it is. The perfect word to woo Ben, a lonely pseudo-cynic who is secretly harbouring a deep longing for someone to prove romance is not dead. I stare at Scott with genuine admiration. He’s a bright man, there’s no doubt – a force to be reckoned with. Someone who knows what he wants and how to get it. In my book, there’s nothing sexier.
Enough chat.
I beam at Scott and then hurl myself at him. The relief. I leap into his strong arms and wrap my legs around his waist. He clasps hold of my bum and hoists me high and close. He slams me against the counter near the till, almost upsetting a vase as he urgently and repeatedly kisses me. I kiss back, just as hungrily. My hands discover his body, it’s hard and solid and totally man. There is no shyness or false modesty. We cling to one another, cleave as though we share a life source. He perches me on the counter and inches me out of my light jacket. The cool, damp air of the shop caresses me. The jacket drops to the floor, in a heap, I don’t care that I spent an age ironing it this morning. I only did it to impress him and by the way he’s eating my face, I’d say job done.
I hurriedly flick off my shoes; my toes jiggle their own little dance. I’d had them freshly manicured with a ruby red paint just before my birthday – a rare treat and well worth every penny, since Scott has dropped to his knees and is sucking my toes. His kisses trail up my calves and linger on my knees; every one of them causes me to moan and slither. He gently, but firmly, pushes my thighs apart. His kisses are precise, bottomless, alert, inquisitive. I wonder how far up my legs those kisses are going to trail. He’s still at my knees; I silently urge him, another inch, another inch, higher, higher. But then he changes focus. He stands up and kisses my neck, my collarbone. He inches open my shirt and kisses my throat and shoulders. He kisses my cheeks, my jaw and hair, my eyelids, my eyebrows and my nose. I kiss him too, and lick and taste and devour. I want him. I want him now. Hard and fast. And now. His body is leaning close into mine and it’s scalding me with desire, the like of which I just haven’t come across before. I will him to inch his hand up my skirt. To plunge his fingers into me. More than his fingers. That will do to start with but I want him to sink his cock deep inside me too. It’s all I want. All I need.
I scramble for his fly.
‘No.’
No? Did he just say no? Scott jumps away from me. His breathing is heavy. I’m actually panting – it’s embarrassing – especially as he is shaking his head and he’s just said no. No what. No nookie? Please God, anything but that.
‘Wait.’
Wait is better. Better than no.
Scott closes and locks the door of the store. Just as he pulls down the blinds I see Bob take up guard outside.
‘Someone might have followed us,’ explains Scott. ‘I don’t think so. We were really careful but the rat pack can scurry into the most surprising places. You don’t need your bare arse plastered across the tabloids tomorrow.’
No I don’t. I rather liked the reference to the ‘elegant, mystery girl’ in the Mirror yesterday but I’m significantly less keen on the idea of encountering a headline like ‘Floozy found frolicking in flora’ or anything similarly dripping in attention-grabbing alliteration. My mum definitely wouldn’t like it. The mention of the door-stepping tabloid journalists has the same effect as an icy shower. Even with the blinds pulled we don’t re-launch ourselves at one another. A gentle silence falls between us but happily it’s not an embarrassed silence, it’s quite calm and comfortable.
Scott wrinkles his forehead and then runs his fingers through his hair. His simple gesture grabs me between the legs. He’s a moving icon. I still can’t quite believe it. I’m sat spreadeagled on the counter of Ben’s B&B, panting from the exertions of a pre-lim, pash-sess, with one of the undisputed sex gods of the twenty-first century. How can something this amazing be happening to me? And hallelujah that it is.