Читать книгу Good Girl - Christy McKellen - Страница 10

WE FLY OUT to Florence in Sandro’s family’s private plane the following afternoon, though we only just make our scheduled take-off slot, because he was half an hour late picking me up from my flat in his low-slung Italian sports car and has to put his foot down to get us to the airport.

He seems totally unconcerned about his tardiness, though, and throws me the merest of apologies when I raise my eyebrows and pointedly look at my watch.

He’s such a cool customer. I wish I could be so nonchalant.

Upon boarding the plane we’re shown to our seats—two large, cream leather armchairs positioned next to each other in a cabin that only holds six more. It’s a small plane but beautifully upholstered with silk wall linings and soft wool carpets. We take off only minutes later and I settle in for the two-hour journey sitting next to Sandro, my pulse on a high tickover as I breathe in his delicious scent and think about how much closer I’m going to have to get to him over the next week—though not, it seems, as close as I’d initially hoped.

At first I’d been a bit miffed that he was still refusing to take my virginity but, the more I thought about it, the more I’d come round to his point of view. He was probably right. It was a hell of a thing to ask of him and I’ll most likely be glad to have more of an emotional connection with the person I finally lose it to. Someone I’ll be in love with, perhaps.

In the meantime, I hope just by hanging out with him some of his charisma will rub off on me. And, if not, I have a week to study the way he acts and interacts with people, which I can then apply to my dealings with Adam when I get back. Perhaps he will hear about my ‘relationship’ with Sandro, realise I’m not the ingénue he thought I was and regret calling a halt to our burgeoning relationship after only a couple of dates.

I can only hope.

Once the plane is on a steady course we’re served drinks by one of the elegantly dressed cabin crew. I watch Sandro out of the corner of my eye while I pretend to read the guidebook to Florence that I’d picked up the day before in the bookshop round the corner from my flat in Notting Hill. He rolls his cut-glass tumbler round and round in his hands. He has a restless sort of energy about him, as if he finds it hard to sit still and is always on the verge of getting up to do something else. He was the same in the bar where we had the drink and I agreed to this proposal. He flipped the drinks menu round and round in his fingers as we talked, as if he needed something to do with them. It made me wonder whether he’d been a smoker and now needed something in his hands with which to distract himself. As he twists the glass I marvel at the perfection of his long fingers with their square, blunt nails and wonder how he’ll touch me with them, how it’ll feel to have his hands on my body. All over my body. I squirm in my seat as a wave of heat rushes through me, pooling at the juncture of my thighs.

Right at this moment I can totally sympathise with his need to move about.

Just sitting still next to him in our plush leather seats, I can feel the attraction pulling taut between us. At least from my side. He’s brought out a plethora of physical reactions in me. My heartbeat is accelerated, my skin hypersensitive and rushing with sensation and there’s an insistent throb between my thighs that’s steadily building the longer I sit here—as if my body craves something with which I’m not providing it.

It’s a hot, heavy want.

‘You know, I’ve never understood why people rave so much about sex. Practically speaking, it seems like it’d be a messy and uncomfortable thing to do,’ I mutter out loud to try and distract myself from these alien feelings.

He turns to look at me with a quizzical expression in those piercing eyes of his.

‘And how can people let it wreck their lives?’ I add nervously, realising I now have his full attention. ‘It’s just a physical act, right? Perfectly natural, and obviously imperative for continuing the human race, but surely it’s not something to destroy a marriage over? What drives people to do that—to cheat on their partners? Just for the thrill of sex with someone else? I don’t understand how it can be so overwhelming an urge that people are willing to do pretty much anything to get it.’

He shrugs. ‘Passion is an irrational thing.’

‘Passion? But that suggests emotions, feelings.’

‘Not necessarily. It can be a basic human urge. That’s a totally different thing.’

‘So you think it’s possible to have sex with someone without having feelings for them?’

He sits round in his chair, his knee brushing mine and sending an electric thrill of sensation through my whole body. ‘I think it’s perfectly possible. Otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to my part of the bargain. What I think you’re talking about is something different. More than just the physical need for sex. When people cheat there are always other feelings at play. Insecurity about what they have or low self-worth. Or perhaps a fear they’re missing out on something they’ll regret not experiencing in years to come. I think, for others, the rush of sex with someone new after years of fucking their partner the same, predictable way can be like taking an addictive drug. That’s just pure laziness, of course. There’s no reason for sex to get boring. You have to work hard at being creative.’

‘Are you creative?’ I ask, though I think I already know the answer to that.

‘You bet your sweet ass I am,’ he confirms with an underwear-melting smile.

