"I know you said this wasn't a date, but you could still invite me up for coffee. Or Irish coffee?" She says. There's a suggestive glint in her eye that I'd have to be blind not to get.

The taxi was dropping her first and it hadn't escaped my notice that since we got in she'd been sliding across the leather seat, getting fractionally closer to me every time we took a left turn. She's going to reach out and take my hand in a minute.

Hopefully as a deterrent, I clasp them together and place them between my thighs over my crotch.

"You wouldn't like my Irish coffee. They're bitter," I say. Her smile fades and she nods, dropping her eyes to her lap.

"Ah. I get it. I've served my purpose."

"What?"

She lifts her head and purses her lips, hesitant. She wants to say something more but is afraid of my reaction. "I saw the way you were looking at her," she says quietly.

I stiffen. "Looking at who?"

Another pause. "Eloise Alford," she says. I frown harder, trying to cover up the embarrassment spreading over me. It's ridiculously over the top and feels weird on my face.

"She's a beautiful woman," I shrug. "I look at all beautiful women the same way."

"Oh really?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, really."

When her expression turns accusatory the urge to talk comes over me and as always when that urge comes over me, I do the opposite of what I should. Talk.

"Look, Sasha, I'm not going to explain myself to you. I don't think we're quite there, sweetheart." My voice is harsh and a little patronising and I immediately feel guilty about it. My next words I choose more carefully. "I had a nice time with you tonight. You're a great girl; beautiful, smart, the lot. I'm just not looking for anything." From you.

Surprisingly, her face softens, seemingly appeased.

"I get it, Aidan," she says. "I know what this wasn't. But I wasn't proposing marriage or anything, just so you know."

Her intent isn't lost on me. She's offering to come home with me, to horizontally enjoy my company, and then leave quietly in the morning with no strings attached. And looking at her, I'm thinking I should be given a fucking medal for turning it down. She really is a beautiful girl. Not my kind of beautiful — as far as I was aware I only had one kind of beautiful and it had left half an hour before me with her husband — but seriously beautiful. Except, instead of imagining her naked, all I can see is Oliver Alford peeling Eloise out of that grey dress and doing to her what Sasha is inviting me to do to. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. No. I'm not fucking doing this. Not tonight.

"I know. I just don't want to lead you on. That's not what I wanted, regardless of what you might think." I mutter, guiltily.

"No, but you did want a reaction from Eloise Alford. Which is why you invited me tonight."

When I turn to her she doesn't appear to be waiting on any kind of confirmation, she's just watching me with a sad, remorseful kind of look.

"Pathetic, huh?" I sigh.

She shrugs, noncommittally. "If you'd told me before we went in there I might have been able to help, at least."

"You helped," I say.

I find that hard to believe considering you've looked more than interested in looking at Sasha for the last three hours.

She'd done her duties well this evening. The little hints of jealousy displayed by Eloise at the presence of Sasha had lit me up like tiny flickering beacons of hope. She's silent a few moments and then laughs softly, it's a relieved kind of laugh, one that settles some of the tension of me being a dick.

"Well, this has been refreshing. A guy who actually tells you it straight. Even if it is about another woman — I appreciate the honesty. Are all Irish men like you? If so I think I have a new type/"

"Fuck knows. I'm too honest, probably."

"Maybe. But it's still refreshing. Most guys are so terrified of being honest with women, it makes a change hearing someone tell the truth."

Her words make a sliver of guilt run through me. This whole thing with Eloise was based on a lie. She knew nothing of who I was and who she was to me. Then I remember the look of panic on her face when I threatened to go downstairs and talk to her husband. Then the look of betrayal when I told her the only way to avoid that happening. Fuck I'd wanted to do it. Tell him. A couple more glasses of Nicole's maximum strength red wine and I may well have done it too. Just to see the look on the smug pricks face when he found out he didn't quite have everything he thought he did.

