All He Needs
Page 94
“You should go.”
“Would you like to come?”
“Sure.” Provided the anticipated explosion over his upcoming marriage was small.
They settled into easy and meaningless conversation and a few minutes later, Dominic went in search of something to drink. A refuge or remedy; he wasn’t sure which. But thanks to Sese, he found a nice supply of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay ’96 in the refrigerator and he brought back two bottles.
“With work tomorrow, you’ll have to ration your drinking.” He grinned. “I, however, do not.” Leaning back against the headboard, he pulled Kate under one arm, held a bottle in his other hand, and made a point of asking questions because he wanted to hear her voice. The welcome sound soothed him, kept his bad decisions at bay, and reminded him there was goodness in the world after all, at least when Katherine was near.
He made love to her tenderly after that, like a well-behaved lover, like a man who was memorizing every sensation, every feeling, every touch, every kiss. She purred as he slowly moved in her, he softly growled, her wanting him ratified and endorsed in kind, and no two people were so generous to each other that night. He made love to her with exceptional patience, reading every nuance and subtlety of her arousal, meeting her passionate needs, whether frantic or leisurely, putting all his considerable skills at her disposal. And she gave herself up to him body and soul, responding to his disarming affection, the bounty of his indefatigable dick and as always to his arresting strength and beauty.
He was her temptation and deliverance. He was her life.
He probably should have stopped before he did, but he faced the possibility of three miserable, perhaps lonely, months and he wasn’t that unselfish. But he smiled faintly when she said, “I’m going to sleep. You feel good though. You don’t have to stop.”
“Once more for old times’ sake, then,” he whispered, pushing into her sleek warmth. And when her eyes opened wide in apprehension, he smiled. “Just an expression, baby. Here’s one for now. How about that?”
Afterward, he tucked her in and kissed her good night. “Sleep well, baby. I’m here. I’ll wake you at eight thirty.” Then he carried in another bottle and watched over her while she slept, feeling comfortless and depressed, pissed that he had no way out of this purgatory.
He silently cursed Gora and Gora’s wife’s family, which held them both prisoner, reviled the stupidity of a fifty-year-old man who messed with young girls, and wondered when the evil that conspired to fuck with his life would give him a break.
Then he picked up his iPhone, left the bed, strolled into the kitchen, took out another bottle from the fridge, and went in search of a speaker.
The alarm woke Kate. She was alone in bed, but she could hear “Bring It On Home” playing so she didn’t panic. Dominic was still here.
She found him lounging in a chair in the living room, nude and beautiful, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, a bottle of Krug in one hand.
He looked up, turned off the music. “Sorry, I forgot to wake you. Did you sleep well?”
She smiled. “I did. You didn’t apparently.”
He shrugged.
He’d been rehearsing his speech—the one about giving her choices, about him being magnanimous. The one where he told her to go out with others, see more of the world, make sure she knew what she wanted. Enjoy herself. I’ll see you in three months when this business deal I’m involved in is over, he’d say, if you still want me.
But she fucked it all up by standing there without a stitch of clothes on, more beautiful than ever, tempting as hell, his eternal Eve. Logic took a hike. Reason flatlined. And if he had had any doubts as to what he wanted before, he was absolutely certain now. When she spoke, her voice was filled with compassion.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She’d not heard Sam Cooke since Hong Kong. “Something’s wrong, Dominic. Please tell me.”
So he did, or at least he partially did. He had planned to give her his careful speech about the sudden change in his schedule that would take him away from London, how she should think about going out while he was gone, meet other people, make new friends. So much for the best laid plans. “I went to Rome to make a deal,” he said instead. “I ran into complications. It’s not a white-shoe lawyer or white-hat hacker kind of deal”—he paused, debating how much to say and how to phrase it—“so I’m caught in a bind. I have to temporarily marry someone. In three months I divorce her. That’s it.”
Kate’s legs buckled and she slowly slid to the floor. Fainting just like in the movies, she thought. It took her a moment to find her voice and even then it was almost noiseless. “You’re kidding.”
He didn’t immediately answer, struggling to find the right words. Or the words least likely to offend. “This isn’t something I’d kid about.”
Her normal voice was back, her green gaze turning steamy. “That’s a real lame-ass excuse. Can’t you think of something believable?”
“Believe me,” he said. “It’s fucking true.” He slid upright, set the bottle on a nearby table, leaned forward, and looked at her, his blue eyes somber. “I’d like to ask you to ignore the whole thing or if you can’t, at least wait for me. But it’s selfish of me to even consider asking you when this situation is so totally fucked. So I won’t.”
Why was she surprised? This was Dominic Knight after all. “If you’re looking for a way out, just say so,” she said, giving herself points for not screaming at him or dissolving into tears.