‘I knew you’d say that,’ I mumble, my throat tight with nerves.

‘Are you suggesting I’m predictable?’ he teases.

I can’t help but grin, which breaks the tension.

He grins back and for a moment I’m lost in the dizzying intimacy of the moment.

I clear my throat. ‘Have you ever felt that sort of passion for someone?’

For a second he glances away, up towards the ceiling. ‘No.’ Sitting back in his chair, he moves his leg away from mine and fixes me with a serious expression.

‘You know, now might be a good time to talk about your expectations for the next week. I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.’

Instinctively I tense at the sudden change in conversational direction.

‘Okay.’ I swallow hard. ‘Well, I want you to do everything to me. Show me everything,’ I say with feigned confidence. I don’t want him thinking for a second that I can’t handle this. I need to get it done so I can move on with my life and stop living under the shadow of my naivety.

‘Everything?’ He raises both eyebrows.

‘Yes, I want to know all there is to know. Get it all ticked off.’

‘Do you have a list you’d like to work from?’ The smile he flashes me is teasing.

I roll my eyes at him. ‘Very funny.’

‘But, seriously, any hard limits I should know about?’ he asks, his expression turning serious again.

I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to strangle or suffocate me, and I don’t like the idea of being spanked.’

‘Shame.’ His grin lights up his eyes. ‘Pain can actually be very pleasurable. It can give you really intense orgasms when you do it right.’

‘Okay, well, I’ll have to reserve judgement on that. But definitely no whipping.’

‘Okay, fine. No whipping.’

I can tell from the look on his face that he’s finding my sexual naivety amusing and it’s irritating me.

‘It’s all right for you to sit there smirking, but I have no idea about these things,’ I mutter. ‘I’m learning from scratch so you’re going to have to give me a break.’ I’m shaking with both adrenaline and frustration. It’s really unlike me to stand up for myself like this, but I know I need to do it if I’m going to maintain any vestige of control over this situation.

He puts up a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being an asshole. I promise not to tease you any more. Not about your lack of experience anyway.’ His eyes glitter with mischief. ‘There are plenty of other ways to tease you that I think you’re going to like a lot.’

I squirm in my seat as more heat surges between my legs and my knickers grow damp. At this rate I’m going to slide right off this chair in a pool of lust. And he’s not even touched me yet.

* * *

We make it to the apartment in the early evening, doing the journey from Peretola airport to the centre of Florence in another powerful open-top sports car, whose roaring engine makes it impossible to conduct any conversation.

Our home for the next week is on the top floor of a grand apartment block right next to the Ponte Vecchio. Our windows look out over the quirky bridge with its jumble of jewellery shops clinging like limpets to each side with the help of precarious-looking wooden struts, and on across the wide Arno river to the deep russet-red-roofed buildings beyond. It’s a magnificent city and I stand for a moment, drinking in the sheer unique elegance of the place.

‘Let me show you your room,’ Sandro says, beckoning me to follow him with one crooked finger.

I’m relieved to find he doesn’t expect us to share and give a delighted smile as I look around the beautiful airy room with its Art Deco furniture and enormous, cushion-strewn bed.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I say breathily. This room also has a view of the river and I push the wooden shutters open as far as they’ll go to drink it in some more.

Turning back, I see he’s moved to stand right next to the large bed and is watching me with an intensely thoughtful expression on his face. My pulse immediately picks up and my breath catches in my throat.

Is he going to start my first lesson right now?

The idea both thrills and terrifies me.

I move closer to him on shaky legs, telling myself not to be nervous, that he’ll take good care of me like he promised. Based on all my dealings with him so far, it’s obvious he’s absolutely the gentleman I’d hoped he’d be.

Even so, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty.

He continues to look at me as I get closer, his fingers beating a silent rhythm against his thighs.

‘S-so, do you want to get started right away?’ I ask, nerves making my voice tremble.

A frown crosses his brow, then vanishes behind a smile. ‘So eager.’

‘Well, I’ve not come all the way to Italy just to sightsee,’ I joke, but it comes out sounding a bit defensive.

He shakes his head and walks over to meet me in the middle of the room. Reaching out his hand, he pushes my fringe out of my eyes and I just stand there blinking stupidly at him.

The air crackles between us, as if the tension is charging it with electricity.

‘You know, anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs, sweeping his thumb over my cheek so softly I wonder whether he’s actually touched me or if the mere promise of it has set all my nerve endings on fire. My whole body is one big throb of need and I stare up into his beautiful eyes, losing myself in the perfection of them.