Tonight had only exacerbated my dislike for him. Had only made me wonder even more what it was she saw in him. He was her type? Of all the guys she'd met throughout her adult life, he was the one she'd decided she couldn't live without? Course I hadn't shown myself in a very good light either. I'd blackmailed' her. Threatened her. Forced her to do something she so clearly didn't want to do. But I'd gotten her back. She was coming back. No, I'm not proud of my methods but neither am I going to pretend I'm not fucking delighted with the outcome.

"Yeah well... I've done things I'm not proud of either," I mumble, staring out the taxi window.

"You're too hard on yourself," Sasha tells me. "You're a decent guy, Aidan. Even if I am going home disappointed and alone."

When I turn to her she's smiling, flirtatious again. What the fuck am I doing? Can't I just forget about Eloise for one night? Invite Sasha upstairs and pretend I'm normal. I try an imagine it. Sasha naked beneath me, those tanned legs wrapped around my neck, those big brown eyes staring up at me. I know it's a losing battle when between my legs, literally fuck all happens.

I sigh. "Yeah, well, I shoulda warned you I'd be a disappointment."

"You really do have this huge chip on your shoulder, don't you? I mean I thought it was just the brooding artist thing but it's more than that isn't it?" She looks confused, perhaps even annoyed that I'm not conforming. She must be used to men falling over themselves to get her into bed. "But you're a nice guy, Aidan. Decent. A world away from the Jordan Weston's and Oliver Alford's of this world anyway," Sasha rolls her eyes and shakes her head. So she thought he was a prick too. Wish I'd known that earlier. Could easily have filled some awkward silences earlier on if I'd known that.

"I assume that's a compliment?"

Yeah, I was a world away alright from Oliver Alford. Which was why Eloise was going home with him as his wife and why I'd had to blackmail her to get her to spend another minute in my company.

"Yes, it is." Her expression changes then, becoming decidedly more serious. "Listen, I don't know what — if anything — is going on with you and Eloise Alford."

'Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly because Sasha notices and smiles a knowing smile. "Nothing is going on, Sasha. She came to buy one of my paintings, I had to disappoint her, end of story."

"Okay, well, if you say so." She doesn't sound entirely convinced. "But let's just say, someone else vying for Oliver's wife attention wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to her, or him for that matter, you know?"

I squint at her. "No. I don't know. What're you talking about?"

She considers her answer for a moment before pursing her lips in thought. "You didn't notice anything strange tonight? About Oliver?

"No," I say with a shake of my head. But then I'd been barely able to look at the guy. He made the blood pound behind my eyes and in my ears and had me imagining cutlery items as weapons to hurt him with. Prick.

"About Oliver and Nicole?" Sasha adds. The air seems to disappear from the back of the taxi, and from the back of my throat as what she's saying sinks in.

"What, he's fucking her? Nicole?" I can't hide the disgust in my voice.

"Oh, I mean I don't know for sure — she's never told me outright obviously. Discreet is Ms Weston, but I work with her. I see the way she comes back from 'lunch' sometimes." She uses air quotes around the word 'lunch'. "And he's called for her a few times at the gallery, always being overly polite when I answer."

By my side, my fists curl. My teeth clench. My mouth almost forms into a snarl.

"He's your weak link," she says, clearly oblivious to the reaction I'm having silently beside her. So this is what she meant by it being interesting tonight. This was the gossip she was about to spill before dinner. "Jesus, I talk too much. Especially after wine. And white chocolate martinis. Those were utterly vile weren't they?" she chatters, clearly bored now with even the concept of the gigantic piece of information she's just dropped in the back of the taxi.

"You think Eloise knows?" I ask, my voice barely audible. All I can see now is the image of her crying in the park that day as I took her picture. Was that why? Because she'd found out her husband was a lying cheating prick?

"God no! I mean I don't think so," she says shakes her head. "And Aidan you never heard this from me! I could lose my job if Nicole knew I'd been saying this... I don't even know why I did.." She looks panicked now. Eyes wide like a startled deer.

No. She'd never have come tonight if she knew. She was civil towards Nicole. Granted there wasn't a great deal of affection between them — though somehow I get the feeling Nicole is not the kind of woman other women enjoy being around. She had a unique way of dominating every conversation. Even if it wasn't about her she had a way of making it seem like it was.

