You still with me? Apologies for the delay in posting this one. It's longer than usual so I hope that somewhat makes up for it!
Thank you to my lovely girls for looking at this. Nutty Ginger, Mariahajile and PlanetBlue. All amazing!
One-Night Stand in Locked-Down London
Three cigarettes later, I sit at the bar, nursing a bruised ego and a confused half-erection. He can't seem to understand what's happened and neither can I. There's only so many times you can tell yourself "insanity does not border genius" before you feel like you're trying to convince yourself of something you shouldn't have to.
My phone pings, and I look down at the name that's popped up on the screen.
I smirk. So she did me the honour of sneakily programming her number. Cute.
InYourDreams: What you doing?
I down my Guinness and place the empty glass on the table with a clang.
I don't bother responding. She's a lost cause after all. Right?
Exactly three minutes later, my idle fingers punch in:
Edward: Nursing a hard-on.
My phone pings instantenously.
InYourDreams: I'm drinking Pinot Noir and devouring ice cream while thinking about your hard-on.
Edward: Good for you.
I roll my eyes. Cock tease.
Then I resort to pouting petulantly at my drink.
I was so damn close to sealing the deal and then she had to go and run. The after-taste of rejection is fucking bitter. In fact it tastes like shit. It's been a long time since I've been here and I don't like it one bit.
Life is so unfair.
InYourDreams: Don't be all bolshie.
I ignore her message, because fuck, I am bolshie and stroppy and a complete idiot, because that slutty redhead across the bar has been giving me a come hither look for the last five minutes. Our eyes tangle for a second longer than needed, and she's got the kind of mouth that could do things I've only dreamt about.
I tug at my hair and look down at my drink. Not in the mood.
Shit, what's wrong with me?
InYourDreams: I'm so drunk.
I groan, willing myself to resist texting back. She's teasing, she knows it, and it's driving me fucking insane.
More than it should.
I tap my feet and my eyes travel to the TV screen, where Don the Savage smirks back at me. The reporter talks about the prime minister announcing extreme measures likely to result in a London lock-down.
My phone pings again.
InYourDreams: Why so stroppy, rich boy?
Edward: You left.
I stare at the screen, and she doesn't respond.
Then minutes later: InYourDreams: I hear we're in lock-down. East can't get to West. What you gunna do?
Edward: Dunno. My father has tabs on the nearest helipad, I'm sure
I have no idea what im going to do.
I'm too fucking smashed to care.
The red head flips her hair and bends so I can see down her top. She'd probably take me home…
I contemplate the thought for exactly half a second.
InYourDreams: Come over.
I straighten in my seat, a sudden shock of adrenaline ripping through my body.
I can't text back fast enough.
If text messages had a voice, I'd be screaming. I go easy on the exclamations, though. I have a reputation to uphold and all.
I take a deep breath.
Don't screw with me, crazy girl…
InYourDreams: I'm not horrid enough to let you to ball up all alone on the cold serial-killer streets of East London. You're too pretty and too posh – you'd be beaten to a pulp.
Edward: You have such a big heart.
InYourDreams: My kind heart also wants you to come and do all those dirty things you've been thinking about all evening.
My reply is immediate.
Edward: I HOPE THIS IS NOT A JOKE.
Yes. Yes. Yes!
I've not been this ecstatic since, well since the day I got my first blow-job. There is so much nostalgia attached to that one epic moment in time, forever written in history and now this… this is… this beats it, it beats everything.
My mind is screaming, "hallelujah!"
I have the urge to jump on the stool and scream like I did when England scored their first goal against Germany in the World Cup, and then point in the face of the barman who gave me a pity-filled look and yell "Edward Cullens still got it, muthafucka".
InYourDreams: No joke. Horny B wants your pretentious dick. P.S. I live at the top of a very steep hill.
Edward: Now's not the time to be cryptic. Address, Horny B. P.S. Be ready.
InYourDreams: The party's already started without you…
She texts me her address, I grab my jacket, slam money on the bar, and run through the pub like I'm being chased by a pack of hyenas.
