Page 129 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
I nod, blink away some of the water hanging off my eyelashes.
“Do you still cut?”
“No. I stopped when you left.”
It’s the truth. Some of it, anyway. It’s all he needs to hear.
“Don’t take this the wrong way but I thought it would’ve gotten worse when I left.” He glances to the side then back to me. “I was worried about you. Never stopped thinking about you. Not once.”
“That was the problem. We were too worried about each other to be worried about ourselves.”
He nods. His jaw ticks and I know what’s coming.
His lips smash against mine with so much force that I lose my breath. It isn’t slow like our other kisses. It’s rather passionate and rough like the way we used to kiss as teenagers. His hands cup my cheeks, mine tighten around the back of his neck, my nails pressing into his skin.
I pull back, catch my breath. “We can’t have sex here, Arthur.”
He smiles. “Because you’re worried he’ll pull back the curtain,” he nods to my window that overlooks the pool, “And he’ll see us? So what? Let him watch, Phoebs. You want to break up with him anyway.”
My stomach dips as we both stare at my bedroom window where we can see Digby’s shadow walking about.
I shake my head, almost trying to snap out of it. “What’s gotten into you?” I turn to look at him. “It isn’t only that. Having sex in a swimming pool is unbelievably unhygienic and I’m not one for voyeurism.”
“Shame,” he cocks his head. “We would’ve put on a great show.”
I shake my head again, pull away from him before we actually do have sex right here and jump out of the pool. I don’t bother with a towel as my hair drips a wet trail along the tiles.
I’m too confused. Too disgustingly turned on. Too worried for my moral high ground. It’s not a secret that I have an obvious soft spot for Arthur—actually, no, it isn’t a soft spot at all, it’s more like a bruise that I can help but press.
I go into my room without knocking because why would I? It’s my bedroom, in my house. But the look Digby gives me, makes me think I should’ve knocked to warn him of the blow my presence gives him.
“You’re in your underwear,” he accuses, gives me a filthy look.
I look down at myself.
“Why?” He demands, tone harsh, strong.
He isn’t even angry, he’s furious.
“It’s no different to a bikini,” I tell him.
Shakes his head, gives a dry laugh. “You,” he storms over to me, finger in my face. “You’re a fucking joke.”
He continues to stomp over to me so I back up against the door and wonder if he’ll do something dramatic like hit me and then I wonder what I would do if he did do that?
“What are you talking about?” I ask him, my voice so small and so quiet.
His jaw twitches, his nostrils flare. “You kissed him.”
I swallow hard, my mouth unbelievably dry. “What?”
“You kissed him,” he says again, louder this time.
My stomach drops the way it usually would do if you’ve just been caught out but why does it sound like such a crime when he says it out loud? Maybe it is? Maybe not? Maybe this is just what was destined to happen between Arthur and I?
We’re both staring at each other, breathing hard. I ask myself a million questions. Am I scared? Should I just hit him to get it over and done with? Should I run? To Arthur?
He smacks his hand on the door inches away from my face and I flinch, my eyes instinctively squeezing shut.
