Girl After Dark (35 page)

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he croaked, as his hands moved sensuously over my ass, his fingers straying eagerly between my legs, stroking the tender, tingling lips of my pussy through the silky black fabric of my panties.

I slipped my hand down, tugging at the zipper of his pants. He helped me out, quickly fumbling them open, his cock springing free, hard and hot. I felt its sticky firmness brush against my inner thigh and I arched my back, grinding myself slowly against him.

I could hear his breathing, trembling and shivering in his throat, as he sat, fixed rigid on the chair, letting me work him up into a frenzy.

Then, finally, I tugged my panties to one side, grabbing the head of his cock and gently guiding him inside me, feeling my pussy stretching to accommodate him.

As I began to ride him, his hands now moving to my breasts, I couldn’t help myself.

I closed my eyes, imagined that it was Blake I was riding: Blake, who I knew would be so cold and calm and in-control, Blake, who would use me however he wanted, Blake, who would take the lead, Blake, who would pin me fiercely in place while he plundered his own, rough pleasure from my trembling, willing body.

And as I rode Greg, harder and faster, I thought only of myself, focusing on the orgasm that was building slowly but steadily inside me …

But just then, Greg grunted, his hips bucking as his cock began to pulse, buried deep inside me, before I’d managed to quite reach my own climax. I waited till he’d finished, then gently slipped myself off him, my own pleasure too slipping away, before I’d quite achieved it.

“I love you, Jessica,” Greg murmured, kissing my neck, his fingers moving softly through my hair.

“I love you, too,” I replied quietly, hoping I didn’t sound as disappointed as I felt.

CHAPTER SIX

I took a sip of my coffee, then sat back in my chair, still unable to quite believe that this was actually my job now. Because here I was, tucked away in the corner of Workshop, a local coffee shop I’d been meaning to check out for months now, my brand new brushed chrome MacBook open in front of me, and my only ‘work’ was the planning of Blake’s penthouse and sourcing suppliers.

I looked back over my copious notes, my digital collage of ‘moods’ and image ideas, and felt reasonably satisfied with my morning’s work.

I was wearing one of my new outfits: a Marni dress in bold black, cream and pink panels, something else I would never have picked out in a million years if Fallon hadn’t helped me choose it. Completing my look was a pair of Dries Van Noten Oxfords. After all, I wasn’t quite ready to get into daytime heels just yet.

After another sip of my flat white, I took another quick glance around the coffee shop — it was pretty cool, I’d definitely come here again — before finally giving in to an urge I’d been denying myself for a few days now.

I opened Google and typed it in once more:

Blake Matthews.

I don’t even know what I was expecting to find this second time around, but as before, surprisingly few results came up. There was a link to his company website - Matthews Inc - and a couple of small profile articles from business journals, a couple of Page Six mentions, but that was just about it. When I was researching him the first time, I’d skipped past these gossip columns, but now I found myself curiously reading about the many women he’d supposedly dated; models, heiresses ... There was even something from a couple of years ago linking his name to Kim Kardashian, but that just made me laugh and shake my head; it had to be gossip.

I clicked ‘images’ – nothing much, a few promotional pictures I’d seen before, nestled amongst hundreds of photos of his many imposing, high-end hotels and restaurants.

Who are you?

I wanted to make this job perfect, but how in the hell was I supposed to do that when I knew so little about him?

He could be so cool, while at other times giving off surprising flashes of warmth, too. What drove him? What made him tick? It felt strange to be designing the private apartment of someone I knew so little about.

I had so little to go on, I’d simply have to trust my intuition. 

I pushed the frustration from my mind, and quickly got back to the task at hand: picking out the best possible samples and designs to present to him during our lunch meeting, set for tomorrow. His assistant, Juliet, had already been in touch to take my bank details and in the end I’d found myself timidly matching my previous salary, even though I knew I could probably have added on a heck of a lot more.

Also, I still hadn’t told Greg about my change in circumstances, and I could feel the web of lies growing bigger, more tangled. I’d had to tell him the MacBook and iPad were both on loan from Marianne’s office, for instance.

As I got back to work, reading through the price list of the chrome bathroom fixtures I hoped Blake was going to love, I tried to ignore the suspicion that there must be some other side to Blake Matthews …

Who are you?