Suddenly there are too many people and too many obstructions as I swerve and dodge through the crowd and the banter.
"Excuse me. Excuse me," I exhale, perturbed at their lack of consideration. Don't they know?
Don't they know that Edward needs to see Bella like he's on the most important mission of his fucking life?
I smash into someone as I dash through the back exit. He saves his drink in the nick of time. I yell, "Sorry" without looking at him, ignoring his foul-mouthed curses. I can't care – I'm flying.
I can't care about my haze-filled state of mind as I try to unsuccessfully flag one of the 'out of service' black cabs down, then another and another. I'm determined and resolute and damned impatient to get to this girl like some lunatic looking for a lunatic. Bloody hell, I am a lunatic looking for a lunatic.
The taxi drivers ignore me, eager to get home to their warm homes and families, out of the streets swarming with police, a rogue serial-killer on the loose and right now, a drunken fool eager to get his midnight rendezvous.
I step into the middle of the road and the next reluctant arsehole screeches to a halt in front of me.
A bald, too chubby man sticks his head out of the window of his cab. "What the fuck, geezer!"
I race to his window. "I need a lift."
"Sorry. I'm not working." He says shutting me off and revving his engine. "Find someone else."
"Do this one job," I slam the bonnet as his car inches forward "It's urgent. Really urgent." I urge him with my eyes like we're having some man to man moment, willing him to get it. Surely every man must know about this moment, that one time.
My looks of pleading only works to rile him up further. "What in the bloody 'ell! I can't do it mate. It's dangerous out here tonight. I want to get back to my wife."
"I'll pay you… whatever you want." I stick my fingers in my jacket and pulls out three fifty pound notes from my breast pocket, roll them up, and like some fucking mafia gangster, slyly push into his hand with a satisfactory smile on my lips, and the theme song from the Godfather playing in my head.
For fucks sake!
I hazardously throw another note at him. It floats through his car and falls onto the floor of the cab and hey presto, he's sold.
"Get in," he says seriously and starts to drive as I get in the back and slam the door behind me.
"I need to get there fast."
"Buckle your seat-belt Marty Mcfly, you're about to get the ride of your life!" He grins toothily at me from the rear view and I shake my head. Seriously?
The swaying canal boats on the hushed docklands are a blur of moving colours; the blinking lights of the magnificent skyscrapers in canary wharf morphing to tiny pinpoints of bright white behind me, as we race through deserted tunnels and empty roads; past the vintage designers of spitalfields and the angry graffiti art of Bricklane with too many questions scrambling my mind.
Is this some strange crazy-girl joke? Will someone this paranoid actually let me screw her? What really constitutes as "insane" nowadays?
"Why have you stopped?" I grill the cabbie as we come to a halt fifteen minutes after we started.
"Road block." He motions to the yellow sign in front of him. "I can't go any further."
I curse and then jump out of the cab and fist bump his bonnet in thanks.
I'm stood in a darkened, deserted fork in the road, with one blinking traffic light in front of me. I scramble for my phone to search for Bella's address. I slide my finger over the screen, the screensaver jumps into action and the idiot phone DIES ON ME!
You have to be shitting me.
I look up at the starry night sky and groan out loud because somewhere up there The Big Man is pointing and having a right old laugh.
Ten minutes I'm jogging too-steep hill, huffing and hyperventilating, scanning the long line of dreary houses to my right, which are barely lit by a few washed-out street lamps.
152 or 154 or 156?
My mind is spinning. Her house is nowhere to be found, and the street is deadly quiet and creeping with shadows. If I was more sober, I'd be calling my father for some backup support, because I'm clearly in mugger paradise.
Somewhere far away, a cat meows.
I unclip the Patek Philippe from my wrist and drop it into the pocket of my jeans, because I still want an intact wrist at the end of this.
"Bella?" I say unsurely, like she might actually be that shadow-thing in that bush.
