16. Sixteen

Sixteen

I tweak my hair so that it falls in soft curls over my shoulders and smooth my hands down the satin material of my black dress. I've kept my eye make-up minimal and applied a red lip because I know it suits my dark features.

My high black stiletto heels click across the shiny white hall floor as I cross into the kitchen and glance at my phone, which sits on top of the black kitchen counter. Still no new messages from Art and I've refrained from texting him. He's obviously been busy, I tell myself. I take a deep breath and I peer at my watch. It's six forty-five. He's still got fifteen minutes.

He'll be here.

By quarter past seven I've poured a glass of rosé to help ease my nerves and perched myself on one of the black kitchen stools, glaring at my phone and willing it to spring into life. Fifteen minutes later, I'm on my second glass of wine and my nerves are shredded. I can't take it anymore. Where the fuck is he? That's what I want to ask. Instead, I text the far less angry:

Where are you?

By seven forty-five, I'm halfway down the bottle of wine and I've already gone over the various possibilities that could prevent him from replying. Maybe he's ill or been in an accident or lost track of time but each thought lands flat and doesn't push the very real fear I have that maybe he's ignoring me.

I send him another text.

Is everything okay?

By eight o'clock, I've taken off my make-up, torn off my dress, and changed into my grey pyjama shorts and white t-shirt, deciding even if he did turn up now, I wouldn't go out of principle.

I text Lucy:

He's stood me up!

She replies in an instant.

It must be something serious for him to be a no-show. Maybe he's not well or had an accident. Have you texted him?

I angrily type my response:

Yes. Twice. And I doubt it.

I carry the nearly empty bottle of rosé and my glass into the bedroom, crawl under the covers, and switch on the TV.

I irritably flick through the channels, but nothing pierces my brain because my thoughts are too distracted by Art and his bloody lies. I was right. He is too good to be true.

The first thing I clap eyes on as I arrive for work for next morning is the grey Aston Martin, parked up outside the front of the hotel as if nothing could possibly be wrong. My hackles immediately rise.

He's clearly alive and there isn't a bloody mark on the thing, debunking Lucy's explanations for his absence. I glare at the car as I stalk past into the hotel, convinced of the real reason its owner stood me up last night. The thought twisted round and round in my mind all last night and it makes perfect sense. The thrill of the chase is over. He's spun me his lines, had what he wanted from me, and now he's backing away because it was just a bit of fun while it lasted. The print was probably just an elaborate gesture to smooth the path for his exit. Does he really think I'll hate him less because of it? I've been such a silly cow.

I berate myself under my breath as I walk over to the reception desk.

Lucy shoots me a nervous look. It must be clear from my expression that I'm in a bad mood. "He was here when I arrived at eight."

He was keen enough to get to work this morning but couldn't be bothered to text me back. He'd better watch out.

I arrive in my office, dump my handbag on the floor, and turn on the laptop. No sooner has my bum hit the seat than the office door swings open, and he strides in.

An evening's worth of pent-up anger bubbles to the surface. I want to give him the silent treatment like he's given me, but I need to say something before I explode.

"Get out."

A thick, heavy tension descends on the room as he takes a seat in the chair opposite. I can feel the weight of his stare from across the desk but keep my eyes focused on my laptop screen.

"Sophie, about last night, please..."

And that does it.

"Why the fuck didn't you text me?" I snap .

I throw him an icy stare and immediately wish I hadn't. A smart white shirt encases his broad shoulders and the top couple of buttons sit open revealing a golden triangle of flesh and faint brush of dark hairs at the base of his throat. He looks as good as ever and it's going to make this a whole lot harder.

The crease line on his forehead deepens as he drags his fingers through his hair looking remorseful. "I'm really sorry. Something came up."

Is he for real?

"I didn't hear from you all day yesterday and then you stood me up. Is that all you've got to say?" I bite back.

If this is the extent of his feeble excuses I'm not going to sit and listen. I stand up and head for the door.

"I'm very busy. I haven't got time for this and frankly I don't want to listen to your lies."