No, Eloise didn't know. They looked like a couple tonight. An attractive, happily married, loving couple. Of course, I knew different — but it had still killed me watching them together. Eloise didn't know.

"She won't hear anything from me," I reassure her. Fucking hell, I didn't think I could despise Oliver Alford more than I already did.

Turns out I'd been wrong. I'm always fucking wrong.

As soon as I get in I drink about a gallon of water and take two Tylenol and convince myself it's the least I can do for what I'm about to do.

Then I grab the bottle of whisky and go upstairs to the studio and survey my monochrome painting of Eloise. I need to get it off the floor. My footprints are everywhere. My size ten feet marked out in dusty brown across the edges do nothing for the overall look of the thing. Crosslegged, I sit just below her mouth and stare into the hypnotic pools of black and white that are her eyes.

Her husband is sleeping with another woman. What, so she isn't enough for him? What the fuck is that about? How the fuck is that fair? I'm having to blackmail her for a fucking scrap of her time while he was spending his time — time that he could spend with her — sticking his massive cock into some pampered, superficial, stuck-up crow. Undeserving, self-important prick.

She astounds me every day. Yeah, that sounds about right since he's completely fucking unworthy, the cunt.

Sasha didn't know for sure. So maybe he isn't. Was that preferable? I'm currently in some weird state of contradictory flux where I want her marriage to disintegrate so that I can sweep in and beg her to let me love and comfort her, and yet the whole idea of her needing comfort or being hurt makes me feel fucking ill.

Had I hurt her? Tonight when I threatened to tell her husband unless she came back? She hadn't looked hurt. Pissed off and beyond angry. Before that maybe even a little turned on. But not hurt. She didn't look hurt.

As I close my eyes and gulp down a mouthful of the amber shitting poison, I let my thoughts go back to Nicole Weston's bathroom. The moment I'd seen Eloise and me together, side by side like we might be if I was who she came to dinner parties with. The moment I'd touched my hand to the soft patch of skin behind her ear and down. Years I'd dreamt of touching her there. It hadn't disappointed. She was soft, softer than I'd thought possible, and warm and the sight of my hand on her skin was surreal almost. My hand felt rough and unclean against the flawless ivory satin of her back — though my hands always feel dirty even when they're not. They spend most of their time coated with paint or plaster or lead and no matter how hard I scrub I always feel they could be cleaner. It was strange seeing them move over her spotless body. Seeing them skim down the length of her spine, which felt fragile and open to me. It had helped me imagine how they would look on other parts of her warm clean body.

I feel my cock begin to swell and stiffen as I remember the promise to fuck her until she screamed my name. How would it sound clawing its way out of her throat? I take a couple more burning gulps before standing up and unbuttoning my shirt and dropping it by the stairs. I actually like this one. Don't want to get it covered in Mars Black Acrylic.

***

Her skin feels so soft. I want to lick, suck and bite every inch of it until she begs me to stop. Which I'd refuse to do of course.

"Are you going to make me scream your name now?" her voice is seductive and quiet. Because she doesn't want anyone to hear us.

I slide my hand down the soft warm silk of her body, tracing it over the curves of her shoulder, down her arm to her waist, then over her perfect fuckable arse before grabbing the weighty material of her dress to gather it in my hand. I lean close, pressing my nose and mouth to the back of her neck. She smells like a garden in summer, hot, and floral - a natural kind of sweetness. Pressing my lips to the side of her neck near her ear, I inhale deeply before biting, nibbling on the soft skin. Her gasp makes my cock harden further. Fucking hell I need it inside her. Deep inside her. Just like I need to make her scream my name. As I continue to kiss and bite down her neck I finally feel the skin on the back of her thigh as her dress slides up over her behind. When I see she isn't wearing underwear I groan low in the back of my throat. Holding the thick soft folds of her heavy dress in my hand, I drop to my knees behind her and press my mouth to the skin there.

"Bend over," I tell her. She does it slowly. Too Slowly. Her hands slide over the marble and her skin edges closer. "Good. Now spread your legs for me."