What’s behind that final locked door?

§

“But it’s been so long since we’ve seen you,” Mom cooed on the phone that same afternoon, once more using her favorite guilt trip in an attempt to get me to come and visit.

“I’ll be home soon enough,” I sighed, trying to stay as vague as possible. After all, I’d learnt that if I even hinted at a date, she’d hold me to it.

“So how’s work?” she continued.

“It’s crazy busy … but good,” I replied, wanting nothing more than to tell her about all the many details of my exciting new job. I wanted to prove to her that I was actually a success now, and show her that I really could make it out here in the big city, but I just knew it would lead to endless questions and worrying (“But how can you be sure he’s genuine?”, “What kind of job stability do you really have now?” Etc.).

So the best plan was just to keep it vague.

I figured I’d tell her all about Blake once things were a little more settled: when I’d had my first paycheck, for instance.

“Where are you at the moment, honey?” she asked. “It sounds rather noisy.”

“Oh, I’m just out of the office picking up some coffee for Marianne,” I said.

It was scary how easy it was becoming to lie to everyone around me.

“And how’s Greg getting on?” she continued. “Your father would just love to have a catch up with him at some point, you know …”

I’d always thought it was weird just how much my dad liked Greg — weren’t fathers supposed to hate their daughter’s first boyfriend? But Dad was always asking after him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.

I knew that Greg kind of idealized my family life in general, perhaps because it was something he’d never really had himself. Greg’s dad took off when he was three years old, so he didn’t really remember him. And after his dad left, his mom had to work three jobs just to put food on the table for him and his brothers. He was no longer in touch with his two brothers now, either. One was in prison, the other a deadbeat and heading the same way. But Greg was smart. He’d stayed in school and won a scholarship to Savannah. The scholarship covered his tuition, but he still had to take on a part-time job to get by.

I admired this so much about him. Life had been tough for Greg, but he’d never given up. He was determined to one day run his own business.

He was always asking my pop questions about the running of the car dealership, and forever dropping hints to me that he would love something like that for us too; a small family-run business in a sleepy little town like Glenbrook Falls.

I guess I always found it uncomfortable just how willing and open Greg was with me about his hopes and dreams, maybe because in comparison I was such a closed book.

A locked door.

I don’t know why that was, exactly. But deep down, part of me suspected it was because I didn’t even truly know what I wanted yet …

“Listen, I’d really better go,” I cut in. “Marianne won’t wait!”

“Of course, sweetie,” Mom replied. “Well, do get Greg to give us a call one night.”

“Will do,” I said. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too. Be good ...”

§

The lunch meeting with Blake came around before I knew it. That Tuesday morning, I felt an unexpected fluttering of nerves as I decided on the very first outfit I’d picked out in Opening Ceremony — the sheer shirt and leather pants. I couldn’t wait for Blake to see me in it.

As I headed out of the apartment, I felt totally on display, as if there were a million secret eyes watching my every move, taking in the clearly visible contours of my body.

We’d arranged to meet at one, at Milk & Honey, a cool new restaurant near Blake’s office. I’d heard about this place before — it was supposed to be almost impossible to get a reservation. They served Lebanese food, and because of this place it was the hot new dining trend right now.

I had my brand new iPad tucked away in my brand new Anya Hindmarch bag, loaded up with all my preliminary notes, sketches, thoughts and mood boards. I just hoped I was on the right track; it was so hard to tell when I had so little to go on.

I arrived outside the restaurant, taking a quick final glance at myself in the glass doors before stepping inside, my heart thudding, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. This time I was the first to arrive, and just like before, when I told the Maître d’ that I was here to meet Mr Matthews, I noticed a subtle shift in his behavior, from that of condescending and snooty to fawning and deferential.

“Oh yes, of course, madam,” he said, leading me over to a small table in the farthest corner of the packed restaurant. “This way.”

I took my seat and waited for Blake to arrive, letting my gaze drift around the room. There was a table of men in well-tailored suits, looking serious and then all suddenly laughing and clapping each other on the back over some joke or other, and next to them sat an immaculately-dressed couple, sipping their soup in a frosty silence, while on the other side of me, a power lunch was obviously in full swing, two female executives talking triumphantly, mile-a-minute, about some hot shot deal they’d just closed.

