Page 35 of Lovers' Dance

I smiled sweetly at him and blew a kiss. Oh my God. Matt and I had sex. Lots of sex. We had talked until four in the morning, holding hands, making out; and hadsex.I snuck little glances at him as he went to bring the tray. He was sexy in those silk bottoms, bare-chested and looking like a Viking god. I smirked as he sent me a mock frown and placed the tray carefully on the bed. He removed the lid and took the delicate tea pot and two matching cups over to the bedside table. I crawled over to the feast. Mmm.

“What’s that?” The crispy bacon between my fingers gestured to the little pill on the tray.

“Morning after pill,” Matt explained, as he sat down and picked up a fork and knife to dive into his sausage. He was onto his second bite when he noticed my open-mouthed stare of horror. Was I the stupidest woman on the planet? How could I have been so careless? Letting him come inside me over and over again.

“Don’t worry, poppet. Take the pill and you’ll be fine. I’m perfectly healthy, by the way. Absolutely no sexual diseases.”

OhChrist. I was the stupidest woman in the whole solar system. With shaking hands, I dropped the bacon and snatched up the pill, popping it into my mouth and forcefully swallowing without liquids.

“Calm down.” Matt’s cutlery clattered on his plate as he hurried to pour me tea. “You’ll choke. Here drink this.”

I gulped the tea, grimaced over its lack of milk and sugar, then regarded Matt with confusion. “Did you go to the pharmacy? Do they give these tablets to men? That’s most disturbing.”

“Heavens, no,” he said, amused at the suggestion.

“Where did you get it from?” I asked, even more alarmed. Did he have a stockpile of morning after pills hidden in one of his bathrooms? He was a womanizer. The Internet had implied so. An image of Matt politely handing out these pills to his partners after a night of debauchery popped into my mind. I was one of them?

Matt was looking at me strangely, trying to decipher what was going on in my head.

“Why are you shrieking, poppet? I had my secretary bring it over earlier on. Stop worrying and eat your breakfast.”

I ate my breakfast but didn’t stop worrying. I had sex with a gazillionaire. A white man who said he wasn’t a racist, but weren’t all white people raised with those tendencies? Believing themselves superior to all others. Knowing that they didn’t have to struggle to be seen and heard, to be valued for who they were and not the colour of their skin. Did Matt acknowledge his white privilege? Was he aware of it?

His chewing had slowed down and he was scrutinizing me with an intensity that made it uncomfortable to have my thoughts without fearing my face was giving me away.

“Do you not like the eggs, poppet? You’ve been poking at them for the past five minutes.”

“They’re fine,” I mumbled. What was this? What was I doing here? I had been so caught up in the volatility of our interaction, the important issue of ‘where was this heading’ had been pushed aside. Where could this end? Absolutely nowhere.What the fuck was I doing?

“What are you thinking about?” Matt drawled, reaching over to take the fork out of my hand. He took the tray, placing it on the floor, then turned around to face me.

“Nothing much.” I clutched the sheet to my breasts a bit tighter. Our clothes were lying in a wet pile in the shower. My boots were probably filled with water.

“I find that highly unlikely, poppet. Your beautiful face is full of tension. Come here and tell me what’s bothering you.” He held his arms out. Being in his arms wasn’t a good idea right now. It was obvious my ability to think clearly went out the window where Matthew Bradley was concerned. And he was arrogant, issuing commands instead of requests. I doubted he was aware he was doing it.

Matt folded his arms and waited expectantly, well-defined eyebrows arched slightly. His silky hair was in disarray this morning. It was a good look for him. Oh, no. I had caught the fever. I had swirled and this was all going to end in tears.

“Matt, I—”

“I want you to stay over this weekend.” he said firmly, smiling to take the authoritarian edge off his words.

“I can’t, Matt. In fact, there’ll probably be a bunch of messages on my cell—”

“Spend the weekend with me, poppet.” His voice had dropped to a husky whisper and he was sliding closer to me. Close enough to slip a hand under my curls and grip my nape, which he immediately began to rub. Close enough to brush his lips across my cheek, moving to my ear and murmuring, “We’ll stay in bed and make love every hour on the hour. I’ll cook you dinner and let you eat it right here.” His moist tongue traced my inner ear and a shiver of desire darted from my head to my toes. “We’ll talk like we did last night and maybe watch telly. Stay with me.”

I turned my head, offering my lips, which he claimed with sensual eagerness. Then he made me forget about everything else. Everything but the way he touched me as if I was made of the finest crystal that should only be handled with the utmost care. I stayed

until later that night, when he drove me home dressed in one of his shirts with an additional bag full of wet clothes and boots. I was right. He didn’t know how to work a washing machine. We exchanged numbers and, in his words, ‘snogged like randy teenagers’ in his car before I waved goodbye and locked my front door.

Matthew Bradley was an enigma. I hoped he called me, ’cos I sure as hell wasn’t going to ring him first…

SIX

I WAS LATE. It took two trips from the car to get the shopping inside. In a mad flurry, I started cooking like a black version of Delia Smith on speed. I raced around the house, tidying up as best as possible given the time constraints, then ran upstairs to have a quick shower and put on the slinky blue, backless dress I’d bought last week. Things were hectic at the dance studio. We were working on a new production:The Ice Queen and Princess. Dante’s and my dance interpretation ofSnow White. It was supposed to be ready in time for Christmas. We were now mid-August and still working out the kinks.

By the time eight thirty came around, I was ready. All that was left was to frost the cake I had baked, which was currently being chilled in the fridge. The table had been set, casserole ready to be eaten, and the wine glasses waiting to be filled. I glanced at the clock on the microwave as I whipped up my frosting. Shit. The candles. Where had I put them? They were by the coffee machine. A blue ‘three’ and ‘seven’. Matt would give me a stern look, left eyebrow raised in mock arrogance, and ask if I was poking fun at his age. I could picture it already.

We had been seeing each other for the past two and a half months. And by ‘seeing each other’, I meant a torrid affair that no one knew about. It had been my idea, the need for secrecy. He was Matthew Bradley, a rich businessman frequently in the public eye. I didn’t want the hassle that went with that. Matt had agreed without complaint when I suggested keeping our ‘thing’ private. He had agreed so easily, I wondered if it had been my idea or something he’d planted in my subconscious. He wasn’t ashamed of being with a black woman. He told me so many a times when we snuggled in my bed. He wasn’t embarrassed.Was he?I finished whipping the frosting, shoving aside that unsettling thought and began frosting his cake.

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