After Felix - Lily Morton Page 0,72

This isn’t the plot of an eighties romance novel.”

“It’ll be the plot of Murder on the Orient Express if you try anything,” I warn him, and my mouth can’t help its twitch of happiness at the sound of his laughter.

He isn’t laughing so much when we arrive back at the cabin after an early evening drink to change for dinner.

“What the fuck?” he breathes in disgust, gazing at the beds that have been put down while we were away.

“Ooh, bunk beds,” I say happily, patting the immaculately turned-down beds and feeling the thickness of the mattress and the plumped pillows. The cabin is warm and cosy with the blinds pulled down against the night, and the white bedlinen glows in the light from the lamp. “I haven’t been in one of these since a youth hostel in the Lake District.” I shoot him a wink. “I seem to recall doing some of my best work in a bunk bed. Bagsy being the top.” I continue my survey of the room, and exclaim, “Oh, my God, they’ve given us slippers. And look at these blue and white robes! They’re gorgeous.”

“Surely you haven’t got room on the boat for more bathrobes. You must have them from half of the hotels in London.”

There’s a small box of chocolates on my pillow, and I stuff one into my mouth, closing my eyes for a second in appreciation. Bliss. “I have to say that part of my attraction to you in the past could possibly have been rooted in the fact that you didn’t book rooms that paid by the hour,” I say with my mouth full.

He laughs as he leans against the wall, his body swaying lazily with the movement of the train. He shoots the beds an aggrieved look. “I thought we’d have a proper bed.”

“That we’d have to share,” I say in a sing-song voice. “Oh dear, the best-laid plans of rats.” His mouth twitches, and I laugh. “You really need to start listening to the details, Max,” I say tauntingly.

“Motherfucker,” he mutters. He straightens. “Come on. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”

My laughter immediately dies as worry rears its head. We’d shared cocktails in a carriage filled with costly-looking people earlier. “It’s rather posh here, isn’t it?” I say haltingly.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Of course,” I say with conviction. He doesn’t move, so I wave my hands at him. “Didn’t you want to change so we wouldn’t be late?”

“We won’t be going anywhere unless you tell me what’s wrong,” he says steadily.

“We can’t be late on the Orient Express.”

“Oh, yes, we can. You’re more important than a load of strangers, and they’ll wait for us.” His arrogant tone shouldn’t make my heart warm as much as it does. “Tell me,” he commands.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I confide. “We passed people going for dinner, and they were all in suits and ties and even evening dress. It’s so… So posh.”

“Go and look in the wardrobe,” he says. I stare at him. “Go on,” he prompts, and I cross to the small cupboard, opening the doors to view what’s inside.

Our clothes have been neatly unpacked, and my eyes are drawn to the suits hanging there. One is Max’s—a black Armani dinner suit that flatters his body as if it was designed for him—but the other one must be mine. It’s an Alexander McQueen evening jacket and vastly different from Max’s, as it’s made of burgundy jacquard patterned with black roses. It’s beautifully dramatic and has been paired with a black shirt and black trousers. Everything appears cut to a skinny fit which I know will flatter my body. The sheen of the fabric tells me that it’s hideously expensive and has been chosen by someone who knows me very well.

I run one finger down the sleek fabric and glance at Max. He’s watching me with the softest expression I’ve ever seen on his face. I swallow hard.

“You?” I ask. He nods. “How?”

“I know your body, Felix. It hasn’t changed much.”

“You remember?” I whisper.

“I will never forget that body of yours.” His fingers make a languorous movement in the air, and my dick twitches as if he’s caressing me. The silence stretches and lengthens, and then he shakes himself like a big dog.

“Get ready,” he instructs me. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Why? You’ve seen everything there is to see a million times.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice has a hushed quality, almost a reverence to it. “Not nearly everything. That would take a lifetime.”

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