This time, I didn’t have to hide my bag beneath the table in embarrassment. And I could tell my outfit was getting some approving glances from some of the other women in the room, too.

I guessed I must be a part of this world now, but yet I still got that familiar sense of being out of my depth — of being a silly little girl playing ‘dress up’, hiding out in the mysterious world of grown-ups.

“I’m late,” Blake said, busting me out of my trance. “My eleven o’ clock overran. It was very dull, I can assure you.”

I smiled up at him. This was the first time I’d seen him in more formal attire: a deep navy suit – it was a perfect fit, I couldn’t imagine how much it must have cost – and beneath the suit, a crisp white shirt but no tie, the collar open, exposing his rich tanned skin beneath. I felt another small flutter, but this one definitely wasn’t from nerves. He’d shaved too, his skin looking so impossibly smooth and radiant, and as he dropped into his chair just a few feet away from me, I caught that subtle but heady scent of his cologne.

Keep it together, Jessica.

This is business, remember.

“I’m starving,” he said, picking up a menu and casting a glance over it. “You mind if we eat first, then get down to business?”

“Sure,” I said, “I’m hungry too.”

Look at me, you bastard, not the God-damn menu.

I followed Blake’s cue, picking up the heavy, leather-bound menu and casting a hesitant glance over the abundant list of exotic-sounding dishes.

“I’d recommend the mishmishyia, if you’re still deciding,” Blake offered, without looking up from his menu. “It’s very good here.”

I decided to keep it to myself that I’d never even heard of mishmi-what-did-he-say before, so wouldn’t know whether it tasted good or like crap, and instead I just smiled and nodded.

“Sounds good.”

When the waiter came to take our order, before I could even open my mouth to speak, Blake said, “We’ll both have the mishmishyia, and what do you say to a glass of the 2009 Borgogne rouge, Jessica? It’s a great vintage.”

“Uh, sure,” I blushed, yielding once more to his will.

I’d never had a guy order for me in a restaurant before. I called myself a feminist, so I thought that kind of thing was old fashioned, but I had to admit that it felt good, exciting even, to give myself up to him like that, to follow his orders, even though I was normally so in control …

§

“You were right,” I said, gently laying my cutlery down on my empty plate. “That was really good.”

I felt a little tingly from the glass of red wine. That was really good too – I rarely drank wine but whenever Greg and I went out for dinner, we only ever ordered the cheapest bottle on the menu. I’d thought that was wine, but this – this was something different. Rich yet subtle, with a rainbow of competing flavors and notes; I could finally understood what got those magazine drink critics I usually shook my head at waxing so lyrical!

We’d not talked much yet, and he’d hardly even looked up at me. I was trying to work out how to drop my new look into the conversation, to pluck up the courage to say thank you, when Blake once again seemed to read my mind.

“I see you’ve taken advantage of the expense account,” he said with an expression I couldn’t quite fathom.

Is that approval?

Or something else?

And I felt his eyes taking in my sheer shirt, my bra so visible beneath.

“It looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” I replied, unable to keep my cheeks from burning.

“You’ve got a good body,” he continued, matter-of-factly, just as I was taking a sip of wine, and it was all I could do to stop myself from spitting it out over myself.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, you’ve got a good body,” he repeated coldly, “from what I’ve seen of it so far. I’m sorry, do you find that offensive?”

“Not offensive, exactly,” I explained, “just a little, um, forward, perhaps?”

At this he sighed and shook his head, more to himself than to me. He eased back in his chair, looked lazily around the restaurant, which was now thinning out, the lunchtime rush nearing its end, and then fixed his cold steely gaze on me once more. “Jessica, I didn’t get where I am by holding back. You understand what I’m saying?”

I nodded, but the truth was, I didn’t quite understand.

“What can I say?” he continued. “I’m an admirer of the female form. I think it’s pretty much a perfect design and clothes should compliment that. Yours do. Congratulations.”

I was still somewhat taken aback: in all my twenty-two years on this planet, I don’t think anyone had quite talked to me in that way before, and I wasn’t sure quite what to make of it.