Page 10 of Duke It Out
“You okay?”
I nod again. He pulls out, then gently thrusts deeper, repeating it over and over until I’m accepting his full length. He fucks like he talks – measured, considered. Until he comes undone. His eyes are dark now, our bodies slicked with sweat as he slams into me over and over. The bedframe crashes against the wall.
His mouth is on my neck, and he hooks a hand under my leg, shifting me so each thrust of his cock rubs against my clit until I’m breathless. I can’t keep my eyes open, seeing stars as my toes start to curl, and he growls again, the sound of his pleasure tipping me over the edge.
“Fuck, Edie,” he says, pumping into me as he holds himself deep, his cock jerking as he comes.
His eyes meet mine as he kisses me. It’s tender, and the intimacy of it surprises me.
“Well, that was reckless,” he says. “Now I’m ruined for life.”
And the worst part is, for a moment, I believe him.
4
EDIE
THREE MONTHS LATER
“What on earthare you doing now?”
Anna peers over my shoulder as I slam my laptop shut, trying to look nonchalant. Eleanor Roosevelt saidnobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.
Eleanor Roosevelt never met my landlord and flatmate, Anna. We’ve been friends since we met as interns on a newspaper, bonding over bad coffee and being invisible — two graduates typing up stories with no hope of a byline. Only fifteen years later, she’s an up-and-coming investigative journalist, and I write puff pieces about cat litter.
“Just finishing up some work,” I lie. I’m not going to confess I was googlingRory + New York + bartenderon the off chance it might pop up with an image of him. At this point, I’m pretty sure I imagined the whole thing. I woke up at 4 a.m. to find myself alone in the hotel room – which is the whole point of a one-night stand. But it would be nice to have some sort of proof that just once I – Edie Jones, spinster of this parish, failed writer and complete disaster of a human – had a hot night with an extremely handsome man. He couldhave done me the decency of leaving me a calling card like an autographed photograph; even a sneaky selfie on my phone would have done the trick. But no.
It’s late afternoon on a warm autumn Thursday and the window is cracked open so the sounds of North London blow in through the gap. A siren blares and somewhere in the distance someone is playing reggae music. The clanking of metal barrels outside means the pub downstairs is getting a beer delivery, and later on they’ll have a live band playing while I sit here like a lemon finishing my last ever piece of work for Super Pets.
Anna settles on the sofa with a glass of wine. “Edie,” she says, taking the remote from the cushion beside me. “I can’t believe you’re watchingPride and Prejudiceagain.”
“It’s research,” I protest, as she grabs the remote and switches the channel over, scrolling through Netflix.
Research for a book that is quietly dying on submission. The lack of response is… not exactly heartening. So here I am, still trying to make rent – a textbook millennial, juggling side gigs and self-doubt and the constant pressure to have my life together, with “how to adult” at the top of my search history.
Anna’s brows arch as she looks at me over her glasses. “What’s happening with the book?”
I grimace. “Charlotte said she wanted to havea chat. She’s calling at five.”
“Perfect timing. Maybe she’s got you a six-figure deal.” Her tone makes it clear how unlikely she thinks that is. Anna thinks my dream of making it as an author is nothing more than a pipe dream. She’s all about facts.
I make a non-committal noise. “She did say she had good news and bad news.”
“Well, there you are then.” Anna tips nail polish remover onto a cotton wool pad and starts removing the varnish from her toes. “That would solve the imminent problem, hopefully.”
What she means by the imminent problem is the announcement from Super Pets that after this week, my job as copy writer, which was my one constant writing gig, was being made obsolete.
At the same time as I was trying and failing to get a foothold as a freelance writer, Anna had battled her way to the top, thanks to a combination of her seemingly unshakeable self-belief and a killer eye for a story. Or so I’ve always believed. Lately, though, there’s something brittle under the surface, like a swan paddling hard beneath the waterline.
While she was figuring out how to go for the jugular, I was slowly realizing I didn’t have what it took to survive in the world of journalism. She was building a reputation and climbing onto the property ladder with the help of a hefty inheritance; I was churning out copy and still living with my dickhead ex-boyfriend, Dave. Anna’s like thethis is what you could have won!to my consolation prize. And now here we are: long story short, as Taylor would say, I’ve got no way of paying the rent next month. Oh, and I still owe her three hundred quid.
There’s no chance of a hefty inheritance coming my way, either. I’m on my own in the world. My mum died when I was nine, and my grandma Rose who brought me up passed away the year after I graduated university. The only thing she bequeathed me was her overdue electricity bill. It would be fair to say that financial acumen – and taste in men – wasn’t exactly a Jones woman strong suit.
“What’s happening tonight?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
Anna’s asking because she wants to tell me what she’s doing, which is precisely what she proceeds to do.
