Run To You (6 page)

There are so many reasons why I’m standing in the lobby of The Harrington again. Obvious ones, like the curiosity which now burns through my body unchecked and uncontrolled. Undeniable ones, like the draw of that voice and the deal I made with him.

And then there is the real reason:

He lied.

Or, at the very least, he didn’t say. Either way it doesn’t matter, because the result is the same: I’m here and waiting for him, angry and stupefied but most of all safe, oh, so safe in the knowledge that he knew all along. I won’t be a shock to him. I’ve never been a shock to him. He saw my face and my clothes and my body, and carried on with all of this even so.

In fact, he carried it on to almost insane heights. He said I was lovely, and made me say it too. He told me I was a thousand things, and now all of them must be true. Even his guesses now seem stronger and on surer footing.

He’s not a magician after all.

Though it seems like he might be one, when his hand suddenly smoothes over my back. I don’t hear him cross the skating-rink lobby, or see his shadow out of the corner of my eye. He keeps everything drawn in, so that this one touch will have the strongest possible impact. And oh, it does.

I think my whole world lights up to suddenly feel him. My skin bristles all over, so sharply aware of that one innocuous touch. That one
nothing
touch. He doesn’t even cup my waist or linger for a while, and somehow I’m feverish over it. I’m flaming hot and hardly able to stand it – though I suspect the reason why.

The very casualness of the gesture is what makes it so very potent. Only intimate acquaintances would touch each other like that, with some unspoken hint of all the years between them. Somehow, I think, we have years between us, even though we’ve never actually and properly met.

This is the first time, and despite those years it feels like it. I’m shaking in the semi-shelter of his arm, afraid to meet his gaze but dying to do it anyway. Will he be as magnetic as I remember? It seems impossible, and yet I know the answer before I look. I don’t have to see those eyes. I can feel them on the side of my face: a slow caress.

And when I finally turn my head he’s even better than I expected.

I do it in increments, starting at his stubble-roughened throat, before moving onto his muscular jaw. There’s something so fist-like about his face, so brutal … until you get to the centre. Until you get to that mouth like melted butter and those eyes, oh, those eyes. Had they seemed so alive before? I would have called them hooded and sultry, I think, but I can’t quite call them that now.

They still are, but it’s different. It’s like he’s searching for something; I can see the restless pacing behind that gaze. I can feel him wandering through my insides, trying to find something I don’t know how to give. I’m sorry, I think at him, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Once he’s done with this looking, his mouth lifts a little at the corner. Just faintly, hardly anything at all.

But I recognise it for what it is.

This is the same smile I heard in his words – only now it comes with confirmation of its warmth, of its affection. I can see it in his eyes. I can feel it in the hand he raises to brush aside an errant strand of my insane hair.

And most of all, I can hear it in his words.

‘Hello, my Alissa,’ he says.

* * *

The room is just as I remember it: opulent, and filled with the kind of awed hush people usually find in museums. It makes me want to be very, very quiet, in case I accidentally breathe and disrespect the drapes. I almost fail at following him inside, for fear my shoes will dirty the quicksand carpet.

And for other reasons, too. Now that he’s not holding me and caressing me and saying the one word that turns my insides upside down – ‘my’, I think, mine, my own
– I’m not quite sure how to behave. I feel as though I’m trailing in the wake of an enormous dark ship, and if I draw too much attention to myself I’ll be crushed by its jagged edges.

He could definitely crush me, if he wanted to. He’s much taller than I remember. Perhaps six foot two or three, though his overall size makes it seem like more. He really is built like a boxer or a rugby player, which probably explains why I jump back when he suddenly turns to face me. I just wasn’t expecting him to move. I was quite content following a couple of steps behind, and in one abrupt movement he closes that gap too quickly.

It isn’t a shock that I slam into the door behind me.

But it is a shock to him. He raises one eyebrow, which I suppose is his version of that feeling. It’s measured and a little amused, and it makes the corner of his mouth lift a little.

