Dirty Sweet Valentine: And Other Filthy Tales of Love Page 6

  So I throw the ball back into his court. “What else do you know, then? Save me the trouble of repeating information you already have on file.”

  “I know everything on the outside, nothing on the in.” He rolls a coil of my dark corkscrew hair between two fingers.

  I frown as I try to interpret exactly what he means. Does he simply run a background check from time to time? Or am I under some form of deeper surveillance?

  My expression must alert him to my questions, because he clarifies. Slightly. “I know you’re a top level manager at Reach, Inc. I was astonished at first when you moved from creative to sales, but, when I thought about it, I realized sales suited you perfectly. I know you put a deposit on this flat with the commission from your first big client. I know the amount in your savings account, that you still haven’t taken on driving, and that you spend the little free time you allow your workaholic self at the gym and streaming BBC iPlayer.” He pauses momentarily. “I know that you haven’t been lonely.”

  I’m flabbergasted by this. “Haven’t been lonely? Where on earth did you possibly get that idea?” I’ve been encased in loneliness. I’ve been sealed in it like a plum in a bottle of preserves. Loneliness has been the overarching theme of my life for fifteen years, and only worsened by the loss of my grandmother.

  “I mean to say your bed hasn’t been lonely.” There’s no hint of jealousy or condemnation, and I should be glad because he has no right to either.

  But his indifference also smarts, and I pull my hand away so I can wrap my arms around myself.

  He picks up on the cue and drops my hair from his grasp, but doesn’t sit back. “I came by once. A couple of years ago. Another trip I had to make to London for...business...and I thought, if I could just see you... I didn’t mean it, of course, because I knew the minute I did see you, I’d need to talk to you. Then I’d need to touch you.”

  My gut twists with recognition. I can vividly imagine myself in the same position. One look would never be enough for either of us. Our bodies had always been opposite magnetic poles.

  “I couldn’t help myself, though. Despite telling myself I wasn’t headed here, I ended up in the alley across the street, clinging to the shadows, watching for you to come home.”

  “What happened?” I ask and hold my breath, as though the story could possibly have a happy ending.

  “You came home in a cab. The minute you got out of the car, I lost all ability to breathe. It had been so long since I’d really seen you—pictures and the like are not nearly the same—and I was completely swept away. I’d forgotten you had that effect on me. It kind of threw me off guard.”

  “So much off guard that you were able to refrain from coming to my door?” I sound angry, and I am. I had no choice in these matters, and every choice he made that kept him away from me was the wrong choice, as far as I was concerned.

  “No, I started toward you. Got as far as putting my foot in the street before I realized you weren’t alone.” He pauses to let me register that. “The mussed hair seemed your style, but I didn’t realize you were into men who wear suits.”

  “Who said that I was? You automatically assumed it was a romantic situation?”

  “You had your hand on his crotch while you put the key in the lock. I didn’t have to assume anything.”

  His smirk increases my rage for reasons I can’t explain. I know who the man is instantly from his description. Though I have plenty of fuck-buddies, there’s only one who wears a suit that I ever invite back to my house—Dylan Locke. Technically my boss because he owns the company I work for, but he’s much more of a friend. A friend who would understand if I cut the night short, no matter the reason, and I would certainly have done that if I’d known Harrington was nearby. There isn’t anyone I wouldn’t turn away to be with him.

  And fuck him for not understanding that.

  Fuck him.

  My anger is too effervescent inside me. It bubbles up and over, and I can no longer sit and pretend that Harrington hasn’t stirred up years’ worth of emotional repression. Layer upon layer of all the small hurts that his choices gave me.

  I burst from the sofa and grab the dishes on the side table, unsure if I mean to throw them or simply clear them. I turn back toward him, seething. “How dare you? How dare you decide that I wouldn’t rather see you? How dare you believe that anyone—anyone!—could fill the hole of loneliness you made inside of me? That there would ever be someone I might love as much as I love you!”

  He’s practiced at remaining stoic, and he does so now, not letting a single twitch of emotion show on his expression. The blue calm of his eyes, always the same.

  Fuck him!

  I spin on my heel and deliver the dishes to the kitchen, wanting a reason to put space between us, even though the room is open to the lounge.

  “Amelia...” his voice chases after me, soft, gentle. An attempt to calm me.

  I slam the plates on the island. “No. You don’t get to tell me how to feel about this.” When I turn toward him again, I see that he’s circled around the sofa, but that’s as much as he dares to approach. Good. I don’t want to be close enough to smell him, close enough for his presence to again overwhelm me and prevent me from working through this.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, or make decisions about your life,” he says evenly. “I was trying not to interfere.”

  I practically laugh. “You’ve interfered more with my life than any other person I’ve ever known.” I don’t notice the tears until they’re already slipping down my cheeks.

  “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” I snap, taking an aggressive step in his direction.

  He takes a gentler step toward me, putting his hands up in front of him, either to halt me or show a sign of surrender. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”

  My fury flares. “You shouldn’t have left!”

