Chapter 9

I wake with a jolt.

I don't know where I am, but I know I'm not in my own bedroom.

I sit up, looking around the darkened room as I think back… ballroom. Party. Alistair Devereaux. Ah, now I remember. And it seems as if I'm in his freaking house.

He carried me at some point during the night. I throw the comforter back and slip into the bathroom, desperate for a pee.

Of course, everything in the bathroom is lavish as I pad on the cool marble beneath my feet.

The bastard tucked me into bed, but at least he had the decency to remove my shoes.

I can't stop thinking about him. About what we did.

I should've stopped him, even if deep down I didn't want to.

Everything about Alistair is as I remember it. Only heightened.

He's the same grumpy arsehole he always was, no surprise there, but his appearance has changed a lot. He's… darker, somehow. As in, no longer the fresh-faced young man he was before. He has this power about him that's unnerving. His words like steel, cutting against my skin so effortlessly.

Of course, I know he's a hot-shot CEO these days. I'd heard along the grapevine over the years, not that I kept tabs on him.

On your knees.

Take it.

Play with my cock, let me see you lick and suck it like my good little princess.

I can't get his words out of my head. I can't get the erotic reel that keeps playing over and over out of my brain. He made me come so hard. I've never come like that before — in fact, sometimes I have trouble finding orgasm. I have to be very, very turned on and touched in a certain way that men just don't have the time for when it's a quick one-night romp in the hay. They don't care so much about you getting off as much as they do themselves. Not Alistair. Oh, he made sure my needs were met before I could say boo. The way he tied my hands to the bedpost and then ate me out, fucking me with his tongue… Who does that? Who does it that well might be the better question.

Of course, I threw the impotence comment in as a snark. I know from his dick fucking my throat raw that he's big, and he doesn't have any ejaculation issues. Far from it.

What he does have, however, is a cocky attitude. Serves him right anyway for being a douchebag to me all those years. I hope he does feel guilty. I hope he swims in it.

He can say what he likes but I know the truth. He abandoned me just like he abandoned my mother. Not that I'd want him to be any kind of father figure, that would be weird.

After I pee and check out what's in the cupboards — nothing but expensive bath products which I should swipe — I go find my shoes and my purse.

I pad across the plush carpet and find my things. My cell phone is in the bottom of my purse. I check the time; it's almost five in the morning.

I definitely don't want to stay here and face Alistair's barrage of questions. It was bad enough last night, humiliating even. Just because he's that guy doesn't mean that I have to sit here and listen to any of it. Especially his lame arse apologies. No thank you.

I tuck my purse under my arm and hold my heels with two fingers as I tiptoe out of the room. I've never been in his apartment before, obviously, so I've no idea how to get out, but it can't be that hard. I'll escape and then I'll order an Uber… if I have enough cash.

I quickly tap my phone and check internet banking. My eyes bug wide when I see the amount in my bank account. Exactly ￡3750. So I did get fucking paid for the entire night. Relief floods through me that I can return home and pay my rent.

The fact that barely anything happened, makes me smile all the more. Well, something did happen. Obviously. But not like I thought it would. I have to say, Alistair Devereaux sure is packing. There is no doubt about it.

While I don't want to dwell on that too much; a girl is allowed her fantasies. And I didn't really realise that Alistair was mine until last night. Not that I like to admit it, but it did seem to annoy him when I confessed earlier. I honestly don't know who this jerk thinks he is. He thinks he can just swan back into my life, pretend everything is A-okay? Then has the audacity to put me to bed in his guest room? I should've kicked him in the balls when I had the chance.

Pity I didn't. It might have been the wakeup call Mr. Devereaux needed.

I connect to Uber and find myself a ride, all while tiptoeing down the hallway that never ends. I pass by multiple rooms, stopping at the one that has double doors and is closed. This must be his bedroom.

I know I shouldn"t, but curiosity gets the best of me.

I find myself turning the handle on his doorknob and slowly open the door.

Inside it"s dark and I see a massive bed with white sheets and a comforter. Tangled amongst those sheets is Alistair. And all I can do is stare at him with my mouth agape.

He's on his front, his bare ass and back exposed as my eyes trail down his body. Down one side, he has a full sleeve of tattoos. But the other side is completely bare. It's so fucking hot that I just stand there like a total creep. I want him to roll over, so I can see his perfect dick one more time, and get a gander at his chest. I'm sure it's a sight to behold.

Again, I'm struck by how wrong this should all feel, when all I really feel is heat between my legs. Something must be wrong with me, there's no other explanation.

I shiver, and not from the cold, though I now realise I don't have my jacket with me.