A small gasp escapes her mouth and she resists the pull of my hands for a second or two, but then slowly she moves her right leg a little further to the right, before doing the same with her left. Immediately the scent of her floods up my nose - delicate, sensual, wet heat. She wants me. I can feel it in the tremble of her legs, and smell it in the space between her thighs, and I'm certain when I press my mouth to her there I'll find her wet and ready for me.

"Aidan... We can't.... we can't do this... I can't..." she moans but pushes herself closer to my mouth.

"So we should stop then..," I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh. Then, because I can't wait any longer, I guide my mouth upwards and tilt my head towards that hot wet place that wants me. In anticipation she begins to pant and tries to move against my tongue, making soft needy moaning sounds that do nothing to calm the beast inside me. The one that wants to spread her wide and fuck her rough and hard.

"Aidan..." she moans quietly, as though in pain.

"Louder," I command as I close the distance. The taste of her explodes on my tongue, spreading over it, heating it. I growl against her as my whole body begins to relax into some sort of hypnotic meditative trance. Focussed purely on her, on her moans and her movements and the faint tremble of her legs. I focus on her pleasure as my tongue strokes her inner skin, lapping greedily at the inside of her body - I want to leave something of me in here. I want to brand her.

When her legs threaten to give out I clamp harder on the top of her thighs and spread her open to meet my mouth.

"I want you to come for me like this. I want it running down your thigh when you go back downstairs to your husband," I say before sliding my tongue deeper inside her.

"Oh god..." she breathes.

I shift so that I can use my free hand on her, slowly sliding it between her thighs to meet my mouth. With my thumb and index finger, I apply some pressure and she trembles again before she begins to move rhythmically against my tongue. Her breaths quicken and her moans deepen as I lap and suck and stroke her - all while she tries to stop my name tearing from her mouth. I want to tear it from her mouth. Lick, suck, bite, lick, suck, lick, suck... Her legs tremble again and I hear a faint but frenzied sound strangle from her throat as warm sweet wetness floods into my mouth.

"Aidan..." she moans, grinding against my mouth, coating my tongue.

"That's it. Come for me," I tell her.

With my fingers still inside, milking her, drawing out her orgasm I stand. Then, using my body to hold her dress up, I unbuckle my jeans, belt first, then button after button until I have enough of a gap to get it out. With damp slick fingers, I spread her open and bring my mouth down to her ear.

"I want to hear you scream my name as I fuck you, Eloise," I say as I press my cock against her heat, bracing myself for the sound of my name as I slide it inside. It occurs to me that maybe I should cover her mouth. People might hear. After all, a scream is still a scream even if it's muffled. Before I can consider this any further a loud noise pierces the air. The noise isn't my name or even her scream. It's a loud sharp banging on the door. High pitched as though the door is made of steel and someone is using a metal saw across it. Back and forth... back and forth trying to slice their way through.

"Stop Aidan... we need to stop..." her voice sounds unconvincing. Sleepy, pleasured and abandoned. Helpless.

Just as I'm about to ignore the noise at my back entirely and slide myself inside her, she disintegrates in my hands and the bathroom falls away and I'm falling forward into the darkness. The noise behind me goes on, persistent and angry, chasing me.

I wake up with a start. Like I've landed from a height, the loud menacing noise chasing me is apparently not part of the dream. And what a fucking dream that had been. For years I'd prayed for a dream like that, only for it to be cut off right when I was about to feel myself inside her. Give me a fucking break. Whoever is at that fucking door better have a good explanation.

The dissonant racket is incessant, clawing at my hangover like a pack of hungry dogs. If this is Pat he's getting a crack in the fucking jaw. That much I've decided.

My hard-on is still throbbing painfully as I toss back the covers and stagger out of the bedroom, almost missing the last step as I go. Where the hell is the fucking thing again? I peer out from behind my fingers as I turn in a half-circle trying to remember which country I'm even in.

I see it on the pillar near the kitchen, mounted like a fucking air raid siren — the instrument of my torture. The one that had stolen my fantasy from me. That black, plastic cunt. I want to rip it from the wall with my bare fucking hands.

"What?" I growl as I yank the receiver from its bed.