Then I do the only I can think of doing as a lost man, in a sleepy, abandoned street at 1am in the morning. I take a lungful of air and then at the top of my lungs I yell, "BELLLLLAAAAA!"
Is there any damned life on this street?
I puff out my chest. "BELLLAAAAA!"
Taking another lungful of crisp, midnight air and spraying out my arms, like she might somehow hear me if I put my whole body and soul into it.
A click. Some creaking and red door opens in front of me. A middle-aged plump lady wih a cigarette in her mouth looms at the entrance. She's got the frizziest, mousey blonde hair I've ever seen and is wearing a stained bright orange bathrobe and only one slipper.
I notice only one thing: she's not Bella.
She wordlessly looks me up and down in her one slippered glory.
"I'm looking for Bella," I say finally, because I'm starting to feel a little bit like an ornament on display.
"Who?" she says with the cigarette still in her mouth and one hand on the red wood door.
"Bella... surname undisclosed."
I chuckle because I've spent almost six hours with a girl who is not my type, paranoid beyond all reason, and then chased her like a mad man across London on a promise of mind-blowing sex she's started without me. I'm ready to knock on every single door in this shoddy street until I find her; yet I don't even know her surname.
I know nothing about her.
"Yer gunna hafta give me more that," One Slipper says.
I stumble forward so I'm standing in the overgrown shrubbery and slabs of rotting brick that is her front garden. "She's uhh… she's around 5'3", messy brown hair, she has these amazing striking, yellow-flecked eyes and a sour faced expression." I pause. "She's pretty darn paranoid."
"Why are yer looking for her for?"
"I met her today and I …"
I want her.
I want to fuck her like I've never wanted to fuck anyone.
I want to throw her against the wall and touch every single silly, crazy, soft part of her until she's panting for more.
I want to watch her eyes in shadow of her bedroom when I'm inside her, I can't wait to see if the sunlight yellow in her eyes will dance as magnificently as they did when she almost-kissed me.
How does one explain such a dilemma to the lady with one slipper?
"Oh, I get it, darlin'" she waves me off before I form a coherent response. "You're here for some hanky panky."
I shrug in a bashful manner.
Pretty much, my friend.
"Braving the locked-down, serial stalker streets all for her? She must be something real special, this one."
"I... well, I've never done this before," I admit.
I've never, ever followed a girl home before in my life.
I've never had to follow a girl before. There's a first for everything, right?
"You're not too bad yourself, either, I must say."
"Why, thank you." I flash her my best smile.
One Slipper blinks rapidly and then takes the wet cigarette out of her mouth.
"You wanta come in?"
She holds the door open, and I all I can see is a teeny tiny shadowy hallway and then complete black darkness. "I have two unopened bottles of JD." She waggles her untamed eyebrows at me.
I clear my throat and take a step back. "That sounds ... like much fun, but I don't—"
"Over here, moneybags!"
My head snaps to the left.
The head hanging out of the top floor window next door is the uncouth interruptee herself: Bella.
I grin, wide and even wider.
There she is.
"Hey you," I slur in a happy voice and turn to One Slipper. "Duty calls."
"Sure." She shrugs and nods upward. "Hey there sweet B."
"Hey Jess!" Bella waves pleasantly at her neighbour and glares at me. "About time!"
She disappears from the window, and one-slippered Jess looks at me invitingly. "Just so you know, the offer is always open, handsome. You know where I live."
"I'll keep that in mind." I pleasantly smile and retreat as fast as my legs can take me.
"It's Swan," she says as I clamber over the half-built wall, which is doing a rubbish job of separating the two gardens.
"Her surname is Swan."
She smiles at me, and I nod at her. Even though it's only a surname, it's like we've shared an important secret. "Thanks Jess."
The dark blue front door swings open before I can reach it. I stumble into the stinging glow of too much light, and there she stands before me in all her golden-eyed glory. Bella.
Our eyes connect and something unfamiliar tingles from my toes to my fingertips.
