He begins to prowl towards me.
‘It had been a while.’
I told him that in Sydney. There’s no point in denying it.
‘What’s “a while”?’
I swallow, my throat bone dry. I wave my hand in the air in what I hope passes as some kind of descriptor of time. He catches it in his, lacing our fingers together and holding it at my side.
Up close, I look at him—really look at him—in a way I haven’t had the luxury of doing yet. I notice things that previously passed me by. Not because they didn’t warrant notice, but because there’s so much of him that demands attention: his square jaw; his perfectly sculpted lips; the little indent above his mouth, forming a bridge to his nose; a nose that is straight and strong—patrician, appropriately, given his pedigree—but that has a bump halfway down, as if it’s been broken at some point. His lashes are thick and dark and clumpy, and close up it almost looks as if he’s wearing eyeliner. He’s not, but that’s the effect the weight of his lashes combines to create. He has a silvery scar near his hairline—a single, trembling line about an inch long, very faint and, going by the shimmery paleness of it, earned long ago, perhaps even as a boy.
My tummy swoops. ‘Oh, you know, years.’
‘Years?’ The word is like a curse, and his brow dips as if he can’t even comprehend this concept. I can’t really blame him—standing here in a post-orgasm glow, I have no idea why I’ve denied myself this for as long as I have.
I go to pull away but his hand squeezes mine. ‘Years?’ Softer, gentler, less shocked, more wondering.
‘Yeah.’ I don’t meet his eyes. I hate feeling like this. Most people look at me with awe and it’s pushed my vulnerabilities deep inside me. But suddenly, I feel gauche and insecure; I feel like the gangly, solitary teen I was after Abbey died and I realised I had no one who really knew me.
I make an effort to straighten and transform into Imogen Carmichael, entrepreneur, philanthropist.
‘It’s not a big deal, okay?’
‘I beg to differ. Are you some kind of masochist? Or nun?’
‘Clearly not the latter.’
‘So why the hell have you been single so long?’
I square my shoulders but make no effort to pull my hand away from his. I like touching him. That should set alarm bells off inside my brain. Maybe it does. I ignore them, though, staying right where I am, his naked torso with that cursive script tattoo inked over his heart calling to me.
‘I’ve been busy,’ I point out, waving my free hand around the office.
‘But sex is...’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I roll my eyes. ‘To you, sex is like breathing. I get it.’
‘I was going to say,’ he interrupts, a little gruffly, ‘that it’s an instinct. And it’s more than sex, it’s companionship. It’s falling asleep in someone’s arms, it’s having someone to laugh with.’
‘Says you, Mr Manhattan Playboy?’
He lifts his defined shoulders. ‘So? A varied sex life doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy those perks.’
It’s an admission I didn’t expect. Our eyes connect and something electrifies my pulse. ‘With a different woman every night, right?’
His eyes hold mine unflinchingly and I admire him for his lack of apology. Why should he apologise? He’s a renowned bachelor; he lives as he preaches. Everyone who sleeps with him knows what they’re getting.
Great sex.
Lots of it.
But just for a night or so.
I knew that—it’s why I approached him, specifically, in the forums. I didn’t want the complication of a guy who might want more from me.
Which somewhat begs the question as to why he’s here.
And why I don’t feel more annoyed about it.