished,’ her mother says, turns the tap shut and snaps off her rubber gloves. She faces her daughter.
Her eyes, assessing, careful, and worried, change when she sees Lana.
‘Oh my God!’ she cries. ‘Your hair. I can’t believe how beautiful you look.’
Lana smiles at her mother. ‘I missed you yesterday.’
‘Have you had breakfast?’
‘Yeah. I brought some stuff for you.’ Lana reaches into her knapsack, brings out the tins of biscuits and chocolates and puts it on her mother’s small kitchen table. Her mother comes forward, but she does not touch the food.