"Sophie, please." There's an edge of panic to his voice as he moves with lightning speed to stand between me and the door. He brings his hands to rest on my shoulders and stares into my eyes. "I'm not lying to you. I was busy with business yesterday, and last night I just couldn't get away."

Couldn't get away from what? With whom?

That's not nearly enough information for my liking. From somewhere, a steely resolve kicks into place.

"Too busy to send a fucking text. Are you serious? I know what this is. You've had your fun, is that it? I'm just another woman you've managed to charm into bed. Now it's time for you to move onto the next doting woman in the Art Black fan club. It was just sex. I get it," I snap, hating the words flying out of my mouth.

His eyes turn deadly serious as the frown line on his brow becomes crevice-like. "Is that what you think you are? I'm not just… it's not just about the sex. I'm really, really sorry about yesterday. I was busy with work last night and I just couldn't get out of it."

He'll have to do better than that. Theo fed me enough lies to last a lifetime and I bought them all until the end when I realised what a cheating scumbag he was .

"What did? What came up that was so important you couldn't even text me?"

"I can't tell you yet, but I will."

"Were you with another woman?" I shoot back.

"Absolutely not." His thumbs stroke the tops of my shoulders through my blouse. "You said you trusted me, and now I'm asking you to trust me again. I'll tell you, in time. I should have messaged you. I'm sorry. I'm still not used to… this."

"To what?"

"To being with someone." He looks awkward. "You know I've never… there's never been a situation where I needed to call anyone. I know that's a fucking shit excuse."

There's a conviction in his voice and a look in his eye which tells me he's being honest. As I look up into his eyes I'm plummeting into an abyss and as his hands glide to my cheeks my resolve wavers. His fingers brush my jaw with the lightest of touches as he breathes three words that make my heart soar. "I've missed you."

I'm mush.

His mouth meets mine and I don't fight it as his body pushes me backwards against the closed office door. He kisses me with a fierceness which leaves me breathless and I drink him in, bunching my fingers through his hair and pulling him into the kiss. The strength of his need for me translates through his lips onto mine and I can almost taste it. It's barely been twelve hours, but I've missed every part of this man.

"I've missed you so much," he rasps against my mouth as his hands slide down my back and cup my backside, pushing his erection against me. A tell-tale throb starts between my legs with the knowledge that he wants me and my rational brain is drifting away as a pair of warm lips plant hot kisses along the base of my throat.

I briefly close my eyes and try to focus. "Promise me you won't do anything like that again, because if you do—"

He silences my threat with a kiss then pulls away and stares deep into my eyes with a look that takes my breath away. "I promise. No more running. From either of us."

When did he run? Is that what he was doing last night ?

I don't get the chance to ask because in one move, he takes his hand from my buttocks and plunges it down the front of my trousers. His lips are on mine, pre-empting and silencing the moan that falls from my lips as his fingers slide beneath the lace of my knickers. I push my head back against the hard door and take a shaky breath inwards at the sudden onslaught of pleasure his long fingers are bestowing on my clitoris. The coolness against the damp heat between my legs builds an intense ache as his fingers massage me, causing a warm coil of delicious pressure to build. The tip of his nose is centimetres from mine as he studies my reaction with a look of wonder on his face.

"What are you doing to me?" he whispers.

What the hell is he doing to me?

My eyelids flutter closed and my centre throbs around his fingers. I'm so close, so quickly.

"Art…" I pant.

"Come," he breathes.

On his command, I spiral over the edge into oblivion. My hands fly up to his shoulders as my body shudders around him, and he kisses me softly until I return to earth. As far as apologies go, that was pretty good.

He helps me straighten my blouse and flashes me a wicked smile. "Tonight, I'm making it up to you. After work, go home, get ready. I'm taking you out to dinner. A very nice restaurant. Pack some clothes because you're staying over at mine. Wear a dress."

I arch an eyebrow at his demands. "I wore a dress last night and looked hot. Your loss."

"Tonight it won't be my loss. I'm going to make it up to you."

The way he looks at me tells me he's not just talking about dinner either.