Never Say Forever

“Yes. I am.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” she asks, looking genuinely confused.

And I’m grasping why? Shouldn’t I be ecstatic that the kid isn’t mine? She’s cute and has buckets of character, but a kid? For a man who’s professed the intentions of never being tied down, I seem kind of disappointed. Feel disappointed.

“Because I take care of what’s mine, angel. And if—”

“Please don’t.” Her whisper is frantic, her posture seeming to almost roll inwards. “She’s not yours because, if she were, she’d be a month older than she is, okay?”

“You’re sure about that? About the date, I mean.”

“I’m hardly likely to forget who I’ve slept with. Or when, for that matter.”

“So you keep a diary?” I’m immediately aware of the misplaced derision in my response. The jealousy in my sneer. How many women did I fuck in the month before our mind-blowing night? More than I care to remember, for sure. Possessiveness isn’t my thing. Live and let fuck is my usual policy. So why do my insides twist? Why do I suddenly feel the need to claim them both as my own?

“Some of us don’t need to keep a record,” she retorts. “Not that it’s any of your business, but there was you, and before you, I had a boyfriend.”

“And after? Now?”

“Neither are any of your business.”

“So Lulu’s father was your boyfriend,” I assert, my tone flat.

“Yes. You’re off the hook. For fatherhood and for accommodation.”

“What about Rose?”

“What about her?”

“Do you want to tell her about us, or should I?”

“There is no us.” Her eyes turn flinty, her words sharp-edged.

“One night is still a history. One night that could’ve easily spilled into another if I hadn’t scared you last night.”

She barks out an incredulous laugh, her spine suddenly ramrod straight. “I wasn’t scared. I mean, you must find naked girls in your bathtub all of the time.” She suddenly grabs Lulu’s plate and silverware, rounding the island, and heads for the sink. “Do you feel compelled to tell Rose about them?”

“This is different.”

“Oh, I’ll say. But, of course, your behaviour was totally reasonable, so if there’s anyone at fault, it must be me for not falling into your bed, right?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. And for the record, I wouldn’t have complained.” Instead, I would’ve worshipped her from the tips of her toes up.

“That was perfectly clear,” she answers with a small huff.

“You know, there was a lot clear about last night.” I keep my tone even as I stand behind her, the water continuing to pour from the faucet. As I bring my lips to her ear, her shoulders lift, and she sucks in a hard breath as her fingers grip the edge of the sink. Just a whisper of air separates our bodies as I whisper, “Despite your efforts and your little outfit.” Lightly drawing the tip of my finger from her shoulder to her wrist, my next words are nothing but a low rumble of desire. “I might have apologised for my behaviour, but I can never be sorry for seeing what I did.”

I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here, but I know I want her. How many nights have I been unable to sleep because of her? Imagining my hands gliding over her body, remembering the taste of her kisses and the moonlight on her skin. Her cries as I’d made my home between her legs. I’ve often wondered if I got a second chance whether I’d ever come up for air again.

She turns to face me, and for a moment, I think she might tip up on her toes and kiss me as pleasure twists at my insides. But she hesitates. Vacillates. Before pulling away. Emotionally and physically.

“What’s Ardeo?” she asks, her attention falling to the towel she winds in her hands.

“It’s just a friend’s company.” It’s an answer that isn’t strictly true, but if I tell her the truth, there’s every chance she’ll go running for the hills. And I don’t want that.

“A friend’s company that delivers girls?” She arches a brow, and I find myself smiling. I turn off the running water. The things that Ardeo can deliver would probably blow her mind. “Are you laughing at me?” she asks haughtily. “Or do you find everything funny?”

I pull open the dishwasher by her hip, causing her to step back. After dropping the dishes onto the appropriate shelves, I face her while keeping my expression purposely blank.

“You know, you didn’t exactly run screaming from the room.”

“No, because you pretty much held me captive in your bathtub.” Her voice wavers, but it isn’t fear that causes her to take a step backwards or her eyes to shine as I take a predatory step after her. Another, and another, as she backs herself up against the pantry door. Toe to toe, I allow my gaze to fall over her. I’d like to show her what being held captive really means. To take her hands and press them above her head. To kiss her until her knees are weak and the only thing holding her up is the hand I press between her legs. I’d keep her on the edge for so long that she’d cry, then make her come so hard she’d swear she saw stars being born.