‘I want to see you.’
He makes a noise of agreement and reaches down, lifting the blindfold.
It emboldens me.
‘I want to touch you.’
I see now that he is as shredded by our coming together as I am. It is rewarding and important.
‘Soon.’ He drives into me again and speech is lost to pleasure.
When I come this time, and I come hard, he is there with me, his own cries loud and dark to my high-pitched whimper. Even as my breath is finding its rhythm once more, he is reaching for the belt and untying it, freeing my wrists, which he lifts to his mouth and kisses.
My heart squeezes.
It is only then, when his mouth connects to my wrists, that I realise we still haven’t actually kissed.
He has possessed me, body and soul, and yet I do not know the pleasure of his mouth on mine. Yet.
I SNEAK OUT while he is asleep. Somewhere in the middle hours of the night, in the gap between darkness and dawn, champagne and pleasure have receded from my body, leaving only a gaping hole of uncertainty.
I watched him sleep. I watched his chest, his beautiful chest so covered in tattoos, as it lifted up and down with reassuring regularity. I watched his parted lips release their breaths, and I wondered if I dared to steal, while he was sleeping, the kiss we had forgotten about.
I watched his eyelids flutter as he dreamed—of me, I hope.
And then I slid my feet from the bed, my body all kinds of sore and aware, my heart groaning in complaint at the removal of the possibility of more Connor.
I had only the dress to wear. I slipped it back on in the dimly lit lounge before tiptoeing to the door and pushing my feet into my heels.
I half hoped he would wake.
He didn’t. I pulled the heavy door inwards and moved into the corridor of the luxurious building, taking in all the details I’d been too sexually desperate to notice the night before. The large bright artwork on either side of the lift, the polished wooden floors, the stunning view of a new day splitting over the heart of London’s financial district.
I pressed the button and a moment later the lift pinged open and before I knew it I was here, slipping into the bowels of London, surrounded by the early-morning activity of Canary Wharf tube station.
I don’t want to think about what I’ve done. I assiduously ignore my conscience and responsible self as I step onto the Tube, grateful that the earliness of the hour means I get a seat. It’s a long way to Putney.
I refuse to let my regrets break through, though I know they’re there and I know I’ll have to answer them soon enough.
I stifle a yawn and sit up straighter, so as not to fall asleep.
Three tubes, forty-five minutes later and I am home. I keep my head bent as I move inside, pushing the door inwards, and then lay my back against it so that the hard wood holds me upright. My knees threaten to sag anyway.
I am home, in my own place, and yet here the judgement at what I have done is stronger.
He’s my lecturer...
And yet...
I groan as my body, so far from his now, aches to be with him again. To kiss his tattoos and ask him what each means.
This is madness. This is bliss.
I am hard with need for Olivia Amorelli when I wake. She is not beside me when I reach for her. I frown but I’m not, initially, worried. I’m curious, though, naturally. I smile as I see the remnants of our passion—the champagne bottle, bulldog clips, condom wrappers.
The penthouse is deathly silent. My frown deepens as I look into the bathroom and see it empty. The lounge and kitchen are similarly deserted. There is no note nor explanation, yet it is clear that Olivia is no longer here.
I flick a glance at the clock on the oven. It’s just gone eight, so it’s not like I’ve slept the day away and she had to leave.
I can’t fight the disappointment that surges inside me. It is eclipsed only by an unshakeable sense of worry.
Of doubt.
It’s uncharacteristic of me to feel that I’ve erred with a woman and yet now her departure has given me every cause for concern.
I had the sense last night that Olivia was inexperienced. Haven’t I felt that innocence in her all along? Her purity and goodness are a huge part of what draws me to her. She is everything I need and I can’t say why.
Her fingers shook as she unbuttoned my shirt.
And I tied her up and tortured her with desires that must have been overwhelming for her. She enjoyed it. I frown. God, she enjoyed it, didn’t she? She couldn’t have been faking that kind of pleasure?
Her absence makes me doubt everything.
I reach for my phone and swear aloud: I don’t have her number. We didn’t need to swap numbers because we have a guaranteed way of seeing one another each week.
There’s the app, I remember with a growing sense of unease. Is it creepy to use a university enrolment form to get her number?
Any creepier than luring her back to her professor’s place and fucking her senseless?
Jesus Christ.
I go to the study and reach for the iPad and groan when it’s not there. I must have left it at my office on campus.
Suddenly, not contacting her isn’t an option. I need to at least know that she’s okay. That I didn’t hurt or terrify her. I am aware of the darkness that runs through me and I wish now I had concealed it better from the sweetness of Olivia Amorelli.
I’ll shower, as though that can cleanse me of this sin, and then I’ll go to my office. I can fix her if I’ve hurt her. I can fix this.
* * *
The doorbell rings, a little after five in the afternoon. Hands that were trailing over Connor’s tattooed chest earlier that same day are now covered in flour and gnocchi dough. Professor Wainwright’s latest lecture is playing from my Bluetooth speaker and the glass of Pinot Grigio I poured a few minutes ago sits before me, ice-cold and tantalising.
It’s hardly a convenient time for a guest.
The doorbell rings again and I make a sound of exasperation.
‘Just a second.’ I use my elbow to negotiate the mixer tap up and run my hands beneath the water, wiping away the gnocchi before drying them on the front of my apron as I walk towards the door.
I look through the little peephole and a small sound of surprise, mingled with delight, escapes.
Connor is on the other side of my front door. Connor Hughes in jeans and a T-shirt, looking handsome even when distorted by the fish-eye glass. I can see the whisper of a tattoo on one arm, dark ink sighing from beneath the sleeve.
‘Open the door, Olivia.’
I hadn’t even considered not doing so, but hell, do I need a minute to catch my breath! And get changed.
‘Um...’ I toss a harried look towards the mirror and wince. I am wearing no make-up, and exhaustion from the night before is something I carry on my face like a mask. I showered when I came home in the early hours of the morning and changed into stretchy black yoga pants and an oversized singlet top that shows serious side boob when I move my arms. ‘Wait a second.’
‘Open the damned