The Dare Collection: March 2018. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
probably prefer a Michelin-starred dining experience to this.
But seeing her obvious joy when she unwrapped the paper, snagged a piece of fish in one hand and stuffed hot, salty chips into her mouth with the other made me want her more.
‘This is divine,’ she mumbled, her mouth half-full, and I laughed. The kind of laugh I hadn’t done in a long time. A laugh filled with genuine happiness of being in this moment with this woman.
‘What’s so funny?’ She wiped her mouth with a tissue she’d fished from her handbag. ‘Let me guess, I’m not like your previous stick-insect model girlfriends who only ate salad.’
‘A fact I’m eternally grateful for.’ I offered her more chips, pleased when she took another handful. ‘What’s with you and my old girlfriends? Jealous?’
‘Pfft.’ She crammed the chips into her mouth to refrain from answering and I grinned.
‘It’s okay to like me, you know. Thousands have in the past.’
Her eyebrows shot heavenward. ‘Thousands? Eww, that’s just nasty.’
I laughed, enjoying the banter we traded. ‘Well, I may be exaggerating a little.’
‘Phew.’ She swiped at her brow. ‘I can deal with hundreds. Thousands? Not so much.’
‘Interesting that you see me as some shallow playboy.’ I leaned my hands back, propped on outstretched arms on the sand. ‘Truth is, I’m not a relationship kind of guy, but that doesn’t mean I sleep with every woman that walks.’
‘Just the ones that drop their panties at your feet,’ she deadpanned, her eyes alight with mischief.
I loved seeing her like this: playful and lighthearted.
‘The only panties I’m interested in dropping these days are yours.’ I deliberately stared at her breasts before sweeping lower to linger where those sensible cotton panties would be.
‘Stop that,’ she hissed, wriggling on the sand a little.
‘Why, am I making you horny?’
Her gaze flew to mine, her lips parted in shock.
‘It’s okay to admit it, you know.’ I crooked a finger at her. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m half-hard every time I’m around you, and most times when I’m not, just thinking about you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, so softly I barely heard it as her gaze dropped to my groin.
Predictably, I stiffened, my hard-on straining against the fly of my jeans. Damn, I should never have started this game.
‘Told you we should’ve grabbed takeout and gone back to my place.’ She almost purred, her tone soft and seductive. ‘Now we have a long ride back on the water.’
‘Fuck that ferry,’ I muttered, not pleased that our sweet date had morphed to sexy in an instant, even less pleased that I had to be in blue balls hell for an entire ferry ride back to the city.
‘It’ll be much more pleasurable to f-fuck me,’ she said, turning crimson at saying the F word.
‘Stop,’ I groaned. ‘Why do you choose now to start talking dirty?’
She leapt to her feet and dusted sand off her butt, her grin smug. ‘Maybe we should grab a taxi rather than wait for the ferry?’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, bundling up our rubbish and stuffing it in the trash on our way back to the road. ‘Better buckle up, babe, because I’m going to tell the driver to break the land speed record.’
A coy smile played about her mouth as she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to my lips. ‘Thanks for dinner. It was the best date I’ve ever had.’
Speechless, I flagged down a taxi and bundled her in, almost tumbling in after her in my haste to get her alone. Where I could show her with actions rather than words exactly how much I’d enjoyed our date too.
Abby
I USUALLY LOOKED forward to my day at TAFE once a week, a day to take a break from the manic pace of Le Miel and absorb the theory behind creating pastries.
I loved the lectures, the note taking, the practical sessions. The sight of my notebooks covered in scrawl. The sharing of recipes with fellow students. The questions fired at the visiting chefs.
I loved it all. But today I was distracted, seriously distracted. And I blamed a tall, tattooed nightclub owner with a penchant for pastry and me.
Last night had been incredible. A laid-back evening filled with laughs and loving. Making love, that was. I’d never be foolish enough to confuse it with any other type of love.
During our beachside date, Tanner had been more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. He had a softer side to him that was just as appealing as the harder edges. I liked seeing his different facets, like peeling back the layers of an onion and discovering more intricacies beneath.
He’d come back to my place after our beachside picnic and we hadn’t left the bed for hours, before falling asleep in each other’s arms. When he’d left at five this morning, he’d seemed different. Almost reluctant to depart. More tender somehow.
It had freaked me out a little. I couldn’t let Tanner derail my plans. I’d already given up so much of myself in the past and now that my divorce had come through and I was finally free, I needed to move forward. To do what was right for me.
As much as we burned up the sheets and the many ways I craved him, having anything beyond short term with Tanner would be a recipe for disaster.
I knew what would happen. I’d end up getting emotionally invested, wanting to do whatever it took to keep my man happy and end up resenting him, ensuring one of us would walk away. And I’d be catapulted back to twelve months ago, picking up the pieces of my life while struggling to heal, while cursing my lack of a backbone.
After coming so far, I couldn’t do that to myself. I wouldn’t.
Determined to forget the possible complications with Tanner and focus on today’s lectures, I hoisted my backpack higher and headed for the imposing wrought-iron front gates, mentally reciting the day’s timetable.
Deep in thought, I stumbled over a crack in the footpath.
And almost slammed into my mother.
‘Hello, Abigail.’ She helped me straighten, her expression half fearful, half expectant, as she released me. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ I responded by rote, stunned to see her here, torn between wanting to hug her and throttle her.
I’d missed her so much. Had she missed me at all?
A tsunami of mixed emotions swamped me: anger, sadness, hope, regret. A potent combination that made my hands shake and I clenched and unclenched them a few times to get a grip.
I’d envisaged the first meeting with Mum or Dad so many times late at night, when I’d been cradling a Chardonnay and trying to ignore the insistent little voice in my head that recited how much my parents didn’t give a damn. In those thoughts, I’d imagined Mum hugging me, squeezing me so tight like she’d never let go. Maybe even Dad apologising and begging for forgiveness.
But there’d been no hug from Mum. No sign that this was anything but an orchestrated encounter for who knew what purpose.
‘You look tired,’ she said, studying my face, her intense scrutiny not bothering me like it once had.
How many times had I heard her berate me?
‘Abigail, you need to use more moisturiser on your frown lines.’
‘Abigail, sunscreen is an important