"It's me. Open the door," she snaps. She sounds angry.

"Eloise?"

"Sorry, did I interrupt something?" She huffs. She doesn't sound sorry in the slightest. Yet, despite sounding nothing like the whispering sex goddess from my dream, her voice is still like warm honey being poured in my ears.

"As a matter of fact, you did," I yawn, stroking my hand over the lingering arousal between my legs.

"Open the bloody door, Aidan," She says in a tone I don't want to argue with. Not this early anyway. Not without coffee.

Half-dazed and fully turned on, I hit the button to unlock the downstairs entry door. Then, in a fog of sex dream induced half-sleep, I walk to the door and unlock and open it for her. From the lack of sound from the motor, I realise she's taking the stairs and so I wander back inside the comfort of the loft and take a seat at one of the bar stools. Watching the door while rubbing soothingly at my stinging eyes which desperately try and adjust to the light. The sound of the stairwell door banging shut does nothing to convince me she isn't going to tear me a new one.

Well, I guess I deserve it. Not like I thought she was going to come skipping in with a cake telling me how happy she was to be back.

I close my eyes and rub my palm over my mouth trying to cling to the memory of her cunt wrapped around my tongue. Just then she comes billowing through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

She's dressed in a bottle green dress which is tight around her upper body and dips low to a point between her breasts. My cock tightens further, as though to remind me of just how close it came to being inside her. Her pale legs are visible under the hem of the dress which stops a good few inches above her knees.

Her creamy complexion against that colour, and the way it flatters every curve makes my body physically groan with want. Was her entire fucking wardrobe assembled with the sole intention of making me want to bend her over any available surface and fuck her? I'm beginning to think so.

"Good morning," I smile.

She doesn't return it. She just walks toward me, eyes dipping over my topless form with a look I'd call resented interest, and plants her bag up on the counter. It's the one she always carries. A satchel type of expensive-looking brown leather. Well worn and obviously designer.

"It's not morning," she tells me. "It's one pm. Late night was it?"

"Something like that." I run a hand over the back of my neck, bending it to the left and twisting slightly until I hear the crack in the muscle before repeating the same on the other side. Immediately my body shakes off some of its fogginess. Keeping my eyes on her, I do the same with my left arm, stretching it high above my head and bending it at the elbow until I hear a soft crack, then I repeat with my right. Eloise watches all of this with an expression of curiosity masked by mild rage. "So how come you're here today? Thought you couldn't do weekends?" I ask her, stifling another yawn.

"Normally I can't. But I have a few days free which I thought I'd dedicate to getting this over with as soon as possible." She hardens her mouth into what I guess is supposed to be an angry line. But it doesn't look entirely convincing. It looks half-hearted.

"Well, I'm flattered," I smile. A few free days she chose to spend here with me. She can call it whatever the fuck she wants.

"Don't be." She brushes a hand through her hair and looks down, fiddling with the strap on her brown leather satchel. "So I suggest you ask your guest to leave so we can get started." Her eyes flick towards the bedroom door and her body tenses.

Oh, she thinks I spent the night fucking Sasha. She looks annoyed about it too. I have to stop myself from smiling a little harder. When she brings her brilliant blue eyes back to mine they're shimmering with something, lots of things actually. "I can wait upstairs if that will make it less awkward?"

"Not necessary," I shrug.

"I meant awkward for me, Aidan," she rolls her eyes.

I stand and walk around the breakfast bar towards her, the angle of her stare meaning she now has a very direct view of my morning arousal — which since she caused has no right to look so fucking horrified about.

"Oh for god sake, cover that up!" She exclaims, spinning round to face the other way.

I chuckle to myself as I bend down to get the coffee pot out of the low cupboard, then the sugar and coffee from the other. When I turn to face her she isn't shielding her eyes anymore. She's watching me, mouth slightly parted, eyes over-wide as she nibbles softly on the inside of her bottom lip. When I take a few steps toward her she backs up, pressing herself back against the counter. She looks wary as she peers up at me, nervous. She looks like she looked outside the bathroom door last night.

