Chapter One
Lydia Six Months earlier. Sicked up onto the pavement of single and homeless at twenty-three years old. I knew I must be hurting, even though I couldn’t feel a thing. Shock, I guess. Shell shock. My toes tapped against the suitcase wedged under my desk. It wouldn’t quite fit in the footwell, sticking out like a big red beacon for the entire office to see on arrival. LYDIA MARSH IS SINGLE, it screamed, HER LIFE JUST GOT FUCKED. I died a little at the thought. I’ve no time for tea and sympathy; the nosey intrusion of strangers in the guise of friendship. Slaverings of pity laid on thick, pitted eyebrows and there theres. No thank you. I breathed in the empty room; soaking up the empty desks in the eerie pre-work silence. It was still dark outside, London only just stirring as the faint kiss of dawn teased the skyline. Single. Homeless. Screwed. My mobile buzzed in my pocket, but this time I didn’t even reach for it. I’d no need of his bullshit messages, I already knew what they’d say. Come home, Lyds, please come home. Please don’t leave me. A twinge of sadness pinched my insides. Home. The home we’d shared, the home in which we’d laughed and fucked and made plans together. The home I’d called ours. But it wasn’t ours, not really. When push came to shove it was all Stuart’s. His name on the mortgage, his furniture in every room, his goddamn history there before mine. It hadn’t seemed a big deal. Why should it? I figured we were in for the long haul, for 2.5 kids and a joint bank account. I thought Stu would always be there. But no. One drunken night at a sales conference had put paid to that. I’d been home sleeping while he’d been out fucking. Carly Winters, admin junior. Bottle blonde, with a slightly orange hue and too much mascara. The absolute opposite of me. She looked Barbie-doll fake, plastic and insincere, but I guess he didn’t think so. I’d never have known, not if he hadn’t been too drunk to put a rubber on it. Oh my God, Lyds, she’s pregnant! She’s fucking pregnant! I should’ve lost my temper, lashed out and kneed him where it hurts, but anger was a no-show. I listened to the whole sorry string of apologies without so much as a whimper, no hint of breakdown. No all-consuming rage. Nothing. Don’t do this, Lydia, don’t block me out! Get angry! Scream, Lyddie, please! Hit me! Anything! I’d gone to bed. Shut him out and waited for tears to find me. Tears never came, just the itches. Spidery itches, dancing under my scars and begging for the razor blade. It had been years since the calling found me, years since I’d taken a blade to my own skin. Not again. Not anymore. In the early hours, sick of the insomnia, I’d packed a single lowly suitcase while he followed me around, begging and pleading and grovelling for forgiveness. It wasn’t a case of forgiveness. Forgiveness I could manage, after all, all people do stupid things, even the good ones. I’ve known that fact as long as I’ve known my mother… as long as I’ve been old enough to make excuses for her… as long as I’ve been old enough to try and make it all better again. I could forgive Stuart for his stupid indiscretion but I could never stay. We weren’t blood, not like Mum and me. We weren’t bound by flesh and bone and years of responsibility. Stuart and I were done, just like that. Over. He’d asked where I was going, like he didn’t know. Work, of course. Keep calm and carry the fuck on; smile through the pain like strong little Lydia always does. Anyway, I had nowhere else to go. Sad but true. One long-term friend from uni in my immediate circle, a couple of acquaintances not worth shit, and my mother back home. I’d have to call on Steph and hope we were still close enough that she’d offer me a sofa until I could get myself straight. Just stay, Lydia, I’ll move out, I’ll stay on the sofa, anything. Just until you’re settled. Just think about it, Lyddie, you don’t need to do this! I don’t love her! I turned off my mobile and dumped it in a drawer, then tried again to shove my case out of sight. It was no use. The thing wouldn’t budge, determined to show its big bold face to the world. I gave up and swept the hair back from my eyes, dark, wet strands clinging to my fingers. I was still soaked through from the downpour outside. Cold enough for the chill to break through the numbness, until I was craving my bed at home, the tangle of Stu’s limbs as we snoozed the alarm clock, his sandy hair like a bird’s nest against the pillow. The hitch in my breath surprised me, the unmistakeable wedge of a lump in my throat. I could hardly recall the sensation, hardly remember the last time I’d cried. I broke for the kitchen on shaky legs, driven by desire to outrace the pain. Maybe I could scald it to nothing with a hot cup of black, burn it away before the itches came back for me. I took out a mug and flicked on the kettle, staring out of the window at the office buildings beyond. My reflection in the glass looked as tired as I felt, sunken eyes peering from sallow sockets. I stepped forward, leaning onto the worktop to check more closely. My eyes appeared even paler than usual, the green of my irises hardly more than a pastel wash, and watery. My eyes were watery. I tried to choke the hurt down, hawking it back with the grace of an ostrich, unsure of even how to let it out anymore, but all I could see was Stuart; his smile bright with laughter, his clothes strewn all over the bedroom floor. Flashes of our life jarred my senses. So many promises of forever and ever and ever. The only one who’d ever put me first, before all others. He’d loved me. He promised me so. I gritted my teeth, but still the tears came, spilling from my eyes faster than I could blink them away. I was helpless against the barrage of sobs, which surprised me almost as much as the cheating. Lydia Marsh is a big girl. She doesn’t cry. I jumped a clear mile at the touch of a hand on my arm, spinning on instinct to face my attacker. Humiliation piled on like lead as I recognised the dark brown eyes bearing down on me. James Clarke, Chief Technology Officer. Mr goddamn corporate and perfect at everything. I’d been with Trial Run Software Group over a year, and still I only really knew him by reputation. It was common knowledge he worked long hours, but I’d never been in the office at 6am to find out. I backed away, sniffing out apologies, but his eyes held me steady without a hint of awkwardness. “Do you take milk?” I shook my head, wiping my cheeks on a sleeve as wet as my face, praying I wasn’t snotty or blotchy, or both. I watched him finish up my half-made coffee and make one for himself. My shaky fingers rattled against his as he handed the mug over, and he held on an extra heartbeat before he let go. I managed to mumble my thanks and he smiled gently. Then there was quiet, with only the low drone of the refrigerator to fill the silence. James leant back easily against the worktop and didn’t demand anything in way of explanation. He didn’t attempt to fill the emptiness at all, in fact, just sipped his coffee with his eyes on mine. I suspected then that very little on this earth would phase James Clarke. “I’m sorry,” I managed. He looked me up and down. “You need a change of clothes. I’ve a spare jacket in my office, it’ll dwarf you, but at least you’ll be warm.” My eyes crashed into his, a world of pain swimming around my head. “It’s ok, thanks, I have a whole suitcase-full under my desk.” “I see.” The look in his eyes told me he did, as well. He saw, alright. “What are you leaving behind?” “The man I thought I’d grow old with.” “And you’re sure this is really where you want to be?” “No point in moping, right?” I choked on my words even as I said them, and James reached out to place a hand on my shoulder. A firm grip, not too presumptive, just there. “Get yourself warm and dry before you catch your death. If you’d like an ear I’ll be in my office. I know how to listen.” “I’m sure you’ve got more important things to be doing.” My laugh came out jagged and hollow. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to witness my meltdown. How embarrassing.” “You shouldn’t be. I’ve been dragged through the depths myself, Lydia. My offer was sincere, I don’t judge and I certainly don’t gossip.” His dark eyes didn’t waiver, not for a moment. They stared straight into mine, an ocean of calm amidst the storm, and there beyond them, was something else. A knowing. “Thank you. I’ll be ok.” “I’m sure you will.” And then he was gone, leaving me to drown in my own mortification. At least there were no more tears. *** I had absolutely no intention of spilling the sorry, desolate guts of my relationship to James Clarke. The extent of our working relationship was limited to the occasional shared meeting. I’m surprised he even knew my name. I changed into fresh clothes and fired up my computer. No new emails, no reports to file. I’d finished up my outstanding project schedules the previous afternoon, so typically there was nothing pressing to do until regular working hours kicked in. The urge to check my text messages rose up, a morbid fascination to revisit the horror. It nipped at my ankles, begging for attention. That’s the only reason I decided to take a coffee up to Mr Clarke. That, and to apologise for my kitchen breakdown. “Black, no sugar, right?” I said, handing it over. “I’m impressed you noticed.” “I’m an attention-to-detail kinda girl.” I hovered awkwardly, scouting around his office at the certificates and accreditations on his walls. “Frank insisted I put them up. Apparently it looks the part when clients visit.” “You should be proud of them.” He shrugged. “Most of them aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Sit down, Lydia, take a breath.” The chair across from his was comfortable. I sank back into the leather, all too conscious of my lack of sleep the night before. “I’m sorry about the spectacle in the kitchen.” “You shouldn’t be.” “It was unprofessional.” “Professionalism has nothing to do with it. Do you want to tell me what happened?” His tone was even, and calm. He emanated calm. I considered lying, playing it down to make it sound like a stupid row, but I doubted he would have believed me if I tried. “My boyfriend had a thing with a colleague a few months ago. A Barbie-doll wannabe with a fake tan. I’d be none the wiser if he hadn’t got her pregnant.” James didn’t flinch, or rush to console me. “Does he regret it?” “He wants me to stay. I’m sure he feels worse than I do.” “What do you want?” “I want to go home,” I admitted. “Shove it under the carpet and pretend life’s still good. But it isn’t. What we have together can’t really be it, not if some other girl’s carrying his baby, right?” “That depends what it means.” “In my book it doesn’t mean getting someone pregnant at a crappy work conference after too many tequilas.” “That’s what your head says, what about the rest of you?” “The rest of me will just have to toe the line and get over it. We’re done.” I met his eyes, determination bubbling through my spine. “So, how about you?” He raised his eyebrows. “Me?” “You said you’d been through the depths yourself. What did you do?” He smiled. “I made the rest of me toe the line. What we had couldn’t have been it, right?” “Your wife?” “Ex-wife on all but paper.” He flashed his bare wedding finger. There was still a faint pale band where a ring would have been. His eyes turned heavy and serious, staring so intensely at me that I had to look away. “It wasn’t a pleasant time.” “But it got better? You moved on?” “It took me a while to lose the ring, but I’m now glad it’s gone. Genuinely.” Stuart’s face flashed before my eyes again. I pictured him, and Carly, and their tiny little baby. Maybe she’d have a ring one day, the one that should’ve been mine. “I can’t believe this is happening.” James Clarke moved with purpose, he reached across the desk and took my hands in his, they were warm and steady and so much bigger than mine. The shock of the contact snapped me out of my misery, and I was back in the moment, right there in his office. It was strangely intimate, but I didn’t feel the urge to pull away. “Listen to me, Lydia. Don’t beat yourself up. It’s ok to fall apart until you piece your life back together.” “That’s not really my style.” “I know it’s a cliché, but it can be good for you, to cry it out.” “Any other suggestions?” He stared straight into my eyes. “Suck it up, all the way inside. Put a wall around yourself and refuse to dwell on the pain, not even for a second. Every time a memory comes up just push it away. Slowly, but surely, it becomes second nature. The hurt fades.” “Is that what you did?” “I should have binned the ring sooner, it would have made the process a lot easier.” I studied the man sat before me, the hard line of his jaw, his confident smile. His black hair was perfectly tousled, making his dark eyes appear even darker. He was certainly imposing in his self-assured calmness. Women in the office talked about him, a lot. He was the resident ‘I would’ eye candy of the female Trial Run populous, and up close I could see why. I sensed some darkness spring up in him, and he took his hands away. Whatever had gone down with his ex-wife had got him good, I could tell, but he’d buried it alright, just like he said, buried it deep. My angry ghosts saluted his, waving from the shadows. His waved back before his eyes returned to calm, mask restored. I looked past him through the window as the dawn broke on a dreary day outside, the first day of life without Stuart. Back at my desk I deleted the text messages and barred Stu’s number. I’d build the wall sky-fucking-high, higher than high, to the ceiling of the whole fucking universe, where the pain couldn’t reach me ever again. *** It was almost 8am when the ping of my email sounded. I’d never been so pleased at the prospect of something to do, but the email wasn’t from a client at all. From: James Clarke Subject: Coffee Should you wish to store your suitcase in my office for the day please do feel free. It may save you some well-meaning questioning from colleagues once 9am hits. You’ve enough on your mind right now. I don’t imagine you’d appreciate their sympathy. James James Clarke CTO, Trial Run Software Group. A man with intuition. To: James Clarke Subject: Re: Coffee You imagined right. Thank you very much. I’ll bring it up. Lydia Lydia Marsh Senior Project Co-ordinator, Trial Run Software Group. I shoved my drying clothes back in and wrenched the case closed. I’d only just managed to yank it upright when my email pinged again. From: James Clarke Subject: Re: Re: Coffee No need. James The office door was already swinging open as I read it, and there he was, mobile tablet in hand on his way to my desk. I took him in as he approached; the confidence of his stride, his self-assured expression, the gorgeous goddamn suit he was wearing. He could have stepped straight off Savile Row. His jacket was pale grey pinstripe, paired strikingly with a dark burgundy tie. Pure white shirt, tailored trousers showcasing solid toned thighs. Even his feet joined in on the show, gleaming to perfection in mirror-shined brogues. He really was Mr Corporate, you could almost smell the senior management title on him. He was tall, really damn tall, commanding an imposing frame without being bulky. I’d heard on the grapevine that he worked out every lunchtime without fail, but he didn’t use the shared gym in our complex. The messy tendrils of his hair contrasted perfectly with the hard angles of his face. Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Old enough to be distinguished, but without even a hint of salt and pepper hair. James Clarke was an impressive specimen. Still, it meant nothing to me, nothing at all. He could be anyone for all I cared this morning, just as long as he hid my suitcase. “I figured you’d lugged that thing far enough this morning already. Where are you headed when work’s done?” “Islington, I think. I’m counting on a friend.” “Let me know.” He leant in close as he grabbed my case, and I caught a scent of musk, almost Arabian, and underneath the smell of fresh linen, and vanilla soap. If that’s what a senior management title smells like, it smells damn good. “Thanks for this, Mr Clarke, I really appreciate it.” “James,” he said. “I’m not your boss, Lydia, you don’t need to act like my subordinate.