  And then his restraint breaks, and he’s pulling me into his arms. I go willingly, as though I had a choice—which, of course, I don’t. I will always be his. I will always go weak in the knees from his presence. I will always end up back in his embrace, suffocating with how much I love him. And I will never work out my feelings with words, because there aren’t any for the impossible love between us.

  His kiss is frenzied this time, his hands tangled in my hair. I climb his body, wrapping my legs around his waist, clutching at his shirt while my mouth tears frantically at his. His hand lowers to grip my ass, pulling me tighter into him where I can feel his erection pressing against my belly. He spins around and walks us toward the sofa. Once there, he sits me on the back, and pushes up my skirt to reveal the lace pants underneath while I furiously work to undo his jeans. His cock is out and in my hands, even plumper than before, and I pull him closer. I don’t want to wait any longer for him, can’t possibly wait. I’m edging the gusset of my pants aside with his crown when he reaches toward his back pocket, for his wallet I presume.

  “No condom! Please. Please!” I’m begging, desperate for him to comply. There have been too many barriers between us, and I can’t bear yet one more.

  He hesitates for the slightest fraction of a second. Then he’s rocking forward, shoving deep inside me with one solid thrust. And I am complete once again.

  “Yes!” I scream, crossing my ankles behind his waist to pull him in further, to keep him from moving away.

  Not that he’s trying.

  He pounds into me at a voracious tempo, as though he can’t get deep enough, as though he can’t reach as far inside me as he needs to, and isn’t that ridiculous because he’s already so far inside me, I’m not sure where he ends and I begin. Or if I even begin at all. He might be all that I am anymore. All that I’ve been since before he left, since he first consumed me over seventeen years ago.

  Our mouths remain locked throughout. With his hands on either side of my face, he swallows my moans like they’re candy, barely inhaling one before he devours another. It’s not t
he way we typically fucked in the past—Harrington was always the dirtiest of talkers, and with all the men I’ve been with since, I’ve yet to meet someone who can top him in this department.

  I’ve longed for those filthy words, dreamed them both asleep and awake, but I’m grateful for this prolonged kiss. Grateful for the connection. Grateful to be reminded just how thoroughly I belong to him. Our kisses say the things we never could.

  I’m not usually one for vaginal orgasms, but they aren’t completely uncommon, and I feel one building inside me. I unhook my ankles and spread my thighs farther, propping my feet on the back of the sofa on either side of me. It opens me up, and at this angle, his pelvis rubs against my torso and just before he explodes inside me, I detonate with him. I grit my teeth and tremble through the eruption, letting out a low-pitched keening that comes from somewhere so hidden and forgotten, I barely recognize the sound as my own.

  Harrington’s own release is prolonged, ripping through him at an agonizingly slow rate. It’s hypnotic to watch him come apart. It always has been. A man so measured and collected, losing all control in my arms. It makes me heady and drunk on power.

  But I’m also exhausted. It feels like this night has been coming for years, feels like I should have been more prepared, but I’m not. The toll is both physical and emotional, and trying to keep up is taking more stamina than I have.

  My feet drop off the couch and my legs hang limply at his sides as I gulp in deep breaths in an attempt to recover. Harrington doesn’t pull out of me, just presses his forehead against mine and drinks in the same air that I do. I place my palm over the left side of his chest and mentally count his heartbeats as they gradually slow. This heart...it used to belong to me. Does it still?

  It’s a stupid flicker of doubt. I don’t have to ask to know it does, that it always will. The same way mine will always belong to him. No matter the time, no matter the distance.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” I say when I can speak again. “Shouldn’t have told you to go without a condom.” It’s an easier topic than any other, and that’s saying something.

  “Are you not on birth control?” He doesn’t sound concerned.

  “No, I am. And I always use a condom. But I don’t know you well enough anymore.” God, that hurts to say, and I’m not sure that it’s entirely true. I don’t want to change the tone of what we just shared with accusations. “I don’t know what your sex habits are,” I amend.

  He pulls back and tilts my chin up so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “I’ve only ever gone bare with you.”

  I knew he wouldn’t have remained celibate over all these years, but this declaration feels very nearly like the same thing. “Why?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “Because I don’t love anyone but you,” he says simply.

  A sob catches in my throat, and I have to take two deep breaths before I’m able to say anything. “This hurts, you know? It doesn’t make anything better. It just hurts.”

  He sighs. With his hand clapped at my neck, he rubs my jaw with his thumb. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” He swallows. “That’s a lie—I was always going to say this, but I wish that I weren’t. I wish that I were strong enough to walk away again, let you live this incredible life you’ve built for yourself, but I just...I just can’t.”

  My heart trips in my chest. Hope bubbles up from the hidden place it’s always hidden. “I don’t want you strong enough to walk away again. I don’t want you strong enough to crawl. I want you here. Is that an option?”

  “Not exactly. But the reason I’m in London was because I was offered a promotion. Team leader, of sorts. I haven’t accepted it yet, but if I do, I’ll no longer be in the field. I’d be in the office, running everything. It means I wouldn’t have to be anonymous anymore. I wouldn’t be undercover. I could have a life. I could have a life with you.”

