Breathe You In (26 page)

The bar menu was fancy and because I was
now officially on expenses, I ordered a crayfish and guacamole salad and a
large glass of Pinot.

“England captain, Lewis Tate, looked
confident and determined the night before his team flew to the Ukraine. The
recent draw against Spain appeared to have only made his faith in Gavin
Fellows’ final selection all the stronger. When Kick magazine asked about
formation plans, he reported that his decision to stick with four-four-two
remained unchanged at the present time...”

Two hours later my three-page report was
in my sent box. I’d enjoyed a fabulous supper and a delicious glass of wine
followed by the frothiest cappuccino of my life.

I settled the bill and shut down my Mac.
The flight to Donetsk was early, and with the additional delay of London
morning traffic, it would be an indecent hour that I had to haul myself out of
bed and get to Heathrow. I decided to collect my suitcase from the concierge,
who I’d stowed it with earlier when I was running late, and head to my room.
There I would take a hot, deep bubble bath and listen to Adele, my absolute
favorite singer at the moment. Then lounge in bed and catch Sky Sports. See
what was being reported about the team’s departure.

As I wandered across the lobby I spotted
several of the players, including
Bryers
, slipping
into the POP bar. They appeared relaxed and at ease dressed in smart trousers
and casual shirts. I could just make out their light-hearted banter.
Bryers
digging mid-fielder Carlton Clare, about his new,
shaved haircut.

I would bet my last pound that Gavin
Fellows had no idea they’d sneaked off for a drink and a bit of fun.

Good for them.

I dragged my attention away and smiled at
the concierge. “You have my case. I left it earlier. Nicky Thomas.”

“Ah, yes, certainly, madam.”

He disappeared through a walnut-colored
door to his right then returned with my cerise
holdall
,
pulling it on its small wheels.

“Here you are, madam.”

“Thank you very much.” I took the handle
and made my way to reception, checked in and was told to head to the sixth
floor.

As I walked to the elevator the noise in
the POP bar cranked up to disco level. It seemed a party was beginning to
evolve. Perhaps I should drop off my case and head back down, see what was
occurring.
Reg’s
words rang in my ears:
“Get the
inside scoop, the stuff no one else knows.”

I clicked my tongue on the roof of my
mouth, annoyed with myself for even thinking it. That was not the journalist I
was; if it wasn’t to do with the game then I wouldn’t be sticking my nose in.
Sod
Reg
and his need for dirty gossip.

The large, golden doors of the elevator
slid open and I stepped in, rattling over the rail between marble floor and
green carpet. I hit level six and breathed in the waxy scent of polish.

“Wait.” Someone’s hand appeared around the
shutting doors and stopped them closing. “Hang on.”

‘’Oh, sorry.” I quickly jabbed the
door-hold button and the doors re-opened.

Lewis Tate stepped into the elevator
holding a newspaper. He glanced at me. “Thanks.”

“That’s okay,
er
,
which level do you want.” My heart was thudding. Gone were sleepy bedtime
thoughts. Now all I could think of was that I was alone, in a very small space,
with Lewis Tate,
the
Lewis Tate. Oh, if only time could stand still,
freeze, then I could lick him all over, starting at his mouth and work my way
down. See if he tasted as divine as he smelled—fresh citrus mixed with a
deep base note of something like bergamot, or maybe sandalwood.

“Level eight, please,” he said, turning to
face me. “Nicky.”

Oh, sweet Jesus, he remembered my name. I
smiled and managed to suppress a delighted, girly giggle. “Eight, okay.” I
pressed the button, relieved I’d removed my chipped nail varnish that morning
and replaced it with clear.

Fleetingly I wondered if I should ask him
another question about formation, or maybe something more personal like if he
was looking forward to the first game. But my brain barely registered these
thoughts, because as the elevator started moving, a low buzzing noise hummed
around the small space.

Fuck!

The sensation of my guts pooling in my
abdomen had nothing to do with the elevator taking off. Unfortunately the
mechanics lifting us upward were smooth and silent and all that could be heard
was an eager whirring coming from my
holdall
.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

The bump into the elevator must have
jostled Big Ben. I wanted to be sick, let mortification eat me alive, fall
through the floor, hell to the consequences. Where was a damn black-hole when
you needed one?

I glanced at Lewis. He was looking
straight at me, his brows raised and his lips slightly parted, as though about
to speak. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he glanced down at my
holdall
and stared at it, as if he could see right into it.

Swallowing tightly, I gave the
holdall
a jolt against the floor, hoping to turn the damn
rampant rabbit off. No such luck. If anything the drone increased in enthusiasm
as though it had flicked itself up a speed. Big Ben was always enthusiastic, I
would give him that. Though at this moment in time I wished he was the silent,
droopy sort.

I buckled my legs—they felt like
noodles—and tried to fight the blistering flush that was searing its way
up my chest, neck and onto my cheeks. I could just ignore the sound. Hold my
head high and hope that he hadn’t really heard it— either that or pray
this was a bad dream.

Please let me wake up!

But it wasn’t a dream. This was real.
Lewis Tate was standing right next to me listening to my vibrator having a solo
moment.

I had to face the music with as much
dignity as possible.

“It’s
er
, my...”
Think brain, think.
“My electric toothbrush, it has a faulty connection.
Goes off on its own all the time. Drives me crazy.” I shrugged, hoping to
project nonchalance.

His gaze settled on my hot face again. The
right side of his mouth twitched, just a little. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” I pursed my lips,
indignantly, to show I wouldn’t lie about such a thing and if he was thinking
of something else he had a dirty mind.

“Well you should get it seen to.”


“I will.”