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read. “Ok, James,” I smiled. “Thank you.” “I’ll be leaving at five on the dot,” he said. “If you’re later than that I’ll leave my office open for you.” I could breathe a whole lot easier once that suitcase was out of sight. With a dab or two of concealer we’d be back to business-as-usual. *** James had already gone by the time I went for my case. He’d left it hidden behind his desk, out of sight. Sliding into his seat to retrieve it felt weird and invasive. His desk was immaculate; stationery and papers arranged in lines with perfect precision. There was a letter tray for incoming mail, but outside of that there wasn’t a single scrawled note, or post-it, to be seen. Even more notable was the serious lack of anything personal: no photos, no trinkets, nothing. His pens were arranged in uniform, a display of perfectly aligned ballpoints, all black. A black stapler, hole punch and calculator, all standard issue from the stationery cupboard. A metal ruler lay perfectly parallel to the desk edge, and a Trial Run notepad lay open on the first page, unused. Aside from the certificates on the walls there was no touch of the man in the room. A generic leafy plant sat on a bookshelf, which housed only industry-related publications. An empty wastepaper bin, without even a trace of lunch, or discarded paperwork. Nothing. In a moment of impulsion, I took one of his pens from its position. On page one of his Trial Run notepad I left my mark. Islington bound, safe and sound. Thank you. I signed off with a big scrawly L and a flourish, and successfully fought the urge to line the pen back up where I found it. A bit of chaos wouldn’t hurt him. *** I dreaded sofa surfing at Steph’s place, but my sharp exit from home had left me well and truly up shit creek without a paddle. Steph is kind and supportive, but I wanted nothing more than to lick my wounds in private without the world in my face. In Steph and Mike’s cramped one-bed apartment, that wouldn’t exactly be easy. Steph did her best to act like it was a completely usual Friday visit, pouring me wine and chatting about her day until I wanted to talk. I kept it sparse, outlining what had gone down without delving into the emotional shit. She listened without interrupting, and then said what any good friend would say. “He’s a jerk. An absolute, motherfucking jerk. You can stay here as long as you want, you know that.” “Thanks.” “I know you aren’t going to bawl your eyes out on my shoulder and watch a rom-com marathon, but I’m here if you want to.” “I know,” I smiled. Steph twirled a stray wisp of blonde hair in her fingers. “Have you told your mum?” “Hell no.” “Maybe she could help?” “Like she’s ever helped,” I snapped. “I’ve got enough of my own shit to wade through without dealing with hers, too.” Steph let it drop. A wise choice. . ***
Chapter Two
James Cara spread her legs like a good girl, pressed tight against the flogging bench with her perky little ass in the air. Just how I wanted her. I knelt down behind, spreading her wide enough to trace my tongue around the tight little ring of her asshole. She squirmed like an eel, and I slapped her ass. Hard. The smack of my palm cut loud across the room. “I said, don’t move.” She stopped squirming. “Sorry, sir.” I savoured my position a moment longer, her glistening pussy just an inch from my nose. I breathed deeply, letting my warm breath tease her. She tensed, but checked herself, keeping still enough to prevent further punishment. God, I needed this. I needed the heady scent of sex, the musky taste of her against my tongue. I needed to feel her jerk and scream as she came, and even then still beg for more. More tongue, and more pain. I’d give her more of both. Gladly. I buried my tongue, lapping at her slit and teasing a path through the folds to her clit. She tasted so fucking good. She moaned, but didn’t move a muscle, not even when I clamped my mouth tight onto her, taking her sweet little nub between my lips. Her scent hammered my senses, and my dick twitched in my jeans. Fuck yeah. I stopped. “What do you want, Cara?” Her answer came within a second. “Your mouth, sir. Please.” “You will remain quiet and still.” “Yes, sir.” “If you move or make a sound, I will spank you, hard, understand?” I saw her pussy clench. Horny little bitch. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” “Good girl.” I spread her open, stretching her lips wide apart like a pretty pink butterfly. So fucking pretty. I heard her breath quicken, and almost willed her to moan, just so I could punish her. “You have a perfect little cunt, Cara.” I imagined her eyes screwed shut under her blindfold, all her concentration focused on obeying. I wasn’t going to make it easy. I fixed my mouth onto her, sucking her in. She was already swollen with lust, ripe for my touch. I swirled my tongue, gently, my arms wrapped around her thighs to hold her tight to me. Every muscle in her legs was tense, straining for composure. I gripped her flesh in my teeth as I pulled away, savage enough to make her breath hitch. Make a sound, you filthy bitch, make a fucking sound. She kept quiet. I plunged two fingers inside her and she exhaled everything she had. I curled them forward, finding just the right spot. The cuffs on her wrists jangled as I worked her from the inside, but I let her off this once. My thumb balled her clit, pinning her pleasure from both the inside and out. Her cunt made gorgeous wet slurps, slick and swollen from everything she was taking from me. I closed my eyes to savour the sensation. “I’m going to stretch you open, Cara. You do want more, don’t you?” “Yes, yes please, sir.” Her voice was raspy. I slid in a third finger, and her legs trembled. She tightened beautifully, her greedy little slit sucking at my fingers. I worked her into a rhythm, strong steady movements all the way inside her, echoed by my thumb around her clit. “Please, sir, may I cum?” “No.” Her legs shuddered again, another clink of her cuffs. “Don’t make me punish you, Cara.” She was trying so hard, but the sadist in me couldn’t resist. I increased the pressure, coaxing the nerves inside. They betrayed her, and she bucked against my hand, wheezing out a string of incomprehensible mewls. I pulled away instantly and her knees almost buckled. “I said, no.” “I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.” I got to my feet, kneading the soft skin of her buttocks in rough hands. “I’m going to punish you now, Cara. You need to be punished now, don’t you?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I trailed my fingers up the soft pale groove of her spine, enjoying the way her muscles twitched at my touch. “If you’re a really good girl, I’ll make you cum after.” She groaned and arched her back, jutting her ass out towards me. She’s so fucking good. I didn’t go easy on her. My blows were hard, and fast. Slap after slap across her perfect white flesh. Her ass juddered under the abuse, and soon the sound of her whimpers came loud. Her ass bloomed pink under my hands, rosy and gorgeous, ripening to a deep, dark flush. I coloured her thighs too for good measure, and she let out a squeal as I landed one right on her pussy. She lay flat to the bench, breathing heavy while I gave her a moment. “Your skin is so pretty, Cara.” “Thank you, sir.” I ran my fingernails down her thighs and she gasped, shifting her legs apart like a wanton whore. “What do you want, Cara?” “I want to cum. Please make me cum, sir.” Without warning I grabbed hold of her hair, yanking her head back. “You don’t deserve it, yet.” I kept hold while I slapped her again, watching the tension in her shoulders as I inflicted her punishment. I observed every twitch, every flinch and every tiny moan, watching her careening to the edge of her tolerance, a slow burning arch of pain. It made my dick throb. I finished up as she made a particularly loud whimper. Perfect timing. I watched the rise and fall of her back as she caught her breath. “How do you feel, Cara?” “Amazing, thank you, sir.” She wasn’t lying. Her face was flushed bright and her thighs were slippery wet, but more telling was the smile that spread slowly across her lips. Endorphins kicking in, no doubt. She was flying high. I slid my fingers all the way back inside her, saving my thumb for her asshole. She groaned as I forced it in, and bucked back against me with jerky motions. I allowed her movement this time, back and forward against my