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“Everything okay?” He looked at me through the rear-view mirror and indicated to pull in. He had a thick grey moustache and reminded me of a Mario Brother. “Sorry. I think I left my phone.” I tapped my non-existent pockets; the universal signal of having misplaced something. “I think I left it on his desk. I’m so sorry.”“S’alright, love,” the driver said, indicating off again, “we can go back.”“Are you sure? Thank you. Sorry to be a pain in the arse.”“It’s no problem.”I sank back into the heated seat, mortified by my chauffeur drive of shame, longing to be on the couch with Claire and Bec, buried under a duvet and elbow-deep in a tub of Celebrations.Here I was, a week before Christmas, sailing through London in a blacked-out Range Rover, after a night of debauchery, wearing Liam Hale’s hoodie over my Herve Leger bandage dress and looking like I had been dragged through a hedge. I wondered if the driver was used to taking Liam’s one-night-stands home on Sunday mornings; he certainly. Each thrust lifted her to the tips of her toes. Her fingers spread almost frantically on the table top. She was loud. Then he held her tight. The only movement was the pulsing of his orgasm inside her. The odor of semen spilled from her thighs and she came a second time.Later, when he was pulling up his pants; when she once more pushed down and straightened her skirt, he stooped to kiss her. She diverted his kiss with a finger. She kissed his cheek instead.He refused to be put off and kissed her hungrily again. This time she responded in kind.Somehow they’d managed to cross the room while kissing and now stood at the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Erskine pressed her against the door frame, his mouth at her throat. His hands slid under my tee, up her sides, and she automatically raised my arms as he stripped the fabric off and let it fall to the floor. He wasted no time in kissing his way across the top of one breast and swiped his tongue across the stiffened nipple.He.
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