She was lying down and could feel him hard against her and she didn’t think twice, just slid his zipper down.
She could hear her own moan as she held him and he lifted his head.
‘We’re not going to make it to the bedroom, are we?’
‘Not a hope,’ she admitted.
Was this what it was like?
To be free.
To be irresponsible.
More, please, she wanted to sob, because she wanted to live on the edge for ever, never wanted this night to end.
She wanted this man who took off his trousers and kept condoms in his wallet, and it didn’t offend her—she already knew what he was like, after all.
‘Bastard.’ She grinned.
And he knew her too.
‘Sorry,’ he said. In their own language he apologised for the cad that he was and told her that he wasn’t being one tonight.
This was different.
So different that he sat her up.
Sank to his knees on the edge of the sofa.
And pulled her bottom towards him.
‘Let’s get rid of these.’ He was shameless. He dispensed with anything awkward, just slid her panties down, and she did remember staring up at the ceiling as his tongue slid up a pale, freckled thigh that didn’t taste of fake tan and then he dived right in. As he licked and teased and tasted she would remember for ever thinking, Is this me?
And she was grateful for his experience, for his skill, for the mastery of his tongue, because it was a whole new world and tonight she got to step into it.
‘Relax,’ he said, when she forgot to for a moment.
So she did, just closed her eyes and gave in to it.
‘Where’s the rug?’ she asked as he slid her to the floor.
‘No rug,’ he said.
He maybe should get one, was her last semi-coherent thought, because the carpet burnt in her back as he moved inside her, a lovely burn, and then it was his turn to sample the carpet for he toppled her over, still deep inside her, and she was on top.
Don’t look down.
It wasn’t even a semi-coherent thought; it was more a familiar warning that echoed in her head.
Don’t look down—but she did, she looked down from the tightrope that recently she’d been walking.
She glimpsed black eyes that were open as she closed hers and came, and he watched her expression, felt her abandon, and then his eyes closed as he came too. Yes, feeling those last bucks deep inside her she looked down and it didn’t daunt her, didn’t terrify. It exhilarated her as greedily he pulled her head down and kissed her.
‘It’s morning,’ he said as they moved to the bedroom, the first sunlight starting.
Better still as she closed her eyes to the new day, there was no regret.
IT WAS like waking up to an adult Christmas.
The perfect morning, Bridgette thought as she stretched out in the wrinkled bed.
She must have slept through the alarm on her phone and he must have got up, for there was the smell of coffee in the air. If she thought there might be a little bit of embarrassment, that they both might be feeling a touch awkward this morning, she was wrong.
‘Morning.’ Dominic was delighted by her company, which was rare for him. He had the best job in the world to deal with situations such as this—in fact, since in Melbourne, he had a permanent alarm call set for eight a.m. at weekends. He would answer the phone to the recorded message, talk for a brief moment, and then hang up and apologise to the woman in his bed. He would explain that something had come up at work and that he had no choice but to go in.
It was a back-up plan that he often used, but he didn’t want to use it today. Today he’d woken up before his alarm call and had headed out to the kitchen, made two coffees and remembered from last night that she took sugar. He thought about breakfast in bed and perhaps another walk to the river, to share it in daylight this time. Sunday stretched out before him like a long, luxurious yawn, a gorgeous pause in his busy schedule.
‘What time is it?’ Bridgette yawned too.
‘Almost eight.’ He climbed back into bed and he was delicious. ‘I was thinking…’ He looked down at where she lay. ‘Do you want to go out somewhere nice for breakfast?’
‘In a silver dress?’ Bridgette grinned. ‘And high heels?’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Then I guess we’ve no option but to spend the day in bed.’ She reached for her coffee and, as she always did when Harry wasn’t with her, she reached for her phone to check for messages. Then she saw that it wasn’t turned on and a knot of dread tightened in her stomach as she pressed the button.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Sure.’ Only it wasn’t. She hadn’t charged her phone yesterday; with Jasmine arriving and going out she hadn’t thought to plug it in. Her phone could have been off for hours—anything could have happened and she wouldn’t even know. She took a sip of her coffee and tried to calm herself down. Told herself she was being ridiculous, that she had to stop worrying herself sick, but it wasn’t quite so easy and after a moment she turned and forced a smile. ‘As much as I’d love to spend the day in bed, I really am going to have to get home.’
‘Everything okay?’ He checked again, because he could sense the change in her. One moment ago she’d been yawning and stretching; now she was as jumpy as a cat.
‘Of course,’ Bridgette said. ‘I’ve just got a lot on…’
She saw the flash of confusion in his eyes and it could have irritated her—in fact, she wanted it to irritate her. After all, why shouldn’t she have a busy day planned? Why should he just assume that she’d want a day with him? But that didn’t work, because somehow last night had not been as casual as she was now making it out to be. It needed to be, Bridgette reminded herself as she turned away from his black eyes—she felt far safer with their one-night rule, far safer not trusting him. ‘I’ll get a taxi,’ she said as she climbed out of bed and found her crumpled dress and then realised she’d have to go through the apartment to locate her underwear.
‘Don’t be ridiculous—I’ll drive you home,’ Dominic said, and he lay there as she padded out. He could hear her as she pulled on her panties and bra, and he tried not to think about last night and the wonderful time they’d had. Not just the sex, but before that, lying on the sofa watching clips on the computer, or the car ride home.
It wasn’t usually him getting sentimental. Normally it was entirely the other way round.
‘You really don’t have to give me a lift.’ She stood at the door, dressed now and holding her shoes in her hand, last night’s mascara smudged beneath her eyes, her hair wild and curly, and he wanted her back in his bed. ‘It’s no problem to get a taxi.’
‘I’ll get my keys.’
And she averted her eyes as he climbed out of the bed, as he did the same walk as her and located his clothes all crumpled on the floor. She wished the balloon would pop and he’d look awful all messed and unshaven. She could smell them in the room and the computer was still on and their photo was there on the screen and how they’d been smiling.
‘Bridgette…’ He so wasn’t used to this. ‘You haven’t even had your coffee.’
‘I