Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
It was another hint as to the past he’d arrived from.
“Thanks,” I said, and slipped his shirt over my head. I loved the way it smelt of his fabric softener.
He was straight through to the kitchen.
“Tea, coffee, water, orange juice, cordial?” He smirked at me. “Whisky?”
I laughed. “Orange juice, please. Then who knows? Maybe a whisky to follow.”
“Adventurous, are you?”
“Sometimes.”
I was bouncing on the bubble of fantasy, my body still possessed by the dirty attention I’d received at the hands of a man like Julian. A man I’d never have expected to have met, let alone have sex with.
I prayed that would happen soon.
I wanted more than anything to have sex with Julian. I wanted his cock to be the one inside me for the very first time.
He handed over my orange juice and got one for himself. We stood in silence, both of us sipping, not quite sure what to say. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It never was.
I opted for humour, nodding my head towards his suit.
“Do you ever take that off?”
He laughed, looking down at his glass. “Occasionally. Luckily, I have more than one.”
“I know,” I said. “I saw them.”
“I don’t do much variety these days.”
I looked him dead on. “How come?”
It was a precursor to a much deeper set of questions, and he knew it.
“My past is quite a murky area. I don’t think you want to go there. I certainly don’t.”
He was wrong, though. I did want to go there. I wanted to know Julian as well as he knew every part of my body.
My confidence was definitely growing, possibly an orgasm high.
“How come you ended up here?” I asked him. “Seriously.”
“As I said, I have a very murky past.”
I took his wrist as he made to walk past me.
“You just licked my ass, Julian. You can tell me a few of your secrets, don’t you think?”
His eyes were still so dark as they sparkled.
“Is this a bartering service? You’ve licked my ass, so tell me why you fucked your family over and destroyed their lives?”
Ouch. His words knocked me back. I let go of his wrist.
“There you go,” he said. “Not all that pleasant, is it?”
I followed him into the living room, sitting next to him on the sofa. He placed his orange juice on the coffee table, but took a whisky bottle from down the side. He swigged a shot back before offering it to me. I shook my head.
“I’m still married, Rosie. On paper, anyway. I have, had, a family, back in Oxford.”
The thought was surprisingly weird, like it punched me. I felt bizarrely jealous.
“You’re married?”
“Indeed, yes. My wedding ring is in the bedside drawer. I’m surprised you haven’t found it yet, considering you managed to locate the stash of filth in my wardrobe.”
The heat bloomed on my face.
“No. I haven’t looked in your bedside drawer.”
“Ah, ok,” he told me. “Well, as I said. You’d find my wedding ring in there if you did.”
Sometimes it’s the weirdest questions that come into your head.
“What’s her name?”
“Sorry?”
“Your wife. What’s her name?”
He half shrugged. “Katreya.”
“How old is she?”
He didn’t hesitate in answering this time.
“Forty-seven. There are just shy of two years between us. We got married when she was twenty-one.”
I got another pang. There were twenty-nine years between us. Me and his wife.
“Want some more of my history?” Julian asked, with a scoff. Not malicious. “My daughter, Grace, is twenty-five years old, and my son, Ryan, is twenty-two. Ryan still lives at home with Katreya. Or he did the last time I saw him.”
That pang hit even harder. Two kids, both older than me. It put things into perspective.
“I have a granddaughter, too,” he continued, to slam it home further. “Emily is two. She’s a little sweetheart.”
He watched me watching him before he continued.
“How are you feeling now? Do you want me to keep going?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed in sad humour.
“This is quite a downturn in conversation, isn’t it? We should be flying high.”
I had to laugh at that. “Maybe I should have some of that whisky.”
He flashed me a grin as he handed the bottle over. I’d only been half serious, but I took a tiny gulp anyway. It was horrible. I pulled a face.
“Not much of a drinker?” he asked and I shook my head, handing him the bottle back.
“No. My mum was when I was younger. Kind of put me off.”
“I can imagine. I hid my addiction for many years. I used to bury my whisky in my desk drawer, behind a load of curriculum paperwork. Nasty.”
Addiction.
“Yes, I’m an alcoholic,” Julian said, reading my eyes. “Sometimes I fool myself that I’m over it, other times I’m not so deluded. I’ve heard many opinions as to the cause, whether it’s some kind of repressed trauma, or a genetic predisposition. An illness. An effect the substance has on the body. Escapism.” He paused. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m an alcoholic.”