He bare legs are tanned and shapely, and she's wearing a Micky Mouse t-shirt. Maybe it's some type of vintage ironic statement, but I don't care because I itch to grab the hem, lift it over her head, and throw it away.
She swings a bottle of Pinoit Noir in my face. "I see you met Jess."
"Yep. She's a delight."
She leans into me to shut the door closed. I take a step back to give her room but not fast enough. Her breasts touch my arm, and her nose brushes my jaw, and an aftershock of volcanic heat erupts through my every sense.
"Like you wouldn't believe." She smiles, looking too hard and too long into my eyes. "What took you so long anyway?"
"I, um, got a little lost."
My journey is already fading into a mish-mash of blur. The important thing was the destination, and now I'm here.
She doesn't say anything. Instead, she takes a step back, another, and turns.
I follow her almost unconsciously, like she's tugging on an invisible thread that has me attached by the navel.
She sways through the cluttered corridor, and we pass shelves of worn books, some rather interesting art decor and hanging wall displays sprouting feigned wisdom. Then we're in small but homely open-plan kitchen. The living room is a dark contrast to the bright tube lighting in the kitchen.
"You got lost, huh?" she asks whilst tiptoeing on bare feet, pulling out two 'Keep Calm and Drink Tea' mugs from the light blue, wooden cabinet, pouring wine to them.
I shrug out of my jacket and leave my black tie hanging on the kitchen chair, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt.
I laugh lightly, watching her ass from behind. "I had to bribe the cabbie. My phone died. I'm pretty sure I was almost mugged too."
"You're so wasted," she giggles, turning. "You went through a lot of effort to come here."
I tut in indifference. I don't care. "All in a days work."
The only thing on my dumbstruck mind was her.
She bites her lip and hands me a mug. "Well. Don't be putting your feet up just yet."
"I wasn't planning on it." I clink my mug with hers, and I'm moving in front of her so I'm close. My legs are on either side of her, and she's prisoned against the counter. She doesn't seem to mind, though.
I can feel the warmth of her thighs seep through my jeans.
"Good..." Her words hang heavy in the air as takes a sip from her mug, her eyes never leaving mine as she swallows the red liquid.
I watch hypnotised.
She reaches out.
I smirk as her fingers tentatively, gently crawl down the side of my crisp, white shirt. She loosely hooks her finger into the third belt loop of my jeans.
I lick my lips. "Why are we still drinking?"
"Oh, it's a problem now?" she challenges.
"Not really." I raise an eyebrow. "Though I could think of a few other interesting things we could be doing."
She takes a sharp intake of breath, and I know the effect I have on her is more than she lets on.
She tilts her head to the side. "We'll, um, be doing interesting things all right." She smiles lazily at me and uses my belt loop to pull me closer to her entrapped body. "I need to calm the nerves first. You know how it is."
"Ah, yes." Of course.
I'm so close to her that I can simply lean forward and press my arousal into her belly.
She takes another sip. Despite what she's said, she doesn't look nervous at all.
I don't drink anymore. I'm completely absorbed by her. Every single breath she takes, every single, minute move she makes – I'm entranced.
How can my mind be so fuzzy yet so alert, so focused on this messy-haired girl at the same time?
"At least you're here now," she says too softly. She blinks once, twice, and it's in slow motion.
"You asked me to come," I say slowly, breathlessly. "What changed?"
Hey body shifts as she places her unfinished wine on the counter with a gentle clink. Her lips are stained berry red.
"That's the thing. Nothing."
Then she kisses me.
There's no softness or gentleness this time. She's goes straight for the kill. Her soft lips are harsh. Her hands tug at tufts of my hair, and my own mouth wrestles with hers as we struggle against each other. An inferno of desire overtakes my whole body and I shove the mug in my hand against the marble top behind her, pushing her harder against the counter, fighting the urge to shove her back, open her legs, and just bury myself into her.
"Oh, God," she moans against my lips, and a razor-sharp buzz sparks through my spine.
This is what I've been waiting for all fucking night. This is the reason I'm lost in London. This.
