Page 3 of Worth the Scandal
I glaze over him,yeah, he’s hot, hot. Just to confirm again.
I glance at his sneaky vodka-water bottle.
“Not from that.” I spit.
He smirks. “Not from the water bottle.”
Then he takes my hand. And this time, I let him. Our fingers intertwine and there’s something weirdly intimate about the way he’s holding my hand, like he’s guarding me, protecting me. His cut up manly calloused hands against my tiny delicate freshly manicured fingers.
He leads me inside, away from the cold Sydney night, to grab a bottle of Great Northern. We spend the rest of the night peeling back layers, spilling secrets, laughing. I stopped drinkingout on the balcony and I swear I’m nearly sober again, just intoxicated off Mr Mysterious.
No names. No numbers. No future.
Just a single night of solitude, together.
He tells me about why he didn’t play tonight; he’s injured at the moment and has just been bought by some other club. We talk football and I tell him about my favourite local spots in the city—which he hates the city life, no shock there. But there’s something about the way we talk, like two lost souls just sharing in a fleeting moment, one that doesn’t have to mean anything.
We watch as the last few people begin to leave, I can’t see Jen, in the few groups left chatting away—normal Jen behaviour, she’ll find a man and take off; swear he’s the one then he doesn’t text her the next morning and she moves to the next one—it’s all in an attempt to piss off her on again off again boyfriend Sean. At this point if they said we were back together and getting married all within a few days we wouldn’t blink an eye, encourage that really. I flick her a text to find out if she’s okay.
I’m breaking rule 4. You’re not here to stop me, so I’m taking it as a sign xx love ya.
My phone vibrates:
So, you should, they were your stupid rules anyway forget about Jason, angry/sad fuck whoever the lucky bastard is. We’ll regroup in the morning.
Tall, handsome, and hates football stares at me with those piercing blue eyes and I can almost see into his sharp jaw-lined, beautiful head. He wants me, as much as I want him. His left hand lingers on my lower back, and he brings his right hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“You ready to get out of here, darling?” His voice sexy, husky,alluring and the side of his lips almost form into a smirk.
I told him about ten times already darling is reserved for my grandpa and the old man at the pub. But he just insists on the country hospitality. Really, I know he’s doing it to tease me now.
“I’m breaking rule 4 for you, so you better hurry up and whisk me away before I change my mind hot stuff. Yours or mine?” I poke his chest as I over enunciate ‘hot stuff.’
“Let’s go yours, for all you know I’m a serial killer”
“Are you a serial killer?” Not that I could care less if he was, I’m already dead inside, if it wasn’t for the tequila burning a pit in my stomach I might not feel at all. However, “I definitely feel like that’s something a serial killer would say.”
He leans his head back and laughs
“You’ll have to trust I’m not.”
Chapter Two - Scarlett
We walk out front to catch the Uber my new ‘friend’ (a term I’m using lightly) has ordered us and head to my tiny apartment in Bondi. It’s not much but the views are stunning, and the location means I can walk just about anywhere, get a full-frontal view of Bondi Rescue when they film too—another perk.
It started with a hand on my thigh—and I swear he had one clawing its way into my heart already, too.
A dirty thought. A need for touch. It carried us all the way into the foyer of my building, limbs tangled and breathless laughter echoing through the night. The Uber driver got more than he bargained for—a tip and a front-row seat to what I can only describe as a prelude to the main event of sin that will be happening tonight on my king-sized mattress with this king-sized man.
Who even am I tonight?
This whole no-names rule? Giving me superpowers. Confidence I haven’t felt in years. I should really break the self-regulated rules more often.
I’ve never felt hunger like this for a man I don’t know. The universe really popped him in my path the moment I needed him. Jason is not even a thought in my mind at this point, he’d hate what I’m doing, he was such a hypocritical piece of shit, women shouldn’t have causal sex, but it was okay for him to fuckanything with a pulse regardless of his relationship status. My hands sculpt the muscle of the man in front of me and beneath his tight polo, fingers tracing the kind of body sculpted by dedication to his sport or maybe divine intervention. His rough, calloused hands are already creeping up my shirt, slipping beneath my bra like they’ve always belonged there. Thank God I wore that black matching set tonight—another omen. I make a mental list with another strike in the “this is a great idea” column.
His mouth is lush and greedy, tugging and sucking on mine like he’s been starved of affection and I’m the only cure. His tongue slides in a rhythm intertwined with my own, gliding over the back of my mouth, and pressing so deep that we are sharing the same oxygen. It’s desperate, longing and yet slow, sensual all in the same breath. I trail my hands down the ridges of his stomach—chiselled like a Greek statue—and let my fingers dance along the waistband of his pants.
He shudders. I like that I’ve made him feel thatway.
