“Diana,” I whisper, hoarse and desperate. “Diana. Come for me; let me see you come. Give it to me.Please.”
In my imagination, she mewls and thrashes as her cunt pulses around my fingers. My movements become frantic; my back arches, and I erupt, shuddering and swearing as thick streaks of cum cover my fist.
It doesn’t take a moment for the guilt and shame to rush in as I stand under the hot water, my dick softening and the proceeds of my uncontrolled libido all over my hand.
I let everything wash away, then drop my head into my hands, dragging them down my face. I am tormented, wanting a woman I can’t have so much that I’d fuck my fist in the shower like a teenager.
A burst of self-ridiculing laughter escapes me as I wash my hair and scrub my skin, scouring with undue force as if it might erase what I’ve just done. I wish purging my guilt was as easy as letting water run down the drain.
When I’m satisfied I’ve done what I can to purify my body and my thoughts, I turn off the water and dry off with a towel, vowing to myself that I’ll never do it again. I’ll never let Diana be the subject of my fantasies when I am fucking my fist like a madman.
Henry’s right. I do need a distraction, but it’s not Melanie Castow and her irritating laugh, or the way she clung to my arm like she wanted to come home with me.
There is only one option here; only one woman who has a hope in hell of distracting me from this torment.
I pace to the bedroom and pick up my phone, opening the messages and finding the one from the contact saved underBeautiful Stranger.
I type a one-word response and send it.
Yes.
28
DIANA
Yes.
The one-word message is emblazoned in my mind, branded on my heart.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I opened it hours ago, but now, sitting here with Lizzie at a restaurant on Kensington High Street, I keep glancing at my bag as if I expect my phone, hidden deep inside it, to burst into flames of hellfire. I’m racked with guilt. A strange kind of double-layered guilt; I’m lying to her, and to her dad, and he and I are both, sort of, lying to her.
I fucked your dad when I didn’t know who he was.
I kissed him when I did.
Maybe my father was right. I really am a bad person.
I pushed Rafe to thatyesby taking his finger in my mouth. Stupid,stupid. I crossed the line and threw him into the arms of another woman. The silver lining is that the other woman also happens to be me.
There is no way I am going to get out of this in one piece, but I am, it seems, hell bent on self-destruction.
“Will you let my dad help you move out?" Lizzie’s voice slips through my web of guilty thoughts. “If he doesn’t have time to help you himself, he definitely has staff who can help you pack up all your stuff.” She pauses to spin spaghetti around her fork. “Are you sure you want to go to Brixton? It’s so far away.”
I laugh. “Far from what? You’re going to South America, which is pretty far away from KnightsbridgeandBrixton.”
She points her spaghetti-loaded fork at me and smiles. “You know what I mean. It’s… you know… far from where you’d want to be.”
Far from your dad.I clear my throat, wishing these intrusive little thoughts would fuck off.
“Whereyou’dwant to be, you mean,” I reply. “It’s actually not that far. I can take the Victoria line to Central London in no time. But I’m working from home anyway. It’s not like I need to commute to an office.”
Lizzie chews her spaghetti, swallows, and chases it with a sip of water. “True.” She emits a soft sigh. “How weird, to be finally running your own business and bringing in your own money. Dad paid me well when I was working in his office, but it’s not nearly the same as doing it on your own. I can’t imagine it. How does it feel?”
I think about the money I’ve been making, the books I’ve read and the content I’ve made. The online course is ready for launch, and I’ve been busy promoting. There have even been offers of promotional tours and book events too. I used to get them all the time, and while I’d go to the events, I never did the big money promotional gigs. Don’t get me wrong, the money would have been great, but I was busy at university. At least, that’s the excuse I gave myself. Looking back, saying no was about more than that. I think I felt guilty about earning money when Dad was giving me so much already, as if my work didn’t count or I didn’t deserve to be paid for it.
Dad literally and metaphorically trapped me with that allowance. And after his reaction the other night, I know he’d still like to keep me trapped. Even after throwing me out on the street, he can’t truly let me go.