“Would you like to come?”
“Sure.” Provided the anticipated explosion over his upcoming marriage was small.
They settled into easy and meaningless conversation and a few minutes later, Dominic went in search of something to drink. A refuge or remedy; he wasn’t sure which. But thanks to Sese, he found a nice supply of Krug Clos d’Ambonnay ’96 in the refrigerator and he brought back two bottles.
“With work tomorrow, you’ll have to ration your drinking.” He grinned. “I, however, do not.” Leaning back against the headboard, he pulled Kate under one arm, held a bottle in his other hand, and made a point of asking questions because he wanted to hear her voice. The welcome sound soothed him, kept his bad decisions at bay, and reminded him there was goodness in the world after all, at least when Katherine was near.
He made love to her tenderly after that, like a well-behaved lover, like a man who was memorizing every sensation, every feeling, every touch, every kiss. She purred as he slowly moved in her, he softly growled, her wanting him ratified and endorsed in kind, and no two people were so generous to each other that night. He made love to her with exceptional patience, reading every nuance and subtlety of her arousal, meeting her passionate needs, whether frantic or leisurely, putting all his considerable skills at her disposal. And she gave herself up to him body and soul, responding to his disarming affection, the bounty of his indefatigable dick and as always to his arresting strength and beauty.
He was her temptation and deliverance. He was her life.
He probably should have stopped before he did, but he faced the possibility of three miserable, perhaps lonely, months and he wasn’t that unselfish. But he smiled faintly when she said, “I’m going to sleep. You feel good though. You don’t have to stop.”
“Once more for old times’ sake, then,” he whispered, pushing into her sleek warmth. And when her eyes opened wide in apprehension, he smiled. “Just an expression, baby. Here’s one for now. How about that?”
Afterward, he tucked her in and kissed her good night. “Sleep well, baby. I’m here. I’ll wake you at eight thirty.” Then he carried in another bottle and watched over her while she slept, feeling comfortless and depressed, pissed that he had no way out of this purgatory.
He silently cursed Gora and Gora’s wife’s family, which held them both prisoner, reviled the stupidity of a fifty-year-old man who messed with young girls, and wondered when the evil that conspired to fuck with his life would give him a break.
Then he picked up his iPhone, left the bed, strolled into the kitchen, took out another bottle from the fridge, and went in search of a speaker.
The alarm woke Kate. She was alone in bed, but she could hear “Bring It On Home” playing so she didn’t panic. Dominic was still here.
She found him lounging in a chair in the living room, nude and beautiful, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, a bottle of Krug in one hand.
He looked up, turned off the music. “Sorry, I forgot to wake you. Did you sleep well?”
She smiled. “I did. You didn’t apparently.”
He shrugged.
He’d been rehearsing his speech—the one about giving her choices, about him being magnanimous. The one where he told her to go out with others, see more of the world, make sure she knew what she wanted. Enjoy herself. I’ll see you in three months when this business deal I’m involved in is over, he’d say, if you still want me.
But she fucked it all up by standing there without a stitch of clothes on, more beautiful than ever, tempting as hell, his eternal Eve. Logic took a hike. Reason flatlined. And if he had had any doubts as to what he wanted before, he was absolutely certain now. When she spoke, her voice was filled with compassion.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She’d not heard Sam Cooke since Hong Kong. “Something’s wrong, Dominic. Please tell me.”
So he did, or at least he partially did. He had planned to give her his careful speech about the sudden change in his schedule that would take him away from London, how she should think about going out while he was gone, meet other people, make new friends. So much for the best laid plans. “I went to Rome to make a deal,” he said instead. “I ran into complications. It’s not a white-shoe lawyer or white-hat hacker kind of deal”—he paused, debating how much to say and how to phrase it—“so I’m caught in a bind. I have to temporarily marry someone. In three months I divorce her. That’s it.”
Kate’s legs buckled and she slowly slid to the floor. Fainting just like in the movies, she thought. It took her a moment to find her voice and even then it was almost noiseless. “You’re kidding.”
He didn’t immediately answer, struggling to find the right words. Or the words least likely to offend. “This isn’t something I’d kid about.”
Her normal voice was back, her green gaze turning steamy. “That’s a real lame-ass excuse. Can’t you think of something believable?”
“Believe me,” he said. “It’s fucking true.” He slid upright, set the bottle on a nearby table, leaned forward, and looked at her, his blue eyes somber. “I’d like to ask you to ignore the whole thing or if you can’t, at least wait for me. But it’s selfish of me to even consider asking you when this situation is so totally fucked. So I won’t.”
Why was she surprised? This was Dominic Knight after all. “If you’re looking for a way out, just say so,” she said, giving herself points for not screaming at him or dissolving into tears.