intrusion as her chains rattled. My free hand curled around her thigh, circling gently around her sopping wet clit, and with steady fingers I brought her to her peak. I pressed my whole weight against her as she exploded, pinning her to the bench. The restriction sent her wild, and she shuddered against me, squealing like a cat. I didn’t stop until she was all done, withdrawing my fingers with a delicious squelch. I touched them to her lips and she licked them clean. “Good girl, Cara.” I unfastened her cuffs and she spun around, reaching for me. I guided her up from the bench and she fell to her knees instinctively, hands aiming for my belt buckle. I let her find it, gazing down at the long dark tangle of her hair. It hung down around her naked shoulders, coiled into damp tails. It reminded me of something. My dick jumped inside my jeans. Dark, wet hair. Green eyes. So fucking green. Tears, lots of tears. Beautiful pain. Lydia Marsh. I reached for the woman on her knees, stroking down her hair and pulling her closer. Yes. Her palm against my cock through the fabric, rubbing me. Her mouth already open, wanting. Green eyes. Tears. Perfect tears. I raised her blindfold, staring down at her through a haze of lust. Desire pulsed through me, tickling my skin. But Cara’s eyes were brown. It knocked the wind right out of my sails. I recoiled before I could stop, jolted from the fantasy. Cara kept her eyes on mine, a hungry smile on her face. Her fingers freed my belt, but it was too late. I took her hands in mine. “I need a drink, Cara, thank you.” “Are you sure, sir?” “Thank you, Cara.” She looked disappointed, but it was no good. My mood was broken. I lifted her to her feet and kissed her knuckles before we left the room. She leant into my side en route back to the bar, her naked flesh burning into my chest. It felt good, but it was over for me. A small crowd retreated from the windows, show over. One of the men patted my shoulder. “Good scene, Masque.” I smiled back at him. “Yes, it was.” *** The bar was quiet when we returned, everyone’s attention fully engaged by the main floor. A couple I recognised, Diva and Cain, were getting down and dirty with a reel of bondage tape and a couple of floggers. I flashed a smile but walked on by, leading Cara by the hand to deliver her into the arms of another club regular. Raven, Mistress Raven, to the general club populous, also known as Rebecca ‘Bex’ Hayfield, but only to me. A real life friend. One of my only real life friends, in fact. I watched Raven’s mouth spread into a sly grin as we approached, her kohl-rimmed eyes sparkling. She’d gone for a particularly severe look this evening; blue-black hair twisted tight into a high-pony, topping off a skin-slick latex number which ended just shy of her ass. Thigh-high boots finished the look. She air-kissed me twice to save her lipstick, then turned her attention to the naked woman at my side. Cara twirled on instruction and Raven nodded her approval. “Nice and rosy, just how we like it. Good job, Masque.” She slapped Cara’s ass for good measure, then pulled her in close, roving her tongue up naked flesh to nip at Cara’s neck. The obliging sub continued her spin, presenting her cute little tits to Raven’s gaze; perfect white skin with sweet peachy nipples. “What’s this?” Raven asked, raising an eyebrow. “No marks?” She tutted loudly, giving me the eye. “These gorgeous little titties were made for pain, Cara. You want that, don’t you?” “Yes, Mistress.” Cara’s silky-soft voice made me hard again, and I glanced away to watch Diva taking a fairly decent flogging. “Are you going to finish the job?” Raven asked, pushing her ward in my direction. Cara squeezed her tits together and held them high for me, smiling in invitation. “I thought I’d leave them for you, Raven. I know how wet you get over nipple torture.” “So thoughtful,” she grinned. “Playroom three, Cara, now. Don’t you dare touch yourself.” Cara tottered off without hesitation, and I watched her tight little curves sashay away. I turned back to find Raven staring at me, her eyes just inches from mine. She trailed a finger down my nose, pretending to peek under the mask that covered most of my face. “I’m beginning to forget what you look like under that thing,” she laughed. “Maybe that’s the plan.” “So sad. Your face is too pretty to hide, Masque. You used to at least take the thing off between scenes.” “It’s growing on me. Besides, I don’t really want my face being snapped in this place, regardless of whether I’m flogging the shit out of some young plaything or not.” “Everyone knows the no-camera rule.” “Wherever there are rules they are inevitably broken.” “Fair, but your face isn’t exactly your only recognisable feature,” she laughed, tracing the tail of the tattoo on my chest. “You can’t get a mask for that thing.” “Nobody outside of this place ever sees that thing.” I took her hand in mine as she continued her journey down the beast. “But this thing.” I pointed to my face. “People see this thing all the time.” “It must get so complicated being you, so many lives...” she mocked. “One day you’ll wear the mask to the office and the suit to the club, you know that right?” “And that’s the day I quit town and start all over again.” “Such a drama queen...” “Anonymity suits me.” “Control suits you, Masque,” she grinned. “I think you were born with a crop in your hand.” “It was a cane, actually,” I smiled. “And I hope I die with one in my hand, too.” She leant in close, her hand still pressed to my chest. The deep plum notes of Poison kissed my nostrils as I breathed her in. She slid her hand down my stomach to the bulge in my jeans, and whispered so softly into my ear I could hardly hear her. “You didn’t cum, did you? I know you didn’t. You need a proper scene, James, without holding back. Tame doesn’t suit you.” “I’m not tame.” “You were a pussycat with Cara, she won’t even bruise.” “Cara is the pussycat, Bex. I hope for her sake she doesn’t say yes to moving into yours, you’d break her in a week. You and I both know she wouldn’t cope with the hard stuff.” “You’d better get it on with someone who would then.” I felt her lips against my ear. “Is that a hint? You priming me for your bi-annual foray into the world of submission?” She squeezed my cock. “Nah. Anyway, you don’t have a pussy.” She let me go and walked away, tossing me a smile over her shoulder. “Since when has that been a deal breaker?” I called after her. “Since tonight.” She blew me a kiss. *** I’m always the only one in the office at 6am. I love the quiet, before the place fills up with people and the general office bullshit that comes along with them. I made myself a coffee in silence, pondering my workload for the coming week. Sales had just landed a big deal, a bespoke solution for White Hastings McCarthy, one of the top five law firms in the country; a seven hundred seat initial installation across three branches, with seven case management worktypes to scope out. The whole thing was ripe for my desk. My mind began to assemble the potential project outline. This one would take a lot of co-ordination. A lot of people. I hate all that shit. I leant back against the worktop to sip my coffee. Black, no sugar, just the way I like it. Just how Lydia Marsh had made it. My mind bailed without warning; thoughts unravelling and skittering away. There, in their stead, was a full colour rerun of my Friday morning peepshow. Lydia Marsh’s tear-streaked face in full focus, and her eyes, so fucking green. Jesus. Bex was right. I did need a proper scene. The need to dominate pulsed in my temples; thick with the craving for tears and pain and the total surrender of a body underneath mine. Cara had scratched an itch, but the real beast raged on unchecked. I headed to the men’s room, resigned to an early morning hand-job. I pressed my forehead against the tiles as I worked my cock, eyes screwed shut as I summoned up a lightning-quick montage of memories. Women bound tight by their wrists, arching their backs into the pain as the cane strikes. Tears of surrender, and release, and abandon through pain. Their quivering legs as the adrenaline spikes... then the endorphin rush, the point where their bodies turn limp and their eyes glaze in lust. Quiet tears. Acceptance. Absolute, total submission. All for me. Come on. Another montage, this one of Bex. She’d fight against her surrender, writhing, kicking and screaming, to the edge of release. Spitting curses and fighting against her bonds, until she’d break apart and go toppling into the abyss beyond, screaming out tears and begging for more. She morphed into my Kitty Kat, my Katreya. Her bruised shins running away from me through long grass, begging me to chase her… begging me to hurt her… hurt her in her most tender places. Jesus fucking Christ, James, just fucking cum. In desperation I let myself go there. Lydia Marsh, bound at my feet. Staring up at me through watery eyes. Her tits are so fucking pretty, tied up tight in bondage rope, marks of her punishment savage against pale skin. Her mouth is open, ready. Her eyes begging me to take her. I force myself in, and she gags on me. I love the noises her throat makes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I sprayed my load all over the wall, hissing out a string of expletives and already forcing Lydia from my mind. Colleagues were no go. An absolute no-fucking-way. I had one golden rule. The one I’d never break again. Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck. It was a whole lot fucking safer that way, but damn what I’d give to see her cry again. *** Frank and I had the same ritual every Monday morning. He’d knock at my door at 9.15 on the dot, blustering about how time flies, and then ask after my weekend. My answer was invariably the same. “Can’t complain, Frank, how was yours?” Cue his a long monologue of events. Golf, shopping, family meals, some story about the neighbours, and I’d sit and listen, making all the right noises. People like talking, and when they’re talking about themselves they aren’t talking about me. It suits me well. That simple fact has made me an exceptional listener, which also suits me well. It pays to listen. It pays to understand. Frank finally turned his attention to White Hastings McCarthy, gushing at the potential of what the deal could mean for Trial Run. Another of the big boys on our client list. I shared his enthusiasm, and for a few minutes we were colleagues with a single common objective. It was one of those rare moments it felt good to be part of a team. “Look, James, I know you aren’t up for overnighters. There’s no pressure on you to go, but Trevor White wants to kick off with a few days onsite once the paperwork’s in place. Brighton Head Office, nothing too crazy. A bit of a tour, an initial round of meetings, all the usual. I was thinking you could ask Sam from development in your stead, and send him with someone from project management. I figured maybe Steve Jones or Lydia Marsh, but it’s up to you. Lydia headed up the Anderson deal a few months ago, actually, went like a dream. She’d be a good fit.” My throat went dry. “Lydia Marsh?” “You must know her, pretty girl... tall... dark hair... crazy green eyes.” “I’ve seen her around.” I glanced at my notepad, now cocooned out of sight in my in-tray. Lydia’s flowery text: Islington bound, safe and sound. “Great. Do you want me to get Janie to handle it or will you ask them yourself?” “I’ll do it,” I said, before I’d even realised. “Good stuff, James. Good stuff. Let’s meet this afternoon, get the team together. I’ll send over a calendar invite.” He made to leave, clearly satisfied with our plan, but I called him back from the doorway. “I’ll go to Brighton, Frank.” He shot me a puzzled expression. “There’s no need, James. Don’t feel obliged, there’s no pressure.” “The fact is, we’d be better off if I went. I’ll go.” Frank beamed like a cat who’d landed a fat pot of cream. He came back to shake my hand, big solid jerks of gratitude. “I appreciate it, James, and so will Trevor White. I’ll get Janie to book you a hotel.” “Make a booking for Lydia Marsh, too,” I said. “She’ll be coming with me.” “Good choice, James. I’ll get Janie on it right away.” I cursed myself once the door was closed, hands in my hair at the absurdity of my impulsion. What the fuck?! In frustration I tore out Lydia’s Islington note and fed it through the shredder. ***
Chapter Three
Lydia The senior management team at White Hastings McCarthy stared straight ahead at the man before them, nodding at every smooth point he made. James Clarke was polished, confident, faultless. That’s why they call him Mr Perfect, I guess. My attendance at WHM, smiling and scribbling notes while Mr CTO presented the implementation proposal, was still a surprise to me. Apparently I’d been first choice. I was just glad he’d looked beyond my little meltdown to give me a shot. This project would be one hell of a gold star on my resume. James handed me the room at the end of his presentation, and I was dropped right into the chaos of shared calendars and proposed schedules. By the time we wrapped up for the day we’d pretty much achieved sign-off on our timescales. We’d done good. “That went well,” he said as we stepped out into the crisp Brighton evening. I looked up at him, towering above. He had just the faintest shadow of stubble, his face etched in shadows against the gaudy brilliance of the pier beyond. “It went great,” I said. “They loved you.” “They definitely loved you.” “I scheduled in some dates in a diary, that’s all.” “They liked you, Lydia. You coordinated well for a complex project, considering.” “Considering?” “Considering recent events,” he expanded, dark eyes crashing into mine without even a sliver of awkwardness. I felt my hackles rise. “My personal shit doesn’t make me unable to do my job. I’m fine, James. Thank you.” He laughed, and I gritted my teeth until I realised it wasn’t at my expense. “You sound like me. Knock you down and you’re scrabbling to your feet, swinging your fists at the air and claiming it didn’t hurt.” “Oh, it hurt,” I smiled. “But I’m always straight up on my feet. Always.” We walked along the beachfront towards the hotel in amiable silence. James Clarke was a brooding character, I could tell, but his smile was easy. I felt strangely comfortable in his presence, my steps falling into gentle rapport with his. Every now and again his eyes would catch mine, and I’d see something flash in him, some indeterminable knowing. Maybe it was concern, I dunno, but by the time we reached our venue for the night I felt a calmness I hadn’t felt for days. I put it down to the sea air, taking in cleansing deep breaths of salty breeze and thanking my good fortune for being out of the London chaos. On arrival I paced straight through the hotel foyer, turning in the doorway to the bar to suggest we have a celebratory drink, but James wasn’t following. “There’s a good restaurant here, by all accounts,” he said. “Have dinner and drinks on my room. I’m sorry I can’t join you, I have things to do.” I kept my smile bright despite the major blow out. “Of course. No problem.” “I’ll see you in the morning, Lydia.” His brush-off panged more than it should have. A rejection-fuelled chink in the Lydia Marsh armour. I elbowed it good and hard, and it fell away into nothing. No big deal. “See you in the morning, James.” I didn’t watch him leave. *** I had a few in the bar. Enough to really feel them on my way to my room. James Clarke hadn’t made a reappearance and I hadn’t felt the need to keep up my work facade. Hence the large house whites and unsteady legs. I glanced at James’ closed door as I passed, right next to mine, trying to be a good neighbour by treading as lightly as possible. I was too drunk for a work night, but hell it felt nice to be in my own space again. A few weeks sharing Steph’s shoebox apartment was already driving me crazy. Probably her, too. I took a breath in my own space, and caught sight of the pier through the net curtains. Sea-view balconies were a win. Air, glorious air. The breeze sobered me up enough to ease off the wobbles, and I relaxed against the railings with slightly steadier legs, staring intently down on the people below. I heard a door slide open to my left, but my view was blocked by a partition. A voice cut out in the night, quiet but deep, a low laugh tickling my stomach. “She said no, then? Probably for the best... what do you mean you kind of asked her? You either did or you didn’t. You did, didn’t you?” I held my