When he realises I’m waiting for an answer, he sighs and shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t really have the time to date. For the last few years, I’ve just been focussing on my career. Plus, I guess I’ve just never met the right person. My last girlfriend, if you can even call her that”—his eyebrows pull together in a frown—“we were together about six months. Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure she liked spending the money I earned more than she liked spending time with me,” he explains.
I scowl at that. She was clearly an idiot.
“What about you? How come a girl like you is still single?” His nose brushes up the side of mine as his arms wrap around me, and he lies back, pulling me down with him. My stomach tightens in anticipation of the promised naked time. “You’ve never met the right person either?”
“Oh, I met the right person,” I reply as Jared rolls, so he’s on top. “He was marriage material. We talked about a future with a little house on the river. Kids. We promised to love each other forever.”
He stops the exquisite kisses he was peppering against my throat. “Who is he? I’m gonna fuck him up.”
I burst out laughing at the growl in his voice. He pulls back, and his eyes become suddenly curious as they meet mine.
“What happened?” He looks concerned now. A frown lines his forehead as if he’s waiting for some sad, grim ending.
I sigh dramatically. “His dad landed a job in America. His whole family just upped and left one day. He didn’t even write to me. I was six when I experienced my first heartbreak.” I dramatically shake my head.
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, and I swear his shoulders loosen at my joke. “That’s rough. Poor little six-year-old Amy.”
I grip my hand around the back of his head and arch into him. “Enough talking now.”
He makes a little groan in the back of his throat as his mouth claims mine in a kiss that’s hot enough to scorch the sheets.
nine
I climb out of Jared’s car and look up at his building. I know it’s expensive because of the design. The building is curved, glass-fronted, and sleek. It screams high-end.
“This is where you live?” I ask, looking around with wide eyes.
His hand closes over mine, and he nods. “Yeah, I’ve been here about a year. I used to live alone here, but six months ago, my brother asked to stay for a few nights and never left.” He playfully rolls his eyes.
I let him lead me into the building, and we stop outside the lift, Jared nodding a greeting to the concierge as we pass him. This building is in glaring contrast to mine; you could fit my whole flat in the communal entrance alone. As we step into the lift, he turns and kisses me. Even though we not long ago got dressed and we’d had sex twice already this morning (including a particularly hot shower scene that I am sure to mentally revisit every time I step in there now), I feel my body melt against his. I can’t get enough of him.
The door pings open, and he breaks the kiss, looking down at me with a smile on his face as he brushes my hair behind my ear. “Come on then. I’ll be as quick as I can, and then we can go out and do something fun.”
I nod and follow him to his front door.
As we step into his apartment (because in no way can this be called a flat), I gasp at the sheer luxury of it. I’ve never seen anything more stylish in real life. It’s slick, elegant, shiny, and sophisticated. This place is Jared all over. Although I knew it would be classy and well designed, I didn’t expect the lounge to be quite so modern. It’s open plan, like mine, but instead of mismatched, cheap clutter, his is filled with comfy-looking sofas and polished hardwood floor. His kitchen is sleek white gloss and marble tops, but the best thing about his apartment by a clear mile is the wall of curved glass and wraparound palladium-style balcony outside that looks out onto the communal gardens.
“Damn. Nice,” I grunt, my eyes fixed on the view outside.
Jared laughs quietly. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” he replies, curiously looking around. “Doesn’t look like my brother’s home. He usually dumps his keys and wallet here.” He motions towards the empty sideboard in the small hallway. “Theo, you home?” he calls. When there’s no reply, he turns to me and shrugs.
I gulp, unblinking. “If you have this place, why are we staying at my poky little flat tonight? We could get drunk on your balcony, under the stars.” I point to it, my mouth open in awe. I would kill for a balcony.
We already agreed that Jared would stay over at mine again tonight, so we could go out together.
He snorts and shakes his head. “You wouldn’t want to hang out here tonight. My brother will be here; we’d get no privacy at all.”
“Oh. I definitely like the privacy,” I agree.
He laughs and leans down, planting a soft kiss on my lips. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just quickly change and pack some fresh clothes for the morning, and then we can leave.” He shrugs out of the suit jacket that he wore to work Friday and then his clients’ night out last night.
I nod, and as Jared disappears through a door, I take my chance to nose around. I head to the bookshelf first, seeing lots of the titles I’ve seen him read on the train. I run my finger down the spines before my eyes flick over the ornaments and knickknacks set on the sides. I grin when I get to his nerd shelf. There’re all kinds of statues there—collectable, expensive ones by the look of them—ranging in size. Most of them are Marvel, and I look wide-eyed over them. They’re amazing. There’s everything from Ghost Rider through to Iron Man doing the snap. I want them all.
I force myself to keep looking. I want to take as much opportunity to learn about Jared as I can. On the wall in the lounge, there are two large movie posters in frames hanging from the wall. They’re instantly recognisable, and I grin at the nerdiness of them. One is Back to the Future, and the other is an original Star Wars poster. As I step closer, I notice that they’re signed by Michael J. Fox and Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford respectively.
My mouth drops open. “Wow.” I’m totally geeking out.
Swallowing the awe, I turn and cast my eyes around. His apartment is a typical boy fashion—all designed for practicality. There are no fluffy cushions on the sofa, no photos of his friends or family, no unnecessary trinkets that they just “had to have” on a visit to IKEA or Dunelm. There are no personal touches at all other than the few collectable statues and the posters.
Frowning, I head to the coffee table. A sketchpad lies open with a handful of pencils on top of it. I look back behind me and cock my head—he’s still in his bedroom—so I pick it up and peruse through. The sketches are fabulous, all different types of things varying from comic book characters, animals, trees, right through to a rough sketch of Tower Bridge and The London Eye. I flick through in awe of his talent. I’ve seen him scribbling in this notebook before but never really had the opportunity to look through it. I revel in it.
When I hear him coming, I set the sketchbook down and head to the window, looking out over the view. He likely wouldn’t want me to have looked through that, as drawings are sometimes personal. I feel the smallest pang of guilt for looking, but in my defence, he shouldn’t have left it out for me to see if he didn’t want me to.