She's hauling me closer, and I'm bending too far down to kiss her pouty mouth, so I grab her legs, my hands running over her undies as I pick her up easily and slam her on the counter.
She gasps at the coolness, the sudden movement, my hands on her – I'm not sure which – and she's kissing me again.
She tastes like wine and sweetness. Vanilla.
Too fucking good.
"Take this off," she commands, tugging at the starchy, upturned collar of my shirt.
"Easy tiger," I smirk into her mouth.
She lets out a frustrated sound, halfway between a sigh and growl. Ignoring me, she fiddles frantically with the buttons of my shirt as our tongues continue their hurried dance.
There's rhythm and breathing and teeth and haste.
My shirt is open. She runs her cold fingers down my chest, and I hiss out a noise that doesn't sound like me.
"Your turn," I pant. I'm surprised when she raises her arms so obediently. I pull at the hem of her t-shirt, and in one quick swoop, Mickey Mouse is on the floor.
She's sitting in front of me in a white lacy bra and knickers like some blasé sex nymph who does not give a fuck. It's amazing.
Hell, she's amazing and so damn natural and straining too hard against her bra...
I want to see her.
She makes a grab for me, and in one simple move, my fingers run over her smooth back, touch cold metal, and she's unhooked and bare.
She blinks in surprise at the garment hanging from my adept fingers, down at her naked chest, and then grins appreciatively. "Talent."
"What can I say?"
She isn't the biggest I've seen, but when I cup her tit, she fits perfectly into my palm like she's made for me. Beautiful.
I run my thumb over her pink, peaky nipple, and she arches into my touch. "Ahhh..."
I use my thumb and forefinger to squeeze and pull her aroused flesh. She wraps her legs around me too damn tight, and my mouth covers her mouth, her nose, her neck, lower...
I press my tongue against her peak, tasting and biting and licking.
She's making all these amazing frustrating noises and moans and –
There's coldness on my cheek.
I pause my frenzied movements at the freezing intrusion.
"For you." She shoves a tub of vanilla Ben & Jerry's into my fingers. Her face is blooming red, and she's gasping hard.
What the fuck?
"Remember you asked about my fantasy?"
I nod, breathing coarsely.
"Well this is it," she says roughly, squirming as my hands hold her naked waist. "Ice cream; you can do wonderful, wonderful things with it."
"This is your fantasy?" I ask, because I'd only enquired out of curiosity, and I certainly didn't think I would be playing it out tonight, but damn, we're progressing fast. I like it.
"It's vanilla, too. You'll love it." She pushes two shaky fingers into the tub of melting ice cream and scoops; placing a thick dollop on my lower lip.
My tongue flicks out and licks it simultaneously off my lip and her finger, and I shrug nonchalantly.
"I don't eat ice cream."
"You don't?" she pouts, crestfallen.
"No, but – " I tilt my head so the two fingers she has resting on my lips are in now my mouth and she gasps out a breathless noise. I suck and there's a loud 'pop' as I let her go. "I'm willing to make an exception when it's on you."
"How very generous of you." She bites and then unwillingly smiles.
I return her smile like a favour, and she shrieks loudly as I pick her up with the ice cream still in my hand. Like a drunken fool about to have the party of his life, I'm twirling her around and around and around the kitchen.
She kicks over a chair, grabs the opened bottle of Pinot Noir and whispers "hush" at me because her roommate is sleeping, even though it might be a little too late for that, and she's the one that's making all the noise. Silly girl.
She giggles as she directs me upstairs into her messy bedroom, a hazy light coming from a small, bedside lamp engulfing us. I clamber over clothes and shoes, falling onto the bed with her pliant body underneath me.
I look into her eyes, and all I can see is vibrant, incredible colour.
She says something that makes my dick ache even more for her.
"Brace yourself, Hot-Shot, time for things to get really interesting."
Next one – we finally get to the hot sexin', brace yourselves! ;)
Bolshie: (of a person or attitude) deliberately uncooperative
Stroppy: Easily annoyed; ill-tempered or belligerent.