I curse myself as I spot a hamper in the open wardrobe. I pad across the room, using my phone's torch to light the way.

Holy shit. He has a whole entire department store in his goddamn wardrobe. It's ridiculous! I scan the shelves quickly, looking for an unassuming hoodie to steal. I locate a Dior and decide that will do just nicely.

I slide away quickly before I disturb him and close the door quietly. As I walk through the house, I can't shake the naked sight of him from my mind. The man is a fucking God, there's no doubt about it. Look at this ridiculous house; I could get lost in it. It"s so huge. Making my way downstairs, I stop by the kitchen to raid his fridge. Fuck him. I barely ate last night because I was so nervous.

I plop my shoes and purse on the kitchen island, pulling the hoodie on over my head. That's better. It may be warm in here, but outside it's going to be freezing.

I check the Uber app and my driver is still five minutes away. I rummage through the fridge and find a block of Jarlsberg and wished I had enough time to make a sandwich. Unfortunately I don't. I take the cheese, along with a plate of leftover ham and shovel it into my mouth. I swipe a couple of chocolate protein bars before I close the door. Nibbling on the cheese, I pick my things up and head for the door.

This place must've cost a bomb. We're in fricking South Kensington. I dread to think about the amount of money it's worth. But of course, nothing but the best for Alistair Devereaux.

I find the front door and shut it behind me. I don't even bother putting my shoes on, though the pavers are cool as I make my way through the front to the gate.

Last night was… an experience.

I realise I have a ton of messages and when I tap the first one, I see it's from Neve.

Neve

How did it go? Tell me everything? I want details

I smile to myself. My girl, checking in with me. That's what friends are for.

She helped me so much this past week. I needed to get prepared, and not just mentally. There was waxing and plucking involved and self-tan. Neve even paid for me to get my hair washed and blow dried professionally, something I can never afford to do myself.

I felt a million dollars in the gown, and though I know I look ridiculous standing here in an emerald green dress with a Dior hoodie over the top, I remember who I am and what it took to get here. So I hold my head up high and straighten my back.

Fuck him.

Fuck everyone.

I did this because I wanted to, because I needed the cash and I wanted the experience. I don't need anyone's judgement — even if it is my own telling me this was a huge mistake.

All I can do is think about what that money will bring me. I try to block out the reminders of what I did — essentially with my ex-stepdad, the one man on the planet that I hold a grudge against — and why I didn't make him stop.

No. I want to bathe in this feeling. That I had the upper hand. That I was the one that broke him. And I hope he damn well chokes on it.

I smile to myself as I text Neve back.

Me

I'm fine. Sorry I didn't reply. I'm all good. Talk soon x

I'm not a vindictive person, but this feels like sweet revenge.

I just wish I could stop the racing of my heart whenever I allow myself to think about what we did.

It's late morning when I surface out of my room. The house is still because both the girls I room with work day shifts. I'm thanking my lucky stars now, because I need quiet to think.

I'm also feeling the need to clean. I always clean when I'm nervous or excited about something. It's like that nervous twitch that you can't shake until something is set right again.

So I get stuck in. Scrubbing the shared bathroom from head to toe until it's gleaming.

I also do three loads of laundry. I stuff the rented emerald dress into the garment bag, ready to drop it off tomorrow to dry clean on my way to work.

I can't stop thinking about the money and how it makes me feel.

If it hadn't been Alistair, then would I feel differently?

After I'm done with the bathroom, I start on the kitchen, and when that's cleaned from head to toe, I decide it's time for some retail therapy.

I shower and pull my hair into a ponytail, put on my favourite jeans and a long-sleeved top, and fuck it, I slide on Alistair's hoodie. It's actually perfectly oversized in an understated way. There's no way he's going to get this back. And it could just be my imagination, but it smells like him. That woody, masculine scent permeates my nostrils as I breathe in, remembering everything. As much as I try not to, I know I'm doing this on purpose. Because I want to remember. His hands on my body is a memory I'll never forget. I fight the urge to be repulsed, that I should feel some kind of remorse, but I can't. I don't. If I'm honest with myself, I would admit that I enjoyed it. But what does that make me? Does it make me a whore after all? Or just his little whore?

The man had the audacity to criticise me for what I was doing, talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Damn snob.

No. I'm going to go out onto Kensington high street and I'm going to spend money on myself. Alistair Devereaux's money, as luck would have it. Yes. I'm going to drown myself in luxury items because that will make me feel a hell of a lot better than facing reality. Even if it is short-lived, I no longer care. I'm going to have an afternoon that's all about me. And there's not a damn thing he can do about it.