Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Hey, Primrose?”
She swings back with an inquisitive quirk to her head.
“You don’t happen to know the name of Lavender’s last boyfriend?”
Her expression reflects surprise. Then suspicion. “Why?”
“It was just something Lavender said. It made me wonder who he is.” I doubt she would appreciate my sharing the story.
“I don’t know.” Her expression bland, she taps my credit card against her thigh.
I decide I’m not sure I believe her.
“I do know it was a while ago and that he was a proper shit to her.”
“In what way?”
She shrugs. “I was still in school. Lavender was at uni. We didn’t get on, and the conversations between Mum and Whit were all very hush-hush.”
Tell-a-phone, tell-a-gram, tell-a-Primrose, echoes in my head.
But how old would that make Lavender? Maybe twenty. But she must’ve dated between now and then.
“I seem to remember she went off the rails a bit not long after.” She seems to zone out as though slipping back into the past. “She was angry all of the time, and Polly was really worried about her.” She seems to snap back to the present, her expression firming. “You ought to ask her.”
I nod, recognizing we’re through.
I will get to the bottom of this. I will find out who this bastard is and what he did to make Lavender flinch years after the fact.
Though I concede that’s not likely to happen tonight.
I take another stroll through the exhibition, pausing to note the names and prices of several pieces. I make a couple of calls. Pull in a couple of favors. Smile when Lavender passes by thirty minutes later and says they’ve received some online orders.
“People must’ve gone home and changed their mind!” she announces, all gleaming and girlie.
“I don’t doubt it. Congratulations, princess.”
I squeeze her ass when I’m sure no one is looking, then whisper in her ear that I’m hungry. That I can’t wait to eat later.
The evening winds on. People leave. Others arrive. I mingle. Drink a glass of cheap wine before switching to water. I watch my wife work the room, her dress turning pink to silver in turns. Take a walk around the gallery and notice there are still fewer pieces with sold stickers than the other way around. So I decide, fuck it. I call Primrose over and tell her to total the rest up and put it all on my card. Even the metal vagina and its heinous name.
Primrose argues that Lavender will “blow a flipping gasket!”
So I repeat myself in a firmer tone. Why do the women in this family enjoy busting my balls?
Then I agree. I say I don’t doubt she will moan vociferously.
Primrose frowns.
What I don’t add is it’ll be when I get my mouth on her.
It’s what I’m thinking about outside in the tiny brick backyard as I take a drag from my cigarette. Maybe I should take her to the Chelsea house before we go home. Lift her onto the desk and slide that slippery dress from her shoulder, just like last time.
My chest expands as I remember how her thighs tightened around my head, her slim fingers knotting in my hair as she gave herself over to me.
Lavender’s reactions, her desire, feed me more than sex with other women has. She makes me feel reckless when I’m drunk on her. Tender when we’re just spending time together. She’s slotted into my life almost seamlessly, and I’ve never felt this relaxed and at home in my own home.
The more time I spend with her, the more time I crave being naked with her. We haven’t even fucked yet, and it’s weird, but I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I’m enjoying discovering what makes her tick. Sigh. Cry aloud. And when she takes my cock in her hand, and her wedding ring catches the light, a wildness stirs in me. It’s like something primal fills every atom of my being.
I give my head a shake. Weirdest shit ever, I think, is the understatement of the year.
I resist the urge to palm my cock as it throbs. Tipping back my head, I allow the breeze to ruffle my hair as I stare at the stars, freckling London’s night sky.
Lavender Whittington-Deveraux. What the fuck am I going to do about her? Twelve months, twelve years, or twelve lifetimes. How will I ever get enough of her?
My arm drops. I slide it into my pocket, my fingers fastening around my knife.
“What do you want?” I demand of the asshole creeping up on me. I’m not getting jumped, that much I’m sure of. Not with footsteps so tentative.
A throat clears, and a familiar and unwelcome voice says my name.
“Raif? I mean, Mr. Deveraux?”
“What do you want,” I grate out, grinding out the amber end of my cancer stick against the brick wall. As I turn to face him, I flick the butt into a potted plant.