‘Oh, baby, when you talk like that…’
He drags me to the bedroom, throws me on the bed and falls on top of me.
‘My hips don’t lie,’ I tell him slowly, enunciating the words properly. ‘I bought them in Columbia.’
He rolls me over so I am on top of him and it is immediately obvious that he is in no mood to banter. My knickers are sliding down my legs.
‘You’re mine,’ he says harshly, so different from the man who sat at the dinner table at Annabel’s. This is the Jaron I know. The promise in his words shivers straight to my sex.
‘Do whatever you want to me,’ I whisper hoarsely.
‘Say it. Say you are mine.’
‘I’m yours, Goldilocks. I’m all yours.’
‘Now fucking ride me until you get home.’
I murmur something incoherent and start unbuckling his belt. I slide my wet pussy against his cock and adjusting it to the center of my core, push down. This drunken sex is beyond delicious. It is like part sex, part dream. It could become part misery if I am not careful: shit, where did that thought come from?
I blank it out immediately.
I shudder on the edge. ‘Hell, I’m going to come,’ I gasp and look into his face. His eyes are burning green and a thin sheen of sweat is making his skin glow. My heart trembles. Jesus, save me, I am falling for Goldilocks. And then I am going out with the waves that come to fetch me. The thin sheen of sweat on his body—I slip on it. Shit, am I falling for Goldilocks?
Thirteen
It starts innocuously. We are at an old haunt of mine, a gay club, and I say, ‘I don’t know what I am anymore.’
‘You’re a recovering lesbian,’ he replies.
The glib answer irritates me and I decide to punish him. A little. ‘I’m kinda missing the feel of soft skin,’ I say.
An expression crosses his face. I can’t say for sure what it is, but he quickly veils it. ‘You want to bring another woman into bed with us?’
The question throws me. I had not actually thought that far, but now that he has said it I can’t dismiss it either. ‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully.
‘Only one way to find out.’
I stare at him.
‘Pick a woman you want and we’ll ménage.’
‘Have you been with two women before?’
‘Of course.’
‘Fun?’
He shrugs noncommittally. ‘It was OK.’
I chuck back my vodka. ‘All right, let’s find out where I stand with this bisexual lark. Don’t go far. I’ll be back.’
He lifts his glass to his lips, his eyes utterly veiled. ‘Good luck.’
Vodka is singing in my veins. I walk over to the bar. There is a girl I know standing at it. She is actually very beautiful with long dark hair and she has a stud in her belly button. I know because I have been to bed with her.
‘Billie,’ she says.
‘Sahara,’ I say.
She kisses me on the lips and introduces me to two other friends of hers. Both have just come back from the dance floor with sheens of sweat on their faces. One is a butch girl called Gerry, and the other is a truly stunning half-caste girl with light eyes. Impossible to tell the color in the dark. Her lips are big and delicious-looking. Her name is Poppy. Lovely. Poppy trails her soft chocolate finger on my bare skin. Honestly, black girls have the softest skin of all races. Like baby skin. I knew straight away I could have invited her over. I could have had her.
But I turn away from her and smile at Gerry. Big, spiky-haired, poor, ugly Gerry. She smiles back, eyes shining.
‘Where did you get your tats done?’ she asks.
For a pick-up line it sucks miserably. ‘Kilburn,’ I tell her.
‘They’re nice,’ she lies lamely. Chocolate finger was better. By far better. Still. I guess she’ll do for tonight.
And then I stop myself.
Who am I fooling? I know exactly why I am not picking the real beauty of the bunch. I don’t want Jaron to be interested in her. I can’t bear the thought of him being sexually attracted to another woman.
I think about all their clever pussy muscles clenching and releasing my fingers as I make them come, and yes, intellectually it is a hot thought, but my stomach doesn’t quake. Not even the thought of their tongues licking my clit does it. I turn and look across the room at Jaron. He is looking down at the table and he seems unreachable and…for that moment maybe even sad. I stare at him.
‘Got to go. I’ll call you,’ I tell Sahara. I wink at Poppy (lovely girl) and shrug at Gerry.
I walk back to the table. At a pillar I stop and watch him.
In the light of the nightclub his hair stands out. Blond men are a rare thing. He is wearing black leather trousers that hug his hips and gleam under the nightclub lights. He sits at the table, cool, relaxed. And I have to admit he is drastically sexy. I watch him flick a glance at the dance floor and get distracted by a woman in a bikini top and a nothing skirt.