“Otherwise,” he said, folding his arms,
his knuckles bulging his wide biceps outwards, “when you want to use it the
batteries will be dead and you will be...”


The elevator was pinging up the floors,
surely it had reached six. If it hadn’t I was just going to accept my fate and
die of embarrassment. “And I will be what?” Fuck, my voice had come out as a
squeak.


He rolled his lips in on themselves and
cocked his head. The buzz continued, oblivious to the acute state of discomfort
it was causing.

Black Hole, I could really do with you
right now.

“Because,” he said, tugging the right side
of his mouth up into a definite half smile, “if the batteries wear out you’ll
be left feeling very frustrated.”

How could this be happening to me? Was it
some kind of sick, karmic joke to let Lewis Tate know that my only release was
a vibrator? Next thing he’d know I fondly called it Big Ben—not that I
was feeling fond of it right now.

Finally the screen flashed six and the
elevator doors slid open with a faint whoosh.

“I will, get it seen to, that is,” I said,
tilting my chin and willing my legs to work for at least another five seconds.

I stepped out, pulling my traitorous
luggage with me. As it clanked over the brass bar onto the corridor carpet, the
buzzing stopped.

Bloody typical.

“Good night, Nicky,” Lewis called.

I could almost hear the amusement in his
voice. Well fuck him. Just because he had a super-model at his beck and call,
some of us weren’t so lucky and had to rely on mechanical means of
satisfaction.

Not replying to his goodnight, I stalked
down the long stretch of corridor, holding my head up and forcing my shoulders
down.

It wasn’t until I heard the elevator doors
ping shut that I fell against the wall, dropped my head in my hands and let
humiliation devour me. Crunch me up and roll me around in its jaws.

What the hell had I done to deserve that?

If you enjoyed the start of Nicky and
Lewis’ story you can get your copy from
Amazon
and find out what happens next. But
watch out, it gets seriously raunchy!

Prologue
- Josh

“Here’s to us.” Nick clinked his glass against
mine and gave a seductive smile, one that promised a night of sex hotter than
the Costa Del Sol’s midday sun.

“To us,” I said, tapping the rim of my champagne
flute against his, “and surviving against the odds.” I leaned forward over a
plate of delicate canapés and kissed him. My stubble scratched his smooth chin,
and I berated myself for not finding the time to shave before our romantic
moonlit meal. All I’d done today was lounge on the beach listening to the
lapping waves and losing myself in my Kindle. I’d had a beer and some
watermelon at lunchtime and hadn’t even noticed Nick step away to book the best
table at The Pier restaurant; the one right at the very end, set slightly apart
and partially screened from other diners by a row of potted pink Acacia plants.

“Ten years since tying the knot,” Nick said,
knocking back a slug of champagne. “And man, it’s been pretty up and down.”

I glanced out at the endless stretch of black
water. A single strip of silvery light from the moon shone down, creating a
magical sparkling path that tapered into the horizon. I popped a spicy battered
prawn into my mouth and savored the sweet chili, so different to the rank,
prejudiced flavor I’d had constantly in my mouth as we’d battled my father’s
revulsion of our gay union.

Nick tipped his head and studied me. “I know I
told you already but I’m so enjoying having this time with you here. Marbella
has always been somewhere I wanted to bring you.”

I smiled. “It’s great, the perfect anniversary
destination.”

Nick pressed back in his chair as a suited
waiter set a whole sea bass before him. The crispy skin was blackened and
sprinkled with crystals of salt. A vivid green salad tossed with olives and
walnuts accompanied it.

“Thanks,” I said as my fillet steak, coated with
creamy stilton sauce, arrived. Fat chips over-spilling a white bowl were set
alongside yet more salad

The waiter topped up our glasses, and Nick
nodded for another bottle of champagne to be brought out. I adored him when he
was in this spoiling-me mood. Just occasionally, when he was feeling romantic
he really splashed out. Not that he wasn’t always considerate, he was, but away
from his office and in this luscious relaxed holiday state, I really got to
enjoy him, all of him. Every last bit of him.

We dug into our sumptuous main courses, chatting
about our Cotswold cottage and whether or not the new thatch would be complete
by the time we arrived home. We also had a decorator in, freshening up the
living room and scrubbing out the inglenook which had blackened over several
winters of blazing log fires. Log fires that we’d thoroughly enjoyed sprawling
in front of naked and sweaty, adoring each other’s bodies, from early evening
until the small hours of the morning. The hearth rug had been replaced, twice,
each one bigger and more luxurious than the last.

An elegant yacht broke through the shimmering
path of moonlight at our side. We paused to admire the sails and speculate
which celebrity might be cruising by. What decadent millionaire was holding a
lavish party for a select few, and guessing the food and drink that would be
served, what music would be played. Perhaps he even had a live performer,
someone fabulous and talented, internationally famous entertaining his guests.

By the time my pineapple sorbet and Nick’s
chocolate torte arrived I was feeling as mellow as I ever could. My sun-kissed
limbs were relaxed and my mood chilled. A holiday with Nick, eating a beautiful
meal on our tenth anniversary was about as perfect a moment as I could imagine.

“
Mmm
, try this,” Nick
said, offering forward a dollop of his torte.

I opened my mouth willingly, as I always did for
him, no matter what he offered. “Yum,” I said, licking my lips and letting the
heavy truffle dissolve on my tongue. “That’s fabulous.”

“Do you still think of Her?” he asked suddenly.
His dark gaze captured mine, and his expression fell serious.

“Her?” I knew full well who he was talking
about. Her, She, was fictitious, and stemmed from a drunken conversation we’d had
several years ago.