This Man Confessed(127)

“Ava! Please, watch your fucking mouth.” He heaves a tired breath and gets himself out of the car, making his way around to my side. I’m stuck in my seat, astounded by the bright whiteness of many huge floating mountains on the marina. “Out you get.”

I absentmindedly eject myself with the assistance of Jesse’s hand while keeping my eyes on the boats. “Please don’t tell me you own one of those.” I look at him with wide eyes. I don’t know why I sound so shocked. This man is beyond wealthy, but a yacht?

He smiles and slips his shades on. “No, I sold it many years ago.”

“So you did have one?”

“Yes, but I didn’t have a fucking clue how to sail the stupid thing.” He takes my hand and leads me away from the car, to a pathway where we’re safe from moving vehicles.

“Why did you buy it in the first place then?” I ask, looking up at him, but he just shrugs my question off and points out across the sea.

“Over there is Morocco.”

I follow the direction of his hand, but all I see is open water. He’s trying to divert my enquiring mind. “Lovely,” I say with lashings of sarcasm, just so he knows that I know his ploy.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, lady.” He pulls me under his arm and makes a meal of biting at my ear. “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s mooch about.”

“Mooch?”

“Yes, mooch,” I repeat, looking up at an amused expression. “Like browse, peruse—mooch about.”

He smiles down at me, almost fascinated. “Okay. I feel another Camden coming on.”

“Yes, exactly like Camden, but no funny sex shops,” I finish quietly.

Now he’s laughing. “Oh, there are plenty of funny sex shops on the back streets. Want to see?”

“No, I don’t,” I grumble, reflecting back to our very own little pole-dancing treat by that leather-clad, dominatrix type. I inwardly gasp. A Sarah type. Holy shit, she looked just like Sarah, minus the whip, instead playing with a pole. Sarah may very well have a pole, who knows, but my sudden comprehension is overshadowing the similarities of the women. “You didn’t find that attractive, did you?”

My chin is grasped and pulled to face him. “I’ve told you before. There’s only one thing that turns me on, and I love her in lace.”

“Good.”

He kisses my forehead and takes a deep breath into my hair. “Come on, Mrs. Ward. Let’s mooch.”





I’m thoroughly fed up of mooching by the time we’re back on the marina front, and I know Jesse has humored me to within an inch of his life, insisting on buying everything that I picked up or looked at in a bid to reduce my browsing time. This wouldn’t have bothered me too much if it wasn’t for the kind of stores in which we were mooching. This is no Camden. Yes, there were a few knickknack stalls, but I was mainly directed into the abundance of designer stores, leaving me feeling a million times more conspicuous than I ever did in Harrods. The quiet, minimal spaces were dressed with just a few key pieces, not leaving much scope for mooching at all.

He’s weighed down with bags now, and God bless him, he looks harassed. “I’ll put these in the car. Wait there.” He leaves me on the side of the pedestrianized area, coating my lips in Chapstick, while he goes over to the car to dump the bags. Then he makes his way quickly back over and grabs me. I stifle a yelp as I’m suspended in his arms and ravished. “God, I’ve missed you.” His mouth slides over my freshly moisturized lips with ease as he takes me for all to see. As always, I’m oblivious to our location and company, letting him do as he pleases with me. “Hmm, you taste good.” He pulls back and pouts, his own lips shimmering slightly from the transfer of my Chapstick.

“If you want to wear ladies’ lipstick, then do it properly.” I reach up to apply, and he does nothing to stop me, even puckering to make the coating easier. “Better,” I conclude on a smile. “You’re even more handsome with shimmery lips.”

“Probably,” he agrees, with complete ease, smacking his lips together. “Come on, I need to feed my wife and peanuts.” He returns me to a vertical position and starts to reposition the slipping straps of my yellow sundress. “These need tightening.”

Shrugging his fussing hands away, I lead on, pulling my own straps into place and disregarding the grunts of protest coming from behind me. “Where are you feeding me?” I ask over my shoulder, keeping up my stride. I’m not striding for long, though. My wrist is seized, and I’m suddenly pulling against a dead weight.