breath, unsure whether to stay or go. Maybe he wouldn’t notice if I crept back inside. “It’s for the best, you’d break her and she’d end up moving out again and leaving you in a worse state. Honest, she would... I’m pretty sure it’s not love... no, that’s definitely not love... Rebecca, that’s definitely, definitely not love.” His laugh was so genuine and warm. At odds with the steely professionalism of his corporate persona. I stayed put, committed to waiting it out until he went back inside. “You could advertise, you know... like most normal people do... you’re not that weird, Bex, not really. Anyway, some people like weird... weird people like weird...” I heard him put a foot up on the bottom ledge of the balcony, and peeked forward to find him leaning out into the night. He was still in his suit, its tailoring hugging him in all the right places. He looked really fucking perfect. Drunk-speak. Drunk. “I’ve got to go. Long day tomorrow... Yes, it’s going well... Yes, she’s good... I can give praise where it’s due, Rebecca. She’s good… Behave will you. It’s work...” She’s good. Me? All of a sudden I felt like an intruder. I should have coughed or something, made it obvious I was there. Shit. Too late. She’s good. I’m good. Of course I’m fucking good. I work really hard... but still. She’s good. I found I was smiling. Did I really smile anymore? Since Stu? Of course not. Of course not since Stu. His name cut, and I was right back there, at home, packing my things through spidery itches. I tried to rein my thoughts back in, but they wouldn’t come. Wine was a mistake. “I’ll see you on Saturday, ok? Stick an advert online, you’ll have probably solved your dilemma by then. Who knows, you might have Cara mark-two already moved in. Goodnight, Rebecca.” He finished the call but stayed still, staring out to sea. I was contemplating a move back inside, regardless of whether or not he’d hear me, but he negated the need altogether by leaning over. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Lydia.” Crap. So much for hiding. “I was just getting some air, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” I joined him at the railings, matching his stance. “It’s nice out here.” “I like the sea. Clears the mind.” “Yes, it does.” “How was your evening?” I smiled. “A few too many wines. I’ll be fine in the morning.” “I’ve had a few too many myself. Quite a few too many.” He smiled at my lack of response, seeming to read my mind. “Does that surprise you? You think I’m Mr Uptight, is that it?” “I think you’re Mr Perfect. I’m not sure Mr Perfect gets drunk on a work night.” “Mr Perfect?” “That’s what they call you, in the office.” “Do they?” His eyes dug into me, glinting in the shadows. “Sure do.” “Do you know what they call you?” “No idea.” “They call you Cat. Short for cat’s eyes.” He looked me right in the face, staring for long seconds. “It suits you.” “Well, Mr Perfect kinda suits you, too.” “I’m not perfect.” “I dunno, you were perfect today… and perfectly intimidating,” I said, moving a little closer as the wind whipped my hair. “You find me intimidating?” I smiled. “Perfection is intimidating, is it not?” “It’s easy to be perfect in office hours. It’s after that it gets a whole lot harder.” “Yep,” I laughed. “Can’t say I’ve got the home shit nailed.” “How are you doing, Lydia? Don’t insult me with fine. How are you really doing?” I felt my throat tighten, willing me to clam up and slap on the professionalism, but the wine warmed through my veins, loosening my tongue. “Most of the time ok. Right now not so great. Bad wine.” I slapped my wrist. “I thought a change of scene might do you good.” “Is that why you invited me?” “No,” he replied in a beat. “I’m really not that generous, I wanted you here because you’re good. I just considered it an additional benefit.” “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me. It doesn’t seem to have worked.” “The thought was there.” “On the periphery.” “All the same. Thanks.” “I’ve had too many wines, Lydia Marsh, and so have you. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, we should sleep them off.” “Yes, sir.” I mock saluted, sailing my hand out towards him over the balcony. He didn’t move a muscle, just stared me out so hard I felt almost uncomfortable underneath the haze. “Goodnight, James.” In a blink he was away from me; stepping down from the railings and out of view. “Goodnight, Cat. Straight to bed.” Turns out Mr Perfect was Mr damn fucking Bossy, too. It suited him. *** By the end of day two I’d have sworn we’d been introduced to every single employee of White Hastings McCarthy, including the cleaners. Round upon round of handshakes and tours and polite conversation. I hoped James had a better recall of faces and names than I did, because after about the fourth new person they’d all become a blur. Somehow I expected he did. He didn’t seem the type to be lost for a name at a dinner party. We’d been waved off with fond farewells from the senior management team, and the morning would see our final wrap-up session with the IT department. Then back to London, to more sofa surfing and shared fridge space. “Tomorrow’s just a formality,” James said, as we wandered back along the front. “The hard work’s been done.” “I think I’ve got everything clear in my notes. I may just need to reconfirm some of the case management stages.” “Our main prerogative was to cement the relationship, and we’ve already achieved that. You were invaluable, Lydia, thank you.” “We made a good team,” I smiled. “We did.” After my previous evening’s rebuttal I waved James away in the foyer without the suggestion of drinks. He didn’t make a repeat offer of dinner on his room tab, so I figured I was out for myself. No big deal. I made a mental note to tone down the wine consumption. Just a couple, nothing crazy. The first glass slid down my throat like liquid happiness, and Stuart slipped from my mind as easily as he’d thumped his way back in. I was checking out the bar menu when I caught the delicious notes of musk. Musk and vanilla. “I’m sorry, Lydia, I meant to join you sooner. I had calls to make.” James took a seat next to me, leaning in close enough to scan the mains. “Have you ordered?” “Not yet.” “Excellent,” he smiled. “Let’s eat.” *** “What was he like?” James asked, refilling my glass. I slouched back in the chair to enjoy the ambience of the hotel restaurant, pleasantly tipsy and full of Dover sole. We’d covered all the work talk, and the wine had flowed much more freely than I’d intended. “Who?” I feigned ignorance and he raised his eyebrows. I dragged out the silence before I answered. “He was nice. Funny. Patient... Safe.” “Safe?” “What happened to refuse to dwell on the pain, not even for a single second?” “My bad. Forget I asked.” “Safe. Stu felt comfortable, you know? It was easy. We fitted together.” “It sounds more like a pair of footwear than a relationship.” “Relationships get like that, no?” I took my drink, my eyes on his as I drank it down. “Maybe some.” “I guess the others must break up before they get that far.” He sat forward in his chair, and that simple movement changed everything. The thrum of cutlery and surrounding diners faded to grey, and there was only him, with his dark eyes so intently fixed on mine. I filed it away, the-James-Clarke-effect, that ability to command the floor that I’d witnessed all day. “Some relationships offer consistency, others offer challenge. I prefer the company of a woman who’ll push me to the very heights of human experience. The kind of woman who’ll embrace the same in return. A relationship like that may never feel safe, even if it lasted a lifetime.” “Your wife was like that, was she?” He took a sip of wine, looked beyond me, to the diners I couldn’t see. “She was challenging, yes.” “So what happened?” “Did you enjoy your main?” he smiled. “Delicious, thank you, but your subject change sucks. Not even subtle.” “I don’t talk about it.” “About it, or about you?” “I listen a lot better than I talk.” I smiled. “That’s a terrible cop out.” “Why so?” “It’s lazy,” I laughed. “Hiding behind a smokescreen of interest to detract attention away from yourself.” “It’s not a smokescreen.” “What’s so bad about talking about you, Mr Clarke? Are you some big, bad serial killer or