This will be our little secret.
The thing I take with me to the grave.
Everything feels wet between my legs. I don’t know if I like it or not. I mean, I like the attention, but … I don’t know. Not necessarily everything else.
After what feels like forever but is probably only ten minutes, he stops, turns around from me, and I see his arms flexing through his hoodie. He is rubbing one out. He finishes. I don’t see any of it, as his back is to me. He cleans himself off with baby wipes then returns to the trunk. By then, I’m sitting down on the edge again, legs dangling from it, like nothing happened.
We’re cool. Everything’s fine. He is not really with his wife, and this is consensual. It’s not like that news article at all. Besides, if it’s so bad, why does it feel so good?
“Hey.” He grins.
“Hi.”
Then he kisses me, tongue and all, and I taste the muskiness and earthiness of myself and his saliva—a mixture of things I’ve never tasted before.
That’s when I decide sin doesn’t taste so bad.
Seconds after Sweven slammed the door to her room with a loud bang, Louisa turned to me and said, “I’m not stupid, you know.”
“Never thought you were,” I said easily, taking a sip of my wine.
“You still haven’t touched me. Not even a kiss.”
It had been six dates. They were good dates too, although I was careful to be Respectable Devon around her. We did not discuss weird animals, and she did not tease me about my age or my language or my accent—and, come to think about it, my existence.
“I pride myself on my good behavior,” I said idly.
“You’re the biggest sinner of them all, and we both know that.” She offered me an impatient smile. “If you wanted me, you would’ve taken me by now.”
I leaned back in my seat, scanning her face pensively.
Louisa was on the cusp of looking her age, her skin had become thinner, clinging to her bones delicately, giving her an elegant, slightly malnourished look. She was a far cry from the plump-cheeked Sweven, with the dusting of freckles and flushed, healthy skin.
Louisa’s beauty had history, and wrinkles, and stories.
She was lovely in a way that was far more interesting than a bombshell who looked photoshopped within an inch of her life.
“I fancy you,” I admitted to Louisa.
“Not enough to make a move, apparently,” she said easily.
Everything was easy with her, and therein lied the temptation of yielding to my mother’s request.
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
“I still have hope. Is it foolish?” She twisted the wineglass here and there on the table, holding it by the stem.
“Foolish? No. Unlikely? Always.”
“I reckon I might be able to break you,” Louisa mused, sipping her red wine. Candlelight danced across the planes of her face, making her smile appear softer. “If I told you a year ago that we’d be sitting together, discussing a potential affair, you wouldn’t have believed me.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I admitted.
“Yet, here we are.”
“Here we are.”
I stole another glance at Sweven’s door.
This time, she didn’t eavesdrop or peek.
At the end of that week was a gala.
The seventy-eighth annual Boston Ball, a fundraiser for the Gerald Fitzpatrick Foundation, a 501c3 tax-exempt non-profit organization that symbolized to many the official arrival of spring.
Proceeds of the ball, which usually sat at around three million dollars, went to various local establishments I didn’t care for nor wanted to know about.
But it was an excellent write-off for my firm, not to mention a terrific excuse to wear my Ermenegildo Zegna suit.
Attending the Boston Ball was also a business move.
I’d be hard-pressed to find a better place which gathered all of Boston’s Private Island Owners’ Club, most of which were existing or potential clients.
As I stood there, at the O’Donnell Ballroom, scanning the place, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride.
I’d become the polar opposite of my father.
A hardworking, law-respecting man who did not let himself be swayed by women or booze.
The O’Donnell Ballroom was a five thousand square foot venue on Boylston Street, with grand windows, elegant Tudor architectural details, black wooden beams, ecru chandeliers, and champagne-silk draperies.
Waiters floated across the room, bypassing women in ball gowns and men in dashing suits. I stood in a cluster of people, including Cillian, Hunter, Sam, and Sam’s stepfather, Troy, while keeping an eye out for Emmabelle.