‘You’re not afraid, are you?’ he asks, though I think he knows I am. He just wants to show me how silly that is, how bemused it makes him. He isn’t going to do anything horrid to me, so why did I almost barge my way back out into the corridor?

Because he’s big? Because he’s a prowling, dangerous predator? He certainly walks like one, all from his hips and with the minimum of excess movement. It’s almost like his upper body remains completely still and ready to lunge, while his legs do all the work. It’s impossible to describe fully and so insanely masculine.

But it doesn’t explain why I wanted to run.

No, what he says
next
explains why I wanted to run.

‘You do understand that I’m not going to suddenly perform strange perverted acts on your innocent young body, don’t you?’

‘Of course I understand that,’ I snort, but I’m still standing by the door. And he’s still raising that one eyebrow. We both know I’m not fooling anyone. ‘All right, maybe I didn’t
completely
understand that.’

He turns to the drinks cabinet by the window, that great broad back now to me. It doesn’t make any difference, however. I could no more read his face than I can his shoulder blades. They’re both a blank slate.

‘Then let me be very clear: I didn’t bring you here to do anything you don’t want.’

‘So what did you bring me here for?’

He glances over his shoulder at me, smile now as sharp as a shark’s.

‘To find out what you
do
want, of course.’

‘Don’t you already know?’

‘I told you. I’m not a mind-reader.’

He has a glass of what looks like Scotch in his hand when he turns, and for a moment I think he’s going to give it to me. Instead he simply sits down by the table in front of the window, free hand working the buttons on his jacket until the whole thing hangs loose. One big leg jutting in my direction, the other tucked back.

It’s neither a relaxed pose nor an aggressive one.

It just
is
. He’s just himself, utterly contained and totally compelling.

‘I suppose the other women are pretty clear.’

‘The
rules
of the
assignation
are pretty clear. We always know beforehand what particular game we might be playing, though we never see each other more than once. Everything relies on an unspoken understanding between participants. But you and I don’t have that understanding.’

‘So what do we do now, then?’

He rolls the liquid around inside the glass, but doesn’t drink.

He speaks instead.

‘We do it the old-fashioned way. I ask, and you tell me.’

‘Can’t you just guess?’

‘I could, but that would make it ever so easy on you.’

‘I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He sets the glass down on the table, and I know something’s coming. He’s gearing up to it, if he even needs to do anything like that – which I doubt. He seems to have two settings: bristling silence and sudden action. And I think I’m about to get some sudden action now. ‘Perhaps we could play that way for a little while.’

Oh, God, I should never have asked for guessing. I was wrong, I take it back. Guessing is for people who understand everything about themselves. I do not understand everything about myself. I don’t even understand why I jerk when he stands up, because he doesn’t do it in an aggressive way.

He doesn’t do
anything
in an aggressive way, really. His voice is soft; his movements are measured and precise. And when he starts circling me, he does it in such a slow, casual manner it’s almost like he’s not doing it at all.

I doubt I’d notice, if I wasn’t so completely tuned into him. My body hums the moment he gets close, and even after he’s stepped behind me I’m aware he’s still there. I’m almost leaning towards him, in fact, as though he’s a magnet and I’m made of metal.

And of course he notices.

‘I could, for example, intuit from the sway of your body that you like it when I draw close, and don’t when I step away. Am I correct?’

He’s so correct it’s painful. I think he’s starting to pull my fillings out.

‘Yes.’

‘And when I do this …’ he begins, but naturally he doesn’t have to finish. The back of his hand against my cheek is enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a sort of bliss I’ve never really known before. ‘I can tell how much you like it by the way you lean into it.’

He could say more and embarrass me, I think, because really I’m not just leaning. I’m almost sliding off my chair. If he were standing beside me now I’d slump into his side, and I’m not even sure I’d care. All that matters at the moment is how hard and high my heart is beating, how prickly my skin seems to be, how warm I am right at my centre.

I want to be my body and nothing else, for once.