something? A secret special forces operator? A stamp collector?” “I value privacy above almost all other things. I think you understand that more than you’re letting on.” “Yeah, I get it. I’m normally the one doing the listening.” “Then I guess we have a stalemate. Two listeners out to dinner, far away from any talkers.” His eyes smiled at me, big dark pools of cinnamon. “Were you in love with him?” “You didn’t answer my question.” “You first.” “Not a chance.” I held his stare, unwilling to buckle. The pressure to give into him nipped at my heels, compelling me with an unknown force, strange and unfounded. Finally he smiled, and the tension broke. He shifted in his seat and I felt the bloom of victory in my ribcage, as though I’d won some battle I didn’t realise I was fighting. “Rachel is the kind of woman who thrives on the adoration of others. I gave her plenty of my attention, and for a long time we worked like a dream. Then work got crazy and she lost the spotlight of my adoration every waking minute. I didn’t realise she was finding solace in other men until it was too late.” “She had an affair?” “Several,” he announced calmly. “So, were you in love with him?” I took a breath, itching to pursue the adultery revelation. His expression told me I didn’t have a hope in hell. “I thought so.” “Thought so?” “I loved him. I don’t know if that’s the same thing on reflection.” “Did he make you wet?” I nearly spat my wine, staring across at the man opposite, at his crisp, corporate packaging, his steady hands, his considered smile. His goddamn perfect poker face and jaw of steel. “Sorry?” “You heard me.” I felt my cheeks burning. “I, um... we had a healthy relationship.” “That’s not what I asked.” “Stuart is attractive.” “That’s not what I asked, either.” “Well, yeah, sometimes. I mean... he could.” “He could, but he didn’t?” I sat agog, waiting for him to crack a smile and admit he was joking, but the smile didn’t come. “It was nice, but with work, and long days and general life. You know how it gets.” “So, he didn’t. You’re a young woman, with your whole life ahead of you. When the betrayal fades you’re going to do just fine.” “You aren’t so old, yourself.” “Old enough to know what I want, and more importantly what I don’t want.” I chanced my arm. “So what do you want?” “Dessert.” He called the waiter. ***
Chapter Four
James The splash of cold water did little to bring me to my senses. What the fuck are you doing, James? What the fuck? It was the eyes, her fucking eyes. Cat’s eyes. Pale turquoise eyes full of fuck me hard. Lydia Marsh was a sharp little cookie, a guarded little conker full of pain. Tough, and tight, and aching to be broken apart. Jesus pissing Christ. Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck. She’d driven me crazy this trip. The sight of her reverent fucking gaze as I’d delivered my pitch. Staring up at me like I was the God of fucking everything, standing in front of my PowerPoint deck like some kind of goddamn guru. Sweet fucking Christ. I recalled the gentle swell of her tits as she breathed, the slightest imprint of a lace bra under her blouse. Her sweeter than sweet little handshake, her quiet confidence, her eagerness to please. Yet, Lydia Marsh was clearly a fighter. Someone who bottles it all up inside, buries it deep. I’d avoided everything to do with her in the weeks since Kitchengate. Sworn abstinence and no fucking way. Yet here I was, my cock alive and kicking in spite of my better senses. Would she beg? Would she kneel on her soft little knees and plead for release? Would she sob under the cane like a broken little doll? Not easily... A far off memory danced across my retinas. The gangly unease of inexperienced youth. The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I chase after Katreya. Katreya Moore, just a year older than me, but so much taller. Her white socks gather messily at her ankles, showing off pale, bruised legs as she runs. Dark hair streams behind her, tangled in tails. She turns to call after me, her face still streaked with the tears from her scolding indoors. The skidding halt of her body, long skinny fingers reaching for mine. “I’m going to run away, James, come with me!” Her eyes pleading, wide and green, the palest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Where?” “Who cares.” “What about school?” “Don’t be such a sissy.” Her savage eyes tease me. Cut me down before her. She smudges her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m no sissy.” “Sissy boy, James. You’re so fucking good. So nice. Such a good little boy, James Clarke.” “Shut up, Kat.” “Make me.” My throat chokes up with childish desire, too young to understand how to really play this game. “We said we weren’t going to do that again.” “So? I changed my mind,” she giggles. “No, Kat. They’ll think you’ve been fighting again.” “Hurt me, James. I know you want to. I’ll show you where... places they can’t see.” “We said no.” “I’ve still got the marks from last time... I’ll show you... They told me off. Said I’m a bad girl, but I’ll be a good girl, for you, I promise. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, James. I’ll beg you if you like. Make me beg, James.” Shit... I forced the past aside before it swallowed me whole, smoothing hair back from my forehead while I eyed myself in the mirror. Get a fucking grip, James. This trip was trouble, a whole pissing heap of trouble. Did he make you wet? Jesus Christ, what a fucking question. But she answered... her awkward little swallow, the darting of her eyes. So much I’d wanted to say. He doesn’t know how, does he? Doesn’t know how to fuck your little asshole raw... Doesn’t know how to stretch you all the way open... until you’re riding his fist like a wanton fucking whore and grunting for more... Ever had a tongue deep in your ass, Lydia Marsh? Ever had someone force their fist all the way inside you? Ever pissed down someone’s throat while they tongue your greedy little slit? Have you ever been hurt, Lydia? Really hurt? Anyone ever fucked you up? Slapped your tight little cunt until you cry? Ever gagged on cock until you puke, Lydia Marsh? Ever seen your titties swell purple? Ever choked for breath until the world turns black? I’ll make it feel good for you, Lydia, it’ll feel so fucking good. I’ll make you squirt all over my filthy fucking fingers. Stop. Just stop. I was running out of legitimate toilet break time. She’d be waiting, expecting me to come back all smiles and professionalism. Expecting me to steer the conversation back to White Hastings fucking McCarthy and our perfect day’s work. Fuck no-one you know, and know no-one you fuck. If only I hadn’t seen her cry... *** I smoothed down my tie, smiling politely and resigning myself to another round of work talk, but Lydia Marsh surprised me. She toyed with her sundae, poking the thing like it was alive, over and over with pensive spoon gestures. “It’ll melt if you’re not careful,” I said, forking up a liberal portion of creme brulee. Her eyes latched onto mine as she took a mouthful of ice-cream. Unconscious obedience at its finest. “You got me thinking. I think it’s really the security I miss. Not him. I mean I do miss him, I love him, but it’s not the relationship I miss so much as having that part of my life all wrapped up. You know?” “That’s what you want, is it? Security? The happy ever after of companionship and TV nights?