Keeping my eyes on hers, I reach my hand forward slowly, as though I'm about to touch her somewhere, her cheek, her neck, that place between her shoulder and her ear. But I don't. Instead, I retrieve a large mug from the hook above her head, then a second. Then I step back out of her body space. She lets out a long shuddering breath, her chest heaving a little too quickly, her cheeks pink.

"Since you're here why not make yourself useful?" I suggest. "Mine is strong and black with one sugar. I need to go take a shower and deal with this." I drop my gaze to where my cock is straining towards her still.

"You're unbelievable," she gives me a withering look and shakes her head. Standing back, I run a hand back and forward a few times over my head as I try and look humble.

"Thanks. You're just full of compliments today aren't you?"

"That wasn't a compliment either," she snaps. "Have you forgotten that the only reason I'm here at all is because you gave me no choice? That you cornered me in a bathroom and threatened my marriage to get me to agree to this? Perhaps your complete disregard for anyone or anything except your bloody art is something you need to address, Aidan?" She has her hands on her hips now for effect.

I step back a little further and tilt my head as I think over her words. The longer I hold her stare the less convinced about her little outburst she seems to be. Like she either can't be bothered holding onto the rage or like she's distracted by something else entirely.

"To be honest, I missed most of that because I can't think straight when I'm this turned on, but what I did hear of it was utter crap. You agreed to this way before I cornered you in a bathroom, Eloise."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

"Stop being obtuse."

I sigh. "Ok. I need to shower." I move away from her towards the bathroom.

"This isn't finished," she shouts after me.

I throw her a look over my shoulder. "Then why don't you come in with me and we can finish it underwater? No?" I shrug "Fair enough. Ok, well strong, black—."

"One sugar yes I bloody well remember," she huffs turning her back on me.

From the bedroom drawer, I grab my working jeans, battered and stained and too long. They used to be black but that was a long time ago. Now they're somewhere between grey and white and they don't have ankles any more because I cut them off with a swiss army knife as I kept tripping over them. They're still the most comfortable pair of trousers I own.

From the drawer above I take out a similarly tired looking white t-shirt and cross back over to close the bedroom curtain and stop. She's braced on the kitchen sink, her head down and her hands gripping the edges tightly. She's muttering something to herself but I'm too far away to hear what it is. Just as she leans up off the counter I turn and cross back to the bed, drop the jeans and T-shirt on the bed, and strip out of my boxers. Then I go about stretching my unclothed body like I do every morning before I get in the shower. After a night working too late, eating and drinking too much, it's always more satisfying than usual to feel the muscles stretch and spring and the bones snap back into some sort of working order. I still feel tense and edgy when I'm done, the usual gloomy hungover feeling I basically live with every day, but the sheer fact that she was here and that her disgust with me is far milder than I'd expected, is helping.

The shower is punishing and hot, like my unused erection. The idea of her in the next room isn't helping either. I grip myself tight in my hand and stroke the head and try and call back the memory of her taste flooding over my tongue. My eyes closed and my head under the spray it isn't hard to imagine her mouth is the tight wetness around my cock. The thought of finishing is literally all I can think of, but the act seems pathetic. It wasn't like I hadn't done it in here to images of her before, and each time had felt as pathetic as the last, but having her so close to me, a few feet away seemed doubly wrong.

Then, dousing my arousal entirely, Sasha's theory about Oliver Alford and Nicole Weston. The mild hangover, the near wet dream, and the sight of her in front of me had caused that piece of information sink to the bottom of the pile. Is that why she's here today? Had she found out? Had she noticed something between her husband and Nicole last night and they'd gone home and fought about it? She didn't seem heartbroken. She was angry, defiant, determined. I'd seen her like that once before. After she'd kissed me.

The slate bathroom floor is cold when I step out of the shower. I take the large grey towel from the rail and rub it over my head and across my body before wrapping it around my hips and brushing my teeth and tongue hard.

The bedroom door is still wide open, the curtains too, and the smell of brewing coffee floats through it as well as the sound of her moving crockery about noisily. With my back to the bedroom door, I lift my jeans and pull them over my still damp legs, deciding to forgo boxers in the hope that it will distract her for the rest of the afternoon if she happens to be watching me right now. I certainly want her to be watching me right now. It's precisely why I didn't close the curtain.