And oh, it’s easy to be that way with him. He makes you forget without even really trying. He says one word and every frantic thought I’ve ever had just flies away.

‘Yes, you like that,’ he tells me, and I feel no need to say no. Saying no might make him stop, and, dear God, I don’t want that. His knuckles are just about to graze my jaw, and if I hold my breath I know he’ll do more. He’s right on the verge … right on the cusp … just a little bit more and then he gives it to me.

‘And this?’ he says, as his hand slides under the collar of my shirt.

He doesn’t go right for my breasts, however. Of course he doesn’t. Schoolboys with sweaty hands do things like that, and he’s the absolute opposite. He’s from another world where men are calm and cool, and capable of just letting the tips of their fingers trail over a woman’s collarbone.

I feel him press lightly, briefly, barely there, but just as I’m starting to enjoy it he backs away a bit. He lets those fingertips brush against the material instead of my skin, touching buttons in a suggestive way. He might undo them. He might not.

All I have to do is say.

So I do.

‘Yes, that,’ I tell him, fumbling and bumbling over word choice and finally settling on something that makes no sense. Yes, that, I think, and want to roll my eyes. He’s like the endless coils of a clever snake, and I’m this humiliatingly literal and oh, so basic creature.

Not that he cares. In fact, my stunted attempts at being a real person only seem to spur him on. I stutter out the only words I can and he responds with a sultry ‘and more, I’m sure?’

Before that maddening hand does just that. It gives me more – far more than I expect. Running through my head is the image of him cupping my breast, or maybe unbuttoning my shirt a little bit, before I explode. Instead he touches two fingers to his lips, like he’s blowing me a kiss.

And then he licks them. He
licks
them.

It’s probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. Dirtier than actual sex I’ve had, dirtier than movies filled with sex. He’s still in his suit, and he looks so elegant and refined, and yet he’s lewdly easing his tongue all over and around his fingers, right in front of me.

Of course it’s then that I realise I’m not going to survive any of this. He hasn’t even done anything, and I’m staring like a maniac. I’m thinking like an unprepared teenager. I can’t even fathom why he’s doing what he’s doing, even though I should absolutely know. Why else would he be making his fingers all nice and wet?

He’s going to touch me, I think, but the thought doesn’t connect with his actions. I watch his hand lower back down to my trembling body, as though everything is suddenly in slow motion. My lips are parted; my eyes are wide. I must look pretty comical, following his fingers as they slide beneath the material of my shirt.

And even more comical, when they slide beneath the material of my bra. I make a little sound and come pretty close to grabbing his wrist, but I swear it’s not because I’m a prude. It’s because I’m far too excited. My nipples are stiff unbearable points, clearly visible through my shirt. I really need more time to compose myself before he does this.

But he gives me none.

He simply eases those slippery fingers over that one tight little tip, rubbing and rubbing before I’m ready. I’m still choking over the first burst of sensation, and he’s making slow, slick circles around one of the most sensitive spots on my body.

Or at least, it’s one of the most sensitive spots
now
. Great aching tingles surge down from that point of connection, turning most of my lower body to liquid. I’m shuddering all over, and so stuffed with heat I could set fire to the carpet with very little effort – and over such a minor thing. It’s nothing really, I think. It’s nothing.

And yet at the same time it’s everything.

He catches the stiff tip between those fingers, and I cry out. I strain towards his touch, without shame. How can I be ashamed when it feels so good? I think I could actually come like this, all mired in the heat and the tension of his presence, stirring restlessly beneath his cool and perfectly assured touch.

And I so desperately want to test that theory. I’m gagging to test that theory. Go on, go on, I think at him, just a little more. Just pinch it a little harder; just lick like that for me, again. Give me everything you’ve got, go on.

But instead he waits. He waits for the perfect moment, when I’m writhing and reckless and ready for so much more. Then he leans down as though he’s going to kiss me, and whispers in my ear:

‘Now tell me what you want to happen next.’

‘That isn’t fair.’