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought that’s what I wanted, but a few weeks out of it and I’m not so sure anymore.” “You’re a bit young to be settling for the nice steady guy, don’t you think? Those guys are normally friend-zoned until at least mid-thirties.” Her eyes did smile this time. “Stuart clearly wasn’t as steady as I thought.” “Why did he cheat? It’s never just the drink.” “Ouch.” She placed a hand over her heart. “It’s not an attack, Lydia, people cheat. I’m just curious why he cheated. Comfy slippers man doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who’d want to rock the boat for a casual fuck.” “That’s a probing question.” “It’s a simple question.” “If I answer, it’s my turn next.” “I don’t make deals unless I know all the terms,” I stated, bluntly. “I’d need to know the question first.” She raised her eyebrows, gripping her ice-cream by the shaft of the glass to take another spoonful. Firm grip. Nice fingers. They’d look so fucking sweet around my cock. “Can’t you make an exception? We’re away, aren’t we? Can’t Mr Perfect CTO just be James Clarke for one evening?” The no was on my tongue, so ready to slip out and end this silly game before it started, but her fucking eyes sucked me in again. Big and wide and slightly mischievous, twinned with her sweet little mouth clamped tight around her spoon, cheeks hollow as she sucked away the remnants of ice-cream. What the fuck was happening to me? “James Clarke the man is as guarded as James Clarke CTO, I’m afraid. He doesn’t make deals unless he knows all the terms, either.” She shrugged. “Ok, so I’ll get the first internal meetings scheduled for next week, maybe call Frank in for the initial brainstorm, what do you think?” I leant forward, fixed her in my stare, the no on my tongue fizzing away into fucking nothing. “Why did Stuart cheat, Lydia? What made him fuck some little blonde bitch from the office?” If she was taken aback by my crudeness, she didn’t show it. Her expression stayed constant, determined. She had steel. “My go next.” “Fine.” My temples pulsed, discomfort at my own sorry predicament threatening to boil over, and yet I knew I’d answer her. Just like I’d always followed Katreya into the bushes. “Talk, before I change my mind.” “He felt things had fizzled. That our sex life had dried up, and I hadn’t wanted him since the Anderson project came in at work. He said he was weak and horny and she was hot for him, promising to put her sour little mouth around his dick and suck him good, only that’s not the only place he put it.” “Had things dried up?” “That’s another question.” “It’s an extension of my earlier question,” I said, with a dismissive hand gesture. “I was tired and busy, I thought he understood. He said he understood.” Her lips pursed in anger, the first real chink in her facade I’d seen since the kitchen. “Has that answered your question? Do you think he was justified now because I wasn’t putting out for his bi-weekly demands?” “Not at all.” “Good, because our sex life had fizzled, but it wasn’t a few months ago like he thinks it was. It wasn’t down to the bloody Anderson project and tiredness over a couple of lousy months. It fizzled years ago for me, when we moved in together and he substituted any effort with nights of missionary and the occasional blow job in the living room. It may have fizzled for him when I stopped rolling over for the obligatory late night shag, but he let it go to shit a hell of a lot earlier than that. It should have been me screwing some random in an alleyway on a work night out. Not him.” I watched her ease down from the ceiling, regaining her composure in measured little paces. I soaked in the rise and fall of her breasts as she pulled back the rage, and the hurt and the injustice. She grabbed the wine bottle from the ice bucket and poured herself a refill, drinking it down with large gulps. “Does that feel better?” “What?” she snapped. “Admitting my boyfriend wanted it elsewhere even though he was a boring, conservative joke in the bedroom?” “Venting the pain. Does it feel good?” “I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s new. I don’t vent, I just deal with shit. I don’t even know why I’m talking about it.” “Venting is healthy.” “Says he who doesn’t talk either.” “I vent,” I said. “I just prefer a more physical outlet for my emotional discomfort - at the gym, or in the bedroom.” “You vent in the bedroom?” she smiled. “Sex is my preferred choice, although I have to say I utilise the gym more at this present point in time.” “I’ve heard. Every lunchtime, at the gym down the street.” “People talk about that, do they?” I felt the familiar bristling of the hair on my arms, the rage at the whispered discussions. “It’s hardly a secret. You look sculpted from bronze.” I forced the irritation back behind the veneer. “So, what’s your question, Lydia Marsh. What do you want to know about James Clarke, CTO?” I forced a smile, an easy one, relaxing back in my seat to diffuse the tension. “Have you always been like this? Private, I mean.” I smiled at the relatively easy question. Maybe I’d escape this little round of truth or truth unscathed after all. “No. I wasn’t private with Rachel. She saw all sides of me.” “Do you miss the intimacy?” “That’s another question.” “It’s an extension of my earlier question,” she grinned. “Give someone enough rope and they will hang you with it eventually. Either intentionally or not, the result is the same. I don’t miss the intimacy, no.” “So, what happens now? You’ll never have a relationship again? Never let anyone in?” “Not in the conventional sense. I value my sanity far too much.” “I think I shall adopt the same philosophy,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to us. Single and sane.” “Here’s to us, Lydia Marsh. Non-talkers anonymous. Private and proud.” “That should be our new tagline. Single and sane, private and proud,” she laughed. “I’ll have it printed up and framed for my living room.” “I’ll have it printed up and framed when I get a living room,” she smiled sadly. “I really need to get my shit together.” “Where are you living?” “On a friend’s sofa. It’s not the greatest. I need to find a house share or something, but I die a bit at the idea of all the smiles and questions and rigmarole of finding suitable housemates. I need to get a grip.” “You have to allow yourself a bit of slack, given the circumstances.” “A bit of slack won’t find me somewhere to live.” The idea was there in a heartbeat. Maybe it had been there all the time, lurking under the surface. No, James, no. Don’t fucking do it, no fucking way. My mouth turned dry, my throat tightening around the words in my throat. “I’m sure you’ll sort something out.” “I’d better had,” she said. “I think Steph’s boyfriend is getting sick of me. I hear her shushing him at night and pushing him away. Paper-thin walls.” “Always a bitch, those.” “They should just get on with it. I’m a big girl, I can handle the odd grunt in the night.” I itched to ask her more questions, to scratch at the pain under her skin until I found her soft and raw inside, but the conversation was over. Her head was firmly back on planet Earth, complete with its accommodation nightmares. I tried to convince myself it was for the best, but one flash of her eyes put paid to that. She’d compelled me to talk, bored into my privacy like a hungry worm. For that small deed alone she deserved to go over my knee. Her perky little ass would feel just right under my palm. She checked her watch. Game over. “We should get to bed. Another early start.” “Yes, we should.” I summoned the bill and signed the evening to my room as she watched me. We walked up slowly, the silence hanging heavier with each step. She slid her keycard into the lock and turned to me with cold, cool eyes again. Professional Lydia. “Thank you, James, I had a great night.” “My thanks for a job well done.” She gave me a smile as she pushed her way into the room beyond, and I was there outside the bushes again, autumn leaves under my shoes. “Lydia, wait.” She stepped back, eyes full of questions, and there, underneath them was the tiniest hint of potential. I could almost taste the what-if coursing through her mind, even if she didn’t know it. I took a step towards her, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet my eyes, approaching so close I could feel the heat of her through my suit. “I have a friend who’s looking for a housemate. She won’t pry. No false smiles or interviews, just a room there if you want it.” I watched her exhale, the corners of her mouth lifting as she ran her fingers through her hair. “I want it. Thank you.” “Don’t you even want to know where she lives?” “Where does she live?” “Camden.” “That works. What’s her name?” “Rebecca.” I stared at her awkwardly, my composure well out of kilter. “Goodnight, Lydia.” I closed the door behind me without even glancing back, fisting my hands in my hair. Jesus Christ. What the fuck? My mind zoomed through excuses, reasons I could give as to why this couldn’t happen, but it was pointless. I already knew I’d never use them. ***
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