I'm hoping the fact that the noise of crockery behind me has quieted means that she is. As I bend down to lift the t-shirt I turn to see my guess was spot on. She's blowing gently on the rim of her coffee as she stares at me. She looks like she's in a trance.

The horrified look that comes over her face when she snaps out of it makes me smile. So too does the way she avoids my eyes and attempts to look anywhere but in my direction as I come out of the bedroom still holding my T-shirt. I wait until I'm in the kitchen before pulling it over my head, the light cotton fabric clinging to the damp puddles on my shoulders and stomach as it settles over my body.

"What? No toast?" I frown. "Call yourself a housewife?"

The withering stare she gives me over the rim of her coffee cup tells me she doesn't find me amusing in the slightest.

Her coffee is perfect. Surprising perhaps since I half expected her to put salt in it instead of sugar. Syrupy, black sweetness which shoots through my body instantly, firing up the bones and blood.

"What you did last night was out of order," she says after a long moment, her voice reasoned. "Please tell me now that you've sobered up slightly you can see that?"

"She offered me a doggy bag? It was going to go in the bin. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Turn her down?"

She makes a frustrated noise and slams her cup down on the counter. "Are you capable of being serious for one minute about anything? You forced me into a bathroom with you, kissed me while my husband sat oblivious downstairs, and then threatened to tell him everything if I didn't agree to do what you told me to do? I mean does it even register how immoral that is?" Her voice is high pitched and angry but it still dances off my ears like a favourite song. Her angry at me means I get to her. Means I'm under her skin.

"Your own fault," I shrug, sipping at my coffee. "You made an agreement. Then stamped your feet and acted like a child when things got a little uncomfortable for you. And don't even get me started on that fucking dress," I warn.

She blinks in surprise, her whole body tensing with rage. I feel it blow over me as she takes a few steps toward me.

"I acted like a child?" She hisses. "Oh, you have some bloody nerve." I nod in agreement with her because I know it will annoy her even more. "You giving doe-eyes at Nicole's assistant all night, was that for my benefit? Your little tirade at Oliver over dessert, was that supposed to impress me?"

I sigh and run a hand over my face, then place my cup down gently on the counter. "I'm not interested in impressing you, Eloise. I might have wanted that once," a long time ago remains unsaid, "but it's pretty clear to me that the sorts of things that impress you are a little out of my reach, to be honest." My voice is bitter and a little harder than I intended. It must hit her because she reels back slightly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, her voice quiet now.

I shake my head. "Nothing. Forget it. Let's get to work." I lift my cup and walk out of the kitchen, away from her.

"Tell me what you meant by that, Aidan?"

"What do you think I meant, Eloise? You're a smart woman. Figure it out."

"The things that seem to impress me? What things are those Aidan? Say it."

I round on her to find her looking hurt and angry, tears glimmering in her eyes. The guilt almost floors me. I really am a fucking cunt.

I don't say it. Instead, I just stare at her, wanting to take back what just came out of my mouth. I'd only half meant it anyway. Because the other half wishes I was one of the things that impressed her.

Moving toward her again, I place the cup back down and pinch the bridge of my nose, running a hand over my mouth to consider what I'm about to say. Which as always, should probably be fuck all.

"You want an apology, Eloise, is that it? For what I did last night?" I ask her. "For kissing you, for bringing another girl, for upsetting your husband at the dinner table, for what I threatened to do upstairs in the bathroom? Would an apology make all of this better? More palatable to you? Make you like me again?" She opens her mouth to say something but closes it again a moment later. "Well, I'm not going to. You can be pissed off about it all you want, and you can hate my fucking guts all you want, but I'm not going to apologise for any of it. Your husband is a prick, yeah I brought another girl precisely to see if it pissed you off, and I kissed you upstairs because you owed me one." I come around the breakfast bar so that I'm closer to her. "And to be honest, you got off lightly because I wanted to do a whole lot more than fucking kiss you, trust me." I still fucking do.