  My pulse races, but I refuse to run with it until I know for sure. “Here? You’d be here?” His long pause lets me know already that it isn’t the answer I want.

  “I’m afraid not. Mumbai.”

  India. He’s asking me to go with him to India. My throat is tight and my stomach feels heavy. India is another world, one so far removed from my current life that I can’t even imagine what ours could look like there.

  “It’s too much to ask, I know. I shouldn’t—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t take it back. Just, could we maybe discuss it without you inside of me?”

  “Of course.” He kisses my forehead as he pulls out, as though that might calm the throb of emptiness I feel with him gone. He puts himself away, and takes a step back.

  I hop off the sofa and rub the back of my neck as I pace away from him. This is a big thing he’s landed me with. An incredible thing, and some free and whimsical part of me wishes it didn’t require any consideration, wishes I’d just say yes like I want to and be done with it, but that part of me is small and foreign. I’m not free or whimsical, as a rule. I’m serious and bullheaded. I take risks, but they’re practical risks. I’m a tree that’s been planted, maybe not where I wanted to be planted, but my roots are deep nonetheless.

  I’m not, as much as I wish I was, the same woman he walked away from fifteen years ago.

  I circle around the sofa before looking back at him. “Is it safe? You’d said before that any connections you had were liabilities. That they could become targets. Is this different now?”

  “It’s not as safe as if you were marrying a barrister or a grocer, but, yes, it would be different. A lot of the men and women at this level have spouses. Have families even. It’s as close to a nine-to-five position as there is in this business.”

  “It’s a desk job,” I say, finally understanding.

  “Essentially.”

  It sounds wonderfully ideal—for me. Not so much for him. “Do you want to accept it? Would you even like a desk job?”

  “I would.” His tone is uncertain, and he knows it. “I would for you,” he says more sure. “I would love any life with you.”

  I start to nod my head, because I would love any life with him too. But then I pause because that’s not true. I don’t want a life with him if he has to give up everything else he loves to get it. That was the whole reason I’d been able to let him walk away the first time—because he loved his job. He loved it as much as he’d loved me.

  Years have gone by, but if he still loves me like I know he does, I can’t imagine he doesn’t still love his job too. And if I am the one to make this choice for him, a piece of him may always long for the love he left behind. Just as it must now, the other way around. It’s an impossible choice.

  “What happens if you don’t accept the job? Do you go back in the field?”

  “Yes,” he answers simply. Succinctly.

  Before I can say anything else, he crosses deliberately to me. “Don’t answer now,” he says, taking my hands in his. “We have all night together. Let’s not think about this at all. I want to be in the moment with you while we have it.”

  He kisses me, less greedily than before. It’s unhurried and thorough. It’s passionate, still, and within short minutes, we’re on the floor in front of the fireplace. Leisurely, we strip of our clothes, our eyes studying each other with intense interest. I have every centimeter of his landscape memorized, and my fingers and tongue are determined to relearn every inch, mapping the changes since they last explored this land. I take my time, and it’s a lengthy survey, almost as long as the expedition his hands take across my own skin.

  It feels like hours later when he’s stretching over me and pushing inside. We make love slowly, lingering in every stroke, as though we don’t have mere hours before morning. As though we have all the time in the world.

  I wake before Harry does the next morning. The shadows are still heavy, the first streaks of sunrise not yet on the horizon. I reach for my phone to check the time. My alarm is due to sound in twenty minutes, but I turn it off, knowing that even though I’ve o
nly slept for a couple of hours, I won’t fall back asleep. There’s too many jumbled-up thoughts in my head pressing to be sorted. While I was able to brush them aside last night, I can’t any longer. There isn’t time.

  I first try to think about me, about what he’s asking me to give up. I don’t have a lot of friends, but there are a handful that I’d miss. I’m an only child and my parents are divorced. Could I leave Maman and move to a foreign country without her? Could I give up my job, my career—a career I’ve slaved over, a job that I’m damn good at—for a man I don’t really know anymore?

  But how can I let him walk away instead?

  Instead of finding answers for the future, my mind wanders back to the past. For a long while after he first left, I replayed every detail of our time together on a daily basis. Eventually it became paralyzing. It was too hard to move on when I was stuck in the memory of him, and so I made an intentional effort not to think about it and invest that energy in my career.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve retraced these memories, and now that I’ve opened the dam, they flood over me in a rush.

  I’d been just twenty-six when we’d met. It had happened quite by accident, neither of us actually looking for anyone. I’d been wrapped up in advancing my career at the Creative Advertising Agency. After three years on the job, I was still a newbie and the only woman on the sales team, which meant I had to work twice as hard to prove myself. I didn’t have the time or energy for anything more than one-night stands and pub flings.

  Which was why Harrington was not supposed to last. He was, initially, just a bloke I met at a concert of some no-name band. We’d gone to my place—I still brought men home back then—and had crazy monkey sex all night long. We fell asleep so he stayed the night, and the next morning we woke up to a burst pipe in my building. My entire flat was covered with three inches of water. The tenant manager quickly stepped in to handle the damages, but the cleanup was going to take at least a week, as it had affected several units. There would be no water in the meantime.