A small soft gasp escapes her mouth and that gorgeous pink begins creeping across her cheeks and the top of her breasts again. My cock stiffens as my mouth waters.

"You're telling me you brought her just to annoy me?" She sounds incredulous — her voice a small breathy thing. So of all the things I just said, this is the one she wants to talk about?

"Depends," I say quietly, my eyes on her mouth.

"On what?"

I smirk. "On whether it worked or not."

She says nothing. She tries to draw her eyes away from mine but she can't do it, or she doesn't want to do it. Those wide pools of shimmering blue are definitely less angry than they were a moment ago. The anger is still there, hiding beneath something else. Something warm.

Her breath is short and fast now and when her eyes do drop to my mouth she bites down on her lip.

I'm not sure who moves first. I think it's her — or at least a deep desperate part of me wants it to be her — but since it's all I've been thinking about since she walked through the door, and for the last thirteen fucking years, it seems more likely it's me.

It stops being important who moved first when our mouths collide in a clash of wet, warm, tongues and her arms go up and around my neck, clinging to me. I slide my hands down her body to her arse, scooping them around it lift her up into my arms. When she wraps her legs tight around my waist I have to resist the desire to growl and beat at my chest in triumph like some sort of neanderthal. She brings her hands around to hold my head as she pushes her mouth further into mine, exploring, tasting. The soft moans she releases from her throat makes my body tremble, my knees weakening as my cock begins to harden and lengthen all over again.

When she moves her mouth away from mine I expect it's so she can raise some protest, ask me to put her down, tell me we can't do this, but she doesn't do any of this. She just kisses her way down my face, across the hair around my mouth to my neck, my throat, inhaling deeply once she gets there. She feels perfect in my arms, so perfect in fact that I almost want to walk in circles with her for hours just to prolong the feeling of having her in my arms like this, her face cradled in the crook of my neck, her fingers deep in my hair. I'm certain I could do it too because weighs very little. She needs to bloody eat more.

I drop my mouth to her shoulder and bite her there softly which causes her to moan louder. Bringing my mouth back to hers as I move her to one of the concrete pillars and settle her back against it, reaching under her dress to massager her arse softly. She pulls her mouth from mine and rests her head back against the wall and stares at me hard, breathing fast, cheeks flushed, eyes on fire.

"Tell me to stop," I say as I move my hand over the soft silk underwear she's wearing. It's thin and lace and not very substantial. She says nothing as my hand slips under the waistband by her hip, some delicate strand of nothing. I knot it around my hand as I wait for her to say something. Anything. "If you want me to stop, say it now."

"Do you want to stop?" Is what she asks, her breath soft and shallow. Her tongue darts out to spread wetness along her bottom lip and I lean in to kiss her again, biting her lip gently. Her hands grip my shoulders hard as I rip the lace away from her body. She gasps in shock, tensing slightly, but when I place my hand between her legs her whole body relaxes, surrendering to me. Hot and wet and soft. Yes. This is fucking happening all right.

"Aidan," she breathes as her head drops back against the wall and her eyes close over. As I kiss her and suck at her neck I push my finger inside her, inside Eloise Airens. I'm not surprised to find that she feels like the softest velvet I could imagine.

"Last chance," I whisper against her ear as I begin to dip my finger in and out of her, fucking her with it. "If you don't tell me to stop right now, Eloise, I'm going to fuck you here. That's what's going to happen. So say it. Tell me to stop."

Again she says nothing, she just drops her head to the side to give me better access to her neck as she moves into my fingers. With my body pressed hard into her so she doesn't fall, I unbutton my jeans. The lack of belt and boxers makes it a swift easy job, and the weight of them falls down my legs to the floor. I feel her legs spread for me a little more as I angle my cock against her — it's all the encouragement I need. Sliding a hand up her body to grip the back of her neck hard, I force her to meet my eyes.

Then, without any of the tenderness I'd imagined I'd show her at this moment, the moment I'd waited my whole adult life for, I drive myself inside her.

The noise that